Page 119 of Where Darkness Bloomed
He felt it—her sorrow. It soaked into the silence between them, heavy and unspoken.
“She cared for me,” he said quietly, gaze still fixed on the fire. “Until I was strong enough to work the forge.”
Flames crackled, filling the hollow space left by his words. The pain in his leg faded into the shadow of that deeper wound as it stirred in his chest. Long scarred but never forgotten.
Aglaia rose to her knees. Her hands lifted to frame his face, palms gentle against the rough planes of his cheeks, her thumbs stroking slowly.
Then her mouth found his—soft, unbearably tender.
It threatened to obliterate him.
Her lips moved against his, gentle but searching. Then her tongue slipped past his, soothing and incendiary all at once.Groaning, he sank his fingers into her dark hair, drawing her deeper into him.
Wetness brushed his cheek.
He stilled. Drawing back enough to see her face, he stared into eyes bright with tears.
“Do not weep for me,” he murmured. His thumbs swept away the glistening trails as he cupped her face in his hands. “I would change nothing of my fate.”
The breath shuddered from her, but she gave no reply. Instead, she pressed closer, burying her face in the warm hollow of his throat, seeking the comfort of his warmth, of his body.
She fit to him perfectly. As though they’d been formed by the same thread of existence, woven into one another by the Fates.
His pulse quickened as her fingers drifted to the broad leather belt at hiswaist. She unfastened the clasp with sure fingers. It slipped from his hips, landing on the floor with a soft clink of bronze.
Then her palms settled against his thighs, bracing with a quiet intent that sent heat up his spine. With a touch like fire and silk, her hands slid upward, reaching the hem of his tunic. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric.
With one smooth movement, he reached behind his head and stripped the garment away, casting it aside without thought.
She drew back, hands still warm against his thighs. Her eyes mapped his naked form, tracing the gold scars etched into his bronzed skin—the cost of creation, of his craft.
The history of him, written in flesh.
Her gaze dragged down his chest. Then it dipped lower.
When her hand found him, a raw groan scraped from his throat. She gave him what he craved. Not gentleness but fire. Not softness but the fierce drag of her touch, the command of her grip.
His breath fractured, shuddering as sensation broke over him with every movement she made.
“Good,” he rasped, rough as the earth shifting.
She shifted closer then, slipping fully between his parted thighs. He caught the purposeful gleam in her eyes.
“Aglaia—”
Her name tore from him, less a prayer than a warning. He was unraveling, and she was the one pulling him apart.
Then she leaned forward.
His whole body locked, beath catching. The world collapsed inward, narrowing to the heat of her mouth and the slow, devastating rhythm she wrought.
Pleasure climbed him like flame to dry kindling, each pass of her lips further fracturing his restraint.His hand tangled in her hair as she dismantled him with aching, exquisite precision.
His head tipped back, jaw clenched, the strong line of his throat exposed to the firelight, helpless beneath her command.
“Styx,” he groaned, the curse splintering on a harsh breath.
Sweat slicked his skin. His muscles coiled against the edge that neared too swiftly, too sharp. But she was relentless, offering no escape, only invitation to let go, to fall.
