Page 49 of A Game of Queens
Blindly, I reach up, sliding my hands along the curve of his chest, trying to find his throat. His mouth. A high-pitched sound shrills in my skull, an annoying, insistent buzz. Even though I’m touching him, I can’t hear his voice.
His heart pounds louder, a steady timpani drum. But my heart stutters, shaking and fluttering like a trapped, dying bird.
My senses fade. My arms fall limply, my head sagging.
He lives.
So I die.
My skull feels like an empty eggshell, dented and cracked. Barely held together. I can’t get my thoughts to come together, as if my brain is completely disconnected from my body.
His fingers grip my face. My jaw feels like it’ll pop off in his hand. Something fills my mouth and drips down my chin. Molten ice, thick and slushy and bracingly cold. My teeth throb so hard that nerves ripple all the way down my spine.
He wraps his palm around my throat. Squeezing. I can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter. I’m already dying. Long strokes of his fingers, his thumb pressing against where my pulse should be. His mouth at my ear. His breath so hot compared to the icy slush in my mouth. He must be whispering to me, but I can’t hear him.
Cold spreads through me. My body feels paper thin, light and insubstantial. A dried-up flower blowing away with the first gust of winter. Everything spirals downward. Inward. Dwindling to a pinprick. A single grain of sand against the expanse of the universe. Cold and empty and dark, devoid of a single star.
The last star is inside me. Slowly blinking out. Flickering. Dimming.
My heart stills.
Straining, I focus all my will. The last of my strength. All I must do…
One last spasm. I can do it.
My throat convulses in his hand.
The cold slush in my mouth flash freezes through my body. My veins crackle and snap beneath the brutal cold. Pulverizing my organs. Grinding my bones. Quaking and spasming, I’m unable to control my muscles. Everything hurts—but at least I can feel.
I can hear.
“Feed, my love. Drink until the Elysium Fields bloom once more.”
2
His words barely register in my head. Instinct takes over. I arch up in his arms and strike like a cobra, sinking my teeth—fangs—into his flesh. I don’t even know they’re there until the long sharp teeth are buried in him. The pressure on the fangs, the feel of him in my mouth, is exquisite.
His blood is icy cold and dark. The depths of the ocean where sunlight never reaches. So cold that shipwrecks—and their dead—are forever preserved.
His fingers are still wrapped around my neck. As if he needs to feel my throat working beneath his hand as I swallow. Each drop of his blood blows through me like a gale-force blizzard, pumping me with impossible energy. I’m biting down on his muscle, holding his flesh in my mouth, and it’s not enough. I want more.
Urgency builds, a whisper in the back of my mind.We don’t have long. I can’t stay.Something always happens, pulling me away. I can’t stop it. Even with his dark gift spreading through my veins.
His voice is low and soft but a thread of malice winds through his whisper. “Where are you, love?”
Images flicker through my mind lightning fast, making me recoil. Cutting edges, razors and shards and unending pain. Sound making my ears bleed and my heart explode and?—
I would have flung myself away, scrambling in terror, if he didn’t hold me. The high, shrill sound scrapes inside me, fraying my nerves. Cutting so deep that marks are etched in my bones. “I don’t know.”
With his blood dripping down my chin, I can see him a little better despite the infinite darkness. The unending expanse of his shoulders. The glint of his black eyes, as cold and sharp as the obsidian tunnel that made me bleed. “Show me, love.”
His fingers tighten on my throat. His thumb beneath my chin, keeping my head tipped up to his searching gaze. I don’t recognize the harsh planes of his face. High cheekbones, shadowed eyes, the unforgiving slash of his lips, square jaw, softened only by swirling hair flowing about his face and down his back. His identity is imprinted on my soul, as if we’re two sides of the same coin, always together even if we’re facing opposite directions.
He knows me. Even when I’m so damaged I don’t know myself.
There’s so much power in his magnetic eyes. As if the slightest tilt of his head or flick of a finger will crack every bone in my body. Yet somehow I’m not afraid. Not of him.
His cold, black eyes still manage to burn with rage. He leans down, even as his grip on me tightens, lifting me up his body. His mouth hovers inches from mine. His eyes burn colder with flecks of blowing snow. Snow begins to fall inside my mind. A light dusting, at first, soft and gentle. So pretty.
