Page 97 of White Horse Black Nights

My voice hitches in my throat. “There’s much you don’t know.”

“Then tell me! What could possibly have changed your mind? Are you really so loyal to Rian?”

I hesitate. “It is about loyalty—but that’s only one part.”

“What else, then? Are you that broken? Did you just toy with me? Was it fun?”

My molars clench at the idea that I would ever hurt her for pleasure.

“You’re sadistic,” she hisses, cheeks burning crimson. “You’re no better than Berolt and his wandering hands—”

My body moves against the accusation on instinct, hips pushing her harder against the wall. Her silly wings quake. My eyes flash like a wild animal’s. “I’mnothinglike Berolt.”

She retaliates by shoving me with her full strength, and I grant her some space, taking a step back, pacing like a caged animal. She shoves me again in the chest with both hands, and then again, until my back smacks into the hallway’s opposite wall.

I let her pin me, needing to see this thing through. And damn if it doesn’t feel good to have her hands on me, even in hatred. “Tell me why you’ve been so cruel, Basten. I want the truth.”

It’s intoxicating, the beautiful flush of her anger. I could bathe in her hatred all night.

“I told you—”

She slaps me across the face. The sting of pain does something to me. The violence at her hand shoots straight to my groin. I close my eyes, fighting the urge to act on the adrenaline slamming through my veins.

I murmur, “Do it again.”

She pauses, but only for a second. She slaps me again, even harder this time. I groan in demented pleasure and lick some moisture into my lips. “That’s good. Again.”

But she doesn’t. I can feel anger sparking in her hand, wanting to lash out again, but not if I like it. Then, something shifts in her energy. Or maybe in mine. Her arm pulls back to slap me again, but I catch it this time, trapping her by the wrist and dragging her into the cage of my arms.

Our lips come together like warring armies, our passions crashing violently, hatred and love all mixed up, and it feels like stars colliding, like beautiful devastation. This is wreckage, but I’ll die happily here. As my hands lock to her narrow waist, my lips can’t drink her in fast enough. I want to consume her, to take everything from her. Her hands rest on my brass shoulder plates, trying to pull me closer. My little violet is so small compared to me. Even on tiptoe, I have to stoop to kiss her.

And it’s not enough.

It will never be fucking enough.

I grab her ass and hoist her into my arms. Her beautiful legs wrap around my hips, her dress’s saucy slits easily allowing the movement. My fingers squeeze handfuls of her soft flesh like sinking into a feather mattress after months on the road. My groin pulses. Now that my body has made up its mind between fighting and fucking, every drop of blood rushes to my cock.

“Basten.” My name sounds so good on her breathy voice. “Ihateyou.”

Her hips roll against mine, telling a different story. Whatever she has to tell herself is fine with me, as long as it keeps her lips on mine.

“I know, little violet. I know.”

Supporting her with one hand, I use the other to tilt back her head to slip my tongue between her parted jaw. I taste her, lapping her up. When her tongue lashes back at mine, I think I’m going to die. The urge to touch her everywhere drills into me.

Her damn wings . . .

My damn armor . . .

I have to get it off. I tug roughly on my metal collar to loosen the leather straps, but then freeze as I pick up on footsteps and wine-slurred voices around the corner.

“Did you hear that?” someone says.

“Hear what? You’ve had too much wormwood,”the other responds.

“Shh,” I hiss into Sabine’s ear. “People are coming.”

I smash my hand against her mouth, silencing her moans. Her hot breath dampens my palm. Her tight little body is like an unruly cat in my arms, refusing to stay still and silent. Fuck—she’s going to get us caught.

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