Page 51 of The Maleficent Faerie
I hitch my legs around his waist and tighten my thighs, urging myself closer to his body. I need the pressure of him, the blessed friction of his hardness rubbing against my core. My arms wind around his neck. He keeps us in the air, high above the Chapel, while I take what I need—and what I need is his hot skin, his warm mouth, and the strength of his arms, holding me carefully, respectfully, except for that one naughty hand cupping my ass cheek.
I devour him open-mouthed, my tongue warring with his, my breath hot and frantic. He responds with a thick thrash of his tongue, a savage tug of his teeth on my lower lip. I bite him back, hard enough to draw blood and make him gasp.
“Fuck.” His voice is a ragged breath.
“This is demented,” I whisper. “It’s perverse how much I want you.” I squeeze him tighter with my thighs and arms, because I hunger for him and I’m still furious about it, about everything. With the terror of the nightmare gone, there’s a reckless violence in me, a monster that wants to bruise and bloody him while I fuck him.
“I want to hurt you so badly,” I hiss, grazing his cheekbone with my teeth, then ducking my head to the blood-warm skin of his throat.
“Fuck,” he rasps again. He’s trembling, but his hold on me is secure, and his wings beat steadily.
“I want to own you, to crush you.” I scrape my teeth along his neck up to the corner of his jaw, then bite his earlobe until his breath hitches with pain. “You ruined my life, you beautiful fucking bastard.”
“Destroy me then,” he says hoarsely. “Be my goddess of doom, of vengeance. Kill me, and set yourself free. They’ve tried to end me, you know. So many have tried, from my own kingdom and yours. I know what it is to be hunted. Every one who came against me failed. But I would let you suck me dry, little viper—I’d drink poison from your mouth, lick venom from your tongue.”
His words inflame my mind, fire racing along my spine, heat circling low in my belly. I want to rip open his pants and impale myself on him.
But a shape soars out of the night—black-winged, with beady dark eyes. A raven, clearly one of his, circling insistently over our heads.
“A message from the border,” he says. “I need to take this.”
We swoop lower, and he lands on a ledge that encircles the Chapel dome. It’s a long, curved ledge, wide enough for me to sit with my legs fully stretched out. I wait, letting the breeze cool my face and my desire, while Malec allows the raven to perch on his fingers. He strokes its glossy breast with the knuckle of his forefinger, looking deep into its eyes.
Suddenly I realize that his hands are no longer gloved to the wrist in black. Perhaps, after a while, the color of the Void magic he uses ebbs away. I like his hands either way, moon-white or ebony.
Shit, I shouldn’t be liking his hands at all.
The raven’s head tilts aside, its bright eyes boring into Malec’s.
“Our people are killing each other along the border,” Malec says tightly. “And a few Caennith search parties have made it through the Daenallan defenses. They’re hunting for you.”
“To rescue me,” I say wryly.
Malec casts me a look of hesitant pity.
“What?” I ask.
“This raven risked her life to get close to one of the search parties. She overheard that they have orders to kill you if they can’t recover you.”
A chill skates through my bones. “You’re lying. Or the raven misheard something—it’s araven,after all.”
“I wish I was lying. And I can tell when the ravens are uncertain about their messages.” He runs a fingertip over the bird’s small head, his touch incredibly gentle, full of fondness. “This one heard the instructions very clearly.”
A hard, cold, sickening ball of dread tightens in my gut. “That doesn’t make any sense. After going to such lengths to protect me, for so many years—why would they—”
But even as I protest, I know he’s right. I can imagine what the Three Faeries and my parents are saying right now, how they would excuse such an order.Better for her to die than be part of foul, heretical magic. Better for her to fly to Eonnula’s light than be bound to a Spindle, bled dry by a monster.
If I die, my father and mother will continue to be the Conduits until their death. They’ll have time to produce another child if they want to.
I am disposable. Damaged. The cursed one. I’ve been a problem since my birth.
Malec was right. This game the Royals have been playing, the ruse they devised—it was never for my benefit. It was always about their rivalry with him.
“I’m sorry.” There’s an ache in his words, like he’s apologizing for more than the message.
He lifts an elegant, pale hand, and the raven flutters away into the night.
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