House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(102)

“Forgive me, Fallon”—the thumb pressed to the bottom edge of my rib cage traces the curve of my bone—“but it’s been over five centuries.”

“Since someone’s referred to your junk as an eel?”

The crow master doesn’t just smile; he laughs, and the vibrations of his laughter shake me from heart to eyelash.

I hold my breath, then pulse it out. “Lore, this is . . .” I grab at the fingers hooked around my waist and attempt to pluck them off my skin when his thigh moves and—holy Mother of Crows.

This is what, Behach ?an? He shifts again, and the pinpricks of heat turn fiercer.

“It’s . . . It’s . . .”

His muscles contract, hardening, sharpening, and then ease before contracting anew.

Holy fucking Cauldron . . . “You need to”—I bite my lip to avoid panting—“stop. Lore. Stop.”

“Why?” His husky voice fans across my jaw.

When did his face get so close to mine?

He moves again beneath me, and my vision goes white as though the grotto has magically filled with a thousand flames. I smack his hard chest with the palm that touched—that touched a part of him I had no right touching.

You’re my mate, Fallon. He slides his leg against me like a man honing his blade on a whetstone, and the friction blanks my mind. My body is yours to touch; just as your body is mine to touch.

His words drop like pebbles into my mind, sinking deep, embedding themselves into my marrow. “Lore,” I croak. “It’s not right. You’re—” Not mine.

His mouth touches the underside of my chin, and the arm wound around my waist tightens, scooping me in closer, dragging my clenching center over the steel of his thigh. In some distant recess of my brain, I am screaming at the rag doll that I’ve become to stop riding a man’s leg.

A married man, no less!

Vows mean something to me. They should mean something to him.

If I come on his lap, I’d be no more dignified than the entertainers at Bottom of the Jug. Shame pelts my thrumming spine. “Lore—stop!”

He stops, but it’s too late, because the wiry hairs peppering his thigh brush against my agitated nub and undo me.





Fifty





I weep as I climax. My tears may fall quietly but my shame is deafening, as deafening as the clap of my abrupt pleasure. I clamp my teeth over my lower lip to keep it from quivering.

What have I done?

I am disgusted.

I am disgusting.

“I’m sorry,” I croak even though he’s partly to blame. After all, if he hadn’t pinned me to his lap . . .

If he hadn’t moved his leg . . .

“Fallon, look at me.” He pushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.

My lids remain sealed because I cannot look at this man I used as a scratching post. Keeping my eyes shut, I push against his chest, but my body feels like an overcooked noodle. My elbows collapse on themselves until the rest of me sags as miserably as my mood.

“Let me go, Lore.”

“Not until you look at me.”

When I feel his cool fingers chase the tears on my cheeks, I swivel my head to remove it from his reach. “I don’t want to look at you.” If I look at him, it’ll make all of this real.

He sighs. “Fine. Don’t look at me; but listen to me.”

“Don’t try to tell me that what just happened between us isn’t wrong because we’re magically bound to one another. You’re married—or about to be—and although you may not have sworn a vow of chastity to Alyora, I will not—I will not desecrate your future union.”

“Just her name then?”

My eyes pop open. “What?”

“It’s Alyona. Not Alyosha. Not Alyora.”

I growl at the fact that he is choosing to focus on spelling instead of on what we’ve done.

He drags his blunt nails down the slope of my neck. “Fallon, I’m not sure why you think I’ve married the Glacin princess, but I’ve not wed her, nor do I ever intend to.”

I side-eye him, eyebrows bending. “Aoife said you were finalizing your alliance.”

“My alliance with her father. I never intended nor suggested marrying Alyona. Vladimir assumed I’d want to because that’s how Faeries establish alliances.”

“But Dante said—”

“Again, an assumption.”

My mouth gapes. “But you let me believe it!”

“Only because I thought it was helping you come to terms with the fact that rejecting one’s mate is physically and emotionally impossible.”

The hinges of my jaw creak open some more.

He presses another wet strand of hair off my face. “Unless I become a forever-Crow, I’m afraid you will be stuck with me eternally, mo khrá.”

Mo kraw . . . I assume it means my crow. Since Lore doesn’t correct me, I run with that translation. “So you’re not betrothed or wed?”

“No.”

I catch the strong bangs of his heart in my palm. “You were never betrothed?”

“Not even for a minute.”

“You, asshole.” I slug his shoulder, injuring my knuckles on the ridiculous knot of muscle and bone. “I cannot believe you let me run with it.”