Page 16 of The Unseelie War
“Show me,” she said softly.
His eyebrows rose. “What?”
“Show me what it feels like.” She reached out and took his glowing hand in hers. “I want to understand.”
For a moment, he just stared at their joined hands. Then, moving slowly, as if afraid she might change her mind, he brought her palmto his chest, directly over his heart. “This is…dangerous, Ava…I warn you.”
“I know. I don’t care right now.”
“I do not believe I do, either.”
The steady thump beneath her fingers was strong and real and utterly mundane. But the way his breath hitched when she touched him, the way his eyes fluttered closed like a man receiving absolution—that was anything but mundane.
“Eighteen hundred years,” he whispered. “Eighteen hundred years of existing as pure thought, pure will, trapped in a prison of dreams. And now…” He opened his eyes and looked at her with an expression so vulnerable it made her chest ache. “Now I can feel your skin against mine. I can smell the morning air, can taste the magic in the atmosphere. I can feel the grass beneath my body and know that it is real, not just an elaborate illusion conjured by a mind slowly going mad from isolation.”
Ava had never thought about what it would be like to lose physical sensation and then regain it. The idea was almost too terrible to contemplate—to only have what the mind remembered of something…and then to have it all rush back. “I’m sorry—I'm so sorry you had to endure that.”
“Do not apologize.” He covered her hand with his own. “You gave this back to me. You gave meeverythingback to me. You freed me, Ava.”
The gratitude in his voice was overwhelming, but there was something else there too. Something darker and more complex. Need. The desperation of someone who had been starved for physical contact for far too long.Hunger.
“Serrik…” But whatever she'd been about to say was lost as he moved closer, his free hand cupping her face.
“I know what we have between us is complicated.” His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. “I know you have every reason not to trust me, not to want this. But Ava, please—let me have thismoment. Let me know what it feels like to be close to someone who matters.”
The raw plea in his voice broke down whatever resistance she might have had. When he leaned in to kiss her, she met him halfway.
It was different from their encounters in the dream realm. This was messier, more desperate, flavored with the salt of tears she hadn't realized she was crying. His lips were warm and real and trembling slightly, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening.
She could taste the wonder on his lips, the disbelief that this was real. His hands were everywhere—threading through her hair, tracing the line of her jaw, sliding down to her waist as if he needed to map every inch of her to convince himself she wasn't an illusion.
“Ava,” he breathed against her mouth, her name a plea. “I need…I need to feel everything. Please.”
She understood. After eighteen centuries of existing as nothing but consciousness, every sensation must be overwhelming. Every touch a revelation.
Her own hands began to explore, pushing aside the fabric of his shirt to find the warm skin beneath. He gasped at the contact, his whole body shuddering as her fingers traced the golden tattoos that spiraled across his chest.
“Is this real?” he whispered, catching her hand and pressing it flat against his racing heart. “Tell me this is real.”
“It’s real,” she assured him before kissing him again, deeper that time. When she broke away, she whispered the words she knew he needed to hear. “And it’s yours to take.”
The growl that left him was a feral, wild thing. He took the hem of her shirt and pulled it from her, tossing it aside, all decorum abandoned now that she had given him permission. His breath caught as he looked at her, his golden eyes dark with lust and wonder.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, his hands tracing the tattoos that now covered her arm and shoulder. “So beautiful…my Weaver.” His fangs dripped that strange poison of his, and he grimaced, snapping his mouth shut with a snarl, turning his face away.
“No.” She turned him back to face her, sitting up to kiss him. She could taste the strange, citrusy-sweet tang of the poison on her tongue. When she broke away, he was staring at her in wide-eyed awe. “I want it, Serrik. All of it. I wantyou.All of you. Every part. In every form.”She ran his hand along her bare skin to her back, guiding him to the clasp of her bra. “And I’m not afraid.”
“Ava…once I begin, I do not know if—if I can stop—stop myself from changing?—”
“Good.” She threaded her hand into his hair and kissed him again, tasting more of that strange and wonderful poison. She wanted to feel it tear through her body. She wondered how different it would be now that it was real—but also now that she was the Weaver. So much had changed between them since last time.
If hedidtake his true form, she wanted to remember it.
Serrik's control shattered at her words. The careful restraint he'd been maintaining dissolved like mist, replaced by eighteen centuries of desperate need finally given permission to surface. His hands roamed her body with renewed urgency, mapping every curve and line as if committing them to memory.
“You do not understand what you are saying,” His voice was rough with desire and warning. “In my true form, I have no control. I am nothing more than an animal. The poison alone?—”
“I can handle it,” she interrupted, her fingers working to unfasten his shirt completely. “I’m not human anymore, Serrik. Remember?”
