Page 77 of A Bride for the Winter King
“Good.”
Our noses bump. Elio’s slow and tortuous kiss torments me more than all the ones that came before. Instead of rushing to the next part, we explore each other, coaxing sweet sighs and sharp breaths from one another in turn, riling ourselves up until we’re restless and panting.
I unbutton his shirt and glide my hands under the fabric. The sleeves easily glide down his arms, and I test the feel of each defined muscle as I go. The button-down shirt falls to the ground, no longer encroaching on the view, and I bite my bottom lip. “I hate and love how good you look.”
“Right back at you.” He tugs on my hair, his eyes gleaming.
It’s a total sham that any man would be so perfectly sculpted that each ridge and valley adorning his body would be enough to trip my brain up.
I trace the shape of his pec tattoo. “Why does it darken and lighten?”
“It’s the Mark of the Gods. I got it when the old Winter King died, the gods designating me as his preferred heir.”
As I continue my exploration, an area that’s colder than the rest of him grabs my attention. Unlike the lesions on his shoulder blades, this one is a smooth and circular scar right above his left buttocks, and he shivers as I caress the shape of it. The skin smack in the center of the old wound is frozen and stiff.
Elio clicks his tongue in a chiding fashion before he spins me around to face the window, turning me away from the secrets written in blemishes on his body. He caresses my arms and laces our fingers before he raises our joined hands above my head and flattens my palms to the glass.
The chafe of the frosted window soothes the ache in my blood as Elio nuzzles the back of my ear. “Let me remind you of a universal truth that few people—mortal or not—manage to accept. Death isn’t evil. There’s no grand villain waiting to trip you up at the end. No dark machinations working against you.”
The man holding me captive between his body and the splendor of his Ice City isn’t as cold as he was the other night. Maybe the hot springs have melted a bit of the frost running through his veins, but he feels warm and human now. His behavior is more nuanced, adding a layer of complexity to his presence.
The Ice City is a silent witness to our addictive dance, a handful of reapers walking up and down the streets’ steep network of stairwells, en route to collect souls and wreck countless lives.
The pressure of Elio’s fresh, hard lips on my pulse point distracts me, the greediness of his tongue divine. His t-shirt shields my breasts from the sting of winter, my nipples hard as stone under the fabric.
“Death only stings for a moment. Love hurts for a lifetime,” he says.
I force a deep breath down my lungs, about to lose it. “Love isn’t supposed to hurt. Grief hurts. Wasn’t Iris protected by the same magic as you? Unless you’re the only one who can mark someone for death?—”
He bites down my earlobe. “Reapers don’t mark anyone for death. They collect the souls of those whose bodies stopped functioning. If they didn’t, the souls would just stay trapped forever or fade away. I don’t decide who lives and dies but act as their guardian and protector—and only for a short while.”
The face of the reaper that took my dad’s soul flashes into my memory once more.
“That goes against everything I’ve ever been taught,” I say.
“Then you’ve been taught wrong. When grief hits, everyone looks for someone to blame, but reapers are not thieves. We guard the souls so that no one can harm them, and give them back to the gods on the solstice.” He inhales deep, his nose buried in the crook of my neck. “Look down. Death is all around us.” He sneaks one hand up my stomach and presses it firmly against my breastbone. “Feel your heart beating…ready to run. Don’t run from me tonight, little spider.”
I feel powerful in his embrace, more at home in death’s arms than I’d care to admit.
“Deep inside, you crave death,” he whispers.
I rake my nails through the coat of frost glazing the window. “I donotcrave death. Death is awful. It tookeverythingfrom me.” The ashes of our last fight are like dry kindling waiting for a spark. One word out of turn and we could be at each other’sthroats again. “But I won’t argue with you about death, because you are too stubborn to acknowledge one simple fact.”
“By Thanatos,” he says with humor, and maybe a little impatience. “I’m all ears.”
“You are not death. You are no more death than Damian is the night, or your father the sun. You are her king. You’re the most powerful Fae king alive because death is the most dangerous beast there is and needs to be ruled by a bigger, badder beast. So no, I don’t crave death. But I do crave you,” I taunt, spreading my legs slightly.
He teases my breasts, giving each hard peak a playful pinch before he slips a hand down between my thighs. A low hiss echoes in my ears when he finds out exactly how wet I am. “You’re so ready for me. But you made me wait, and I have a few questions, too.”
I hold myself up on the glass as Elio draws slow, impossibly careful circles over my sensitive spot. “Did you ever sleep with Damian?” he chucks out.
I shake my head. “Never!”
“And you wouldn’t lie to me about that?”
“He’s my boss. And in love with my best friend.”
He lowers his voice even more. “What about Seth?”
