Page 86 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“You think I don’t crave your hands on me?” he murmured, voice like silk over iron.
Another roll of his hips, controlled but languid, dragging himself against her in a slow rhythm that made her arch, her head tipping back.
His mouth hovered above her throat, breath warming her skin. “Do not doubt me,Persephone.” The words fell, heavy and dark. “I desire you.Fiercely.But your body is tender, and if I take you again now”—his jaw clenched—“I will hurt you.”
Heat surged through her, liquid and bright, coiling low.
His head dipped lower. Lips grazed the curve of her breast, his exhale warming the sensitive skin. A soft flick of his tongue over her nipple. Gentle. Torturous.
Then his teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make her gasp. A hint of possession. Followed by his tongue, warm and soothing
Her body was strung so tight beneath him, she was certain she would break into pieces.
“I want you,” he rasped against her skin. “And I will have you again.”
The raw promise sent another wave of blistering heat crashing through her. His hips pressed into her, hard and heavy—so close. Her body pulsed in response, anticipation rising fiercely to the surface.
But instead—
He released her wrists, gathering her into his arms. He shifted them easily, and she was curled against his chest once more. His chin rested atop her head.
“But not tonight.”
The words were final, quiet but unwavering.
She still throbbed, an unfulfilled ache sharp in her center. But cradled against him, wrapped in strength and warmth, calm settled deep.
His hand stroked down her back in long, slow passes. “Sleep now,” he murmured against her hair.
His voice was the last thing she heard before sleep took her swiftly.
Chapter 36
Helen’s cloak whispered against the stone, soft as a dying breath, as she stepped from Paris’s bedchamber.
With swift steps, she moved through the dark corridor toward the landing overlooking the gardens. At the threshold, she drew the hood up, letting darkness swallow her features.
Outside, the moon hung high, pale and indifferent, spilling silver light over the sleeping palace.
Paris’s bed had still been warm when she rose, but he was gone. No doubt he had been summoned to council with Priam and his war-weary generals. The servants had long since vanished to their quarters.
Across the unending months, she had marked the rhythm of the palace. Guards circled the lower levels, patrolling tirelessly as hounds, flanking every doorway, every gate. But the upper floor—the private sanctum of the royal household—was left untouched. No guard dared intrude here without summons.
Only here might she have a chance.
Her breath fogged faintly in the night air as she stood on the landing, listening. The crush of night pressed against her ears as they strained for any noise.
But there was nothing. The palace slept. Troy, too, had closed its eyes in a brief reprieve from bloodshed and exhaustion.
With quick, silent steps, Helen descended the staircase into the gardens. On the bottom step, she halted abruptly.
A servant girl stood before her, still as a statue, a basket of linens clutched to her hip. Moonlight spilled across her startled face, and Helen recognized her instantly. The girl who lit the morning braziers in Paris’s chamber.
A jolt of dread shot through her, frigid as ice.
Before the girl could speak, Helen stepped forward, grasping her arm urgently. “You must tell no one you saw me,” she whispered fiercely. “Swear by the gods—swear it now.”
The girl’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly, but she nodded. “I swear it, my lady.”
