Page 22 of Dark Hunter's Touch
The glitter in her blue eyes, sharp in the otherwise soft-focus setting, was a clear warning that he might see her, but he had better not touch. So he looked his greedy fill.
She was slighter than he remembered, as fragile as the young sylfana who had wished his wing whole. His fingers clenched, as if he could gauge the slenderness of her wrists without touching her. Barely any part of her was exposed to touch; her gold gown covered her almost entirely, from the long sleeves ending in deep scallops over the backs of her hands, to the high collar that flared out at the points of her jaw. The red-gold amber of her hair gleamed against the dress, which made her face more wan by comparison. But he supposed she hadn’t been out running lately. Even the intermittent sun on the rugged coast where he’d found her would have given her some color.
When she had said she would never feel alive again, he hadn’t believed her. Now he did. He had brought her back, but he had left something precious behind.
Remorse nipped him, a sharpness like accidentally sitting on an annoyed wisp. “Hunters are being sent out to retrieve more and more fugitive fae. You started something when you bolted.”
“There were always fae runaways. The only difference is no one noticed before.” She glanced down, and the aggressive spread of her wings wilted. “It is only because of me that anyone notices now.”
With her attention diverted, he took the opportunity to close the distance between them. When he caught her arm, his fingertips met. Shewasthinner, fading before his eyes.
As he tugged her into the shadow of the tree, the backs of his knuckles brushed the side of her breast through the silky weave of her gown, but he ignored the awareness that sizzled through his body. “If anybody is guilty of turning attention to the runaways, it is me. So go ahead and blame me.” He would rather face the bold, angry Olette than this pensivesylfana he barely recognized.
She finally raised her eyes. In place of the cold glitter, her gaze clouded, like the smoky occlusions in his blue amber. “I can’t blame you, not when I know why you are so afraid.”
“I am not—”
Avoiding his studded hunter collar, she lifted her hand toward his shoulder, where the knot of scar still twisted over the wing joint. “The Lord Hunter almost undid you, as he came Undone himself.”
Vaile stiffened at the almost imperceptible brush of her fingers. “It’s nothing. You wished me back together again.”
“What did you wish for? To fly? Yet here you are.” She shook her head. “I guess I was never strong enough to be a fairy princess.”
“Olette—”
She jerked her hand away. “Don’t say my name. It reminds me of…things.”
“I want to remind you.” He tightened his grip on her arm to draw her up against his bare chest. Sometimes he resented the hunters’ archaic garb—or lack thereof—but now he appreciated the absence of at least that barrier between them. “We don’t have to lose what we found out there. We can still have that, here, without the risk of the Undoing.”
In the imaginary warmth and faked shadows of the faedrealii, only the feel of her was real. When he pressed her close, her breasts were a softer heat through the gold gown, and the silky folds of the skirt fanned around his leather-clad legs. He slid one hand behind her neck, though the spider silk came between them.
“Hunter…” she murmured.
Her breathy sigh tightened the already-snug fit of his jeans. “Vaile,” he reminded her. “Whatever you might think, I am not still that nameless whelp.”
“If only you were, then I would still be the thoughtless sylfana, and I could forget.”
“Forget what?”
“Everything.”
He leaned down, angling his mouth above hers. “Even me?”
“Especially you.” She stared up at him without blinking. “If you kiss me, I will bite like one of your hounds.”
“I almost believe you.” He shifted his grip to cup her jaw, just at the edge of her high gold collar. “But not quite.”
The soft, shining silk was nothing like the studded hunter leash around his own neck, yet he thought perhaps they were both bound, in their own ways. He took a breath and ran his thumb over the hollow of her cheek to her lower lip.
“Skin to skin, we cannot lie,” he told her, as if she might have forgotten that.
And he covered her mouth with his own.
She did not bite, but her sharp inhalation seemed to yank the air from his body. For a dizzy heartbeat, he felt as if they had gone aloft; every muscle was tight with yearning, his breath and heart suspended. His wings spread in impulsive reaction, rattling the leaves above their heads.
Though he had meant to tease her with the touch, the sensation of her lips softening and opening under his caught him like a gale force wind and ripped away any intention and all thought.
With a groan, he buried his hands in her hair, tangling his fingers in the red-gold locks to tilt her head to his onslaught. He swept his tongue across the inner rim of her lip and sealed their breath between them as he locked his mouth over hers. The taste of her reminded him of their one night in her island cabin, how she had come apart so sweetly in his arms, how she had whispered his name without hesitation, how she had told him she was happy…. His wings arched forward, like a raptor mantling its prey. He wanted that from her again, wanted everything, from her violent release to her sleepy smile.
