House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(112)

“What slander!” Phoebus sputters, which brings a smile to my mouth; the first in a while. “But she speaks true. I do live for gossip.”

After Phoebus explains where he sleeps, I drop a kiss on his cheek, then wish Aoife a good night before slipping around the tables toward the doorway where Lorcan awaits, calm and steady, the outline of his body in perfect focus.

Blood rushing beneath my skin, I stride past him down the hallway. Why does this feel like a walk of shame? Shouldn’t walks of shame involve daylight, rumpled clothes, and smudged makeup? Lore follows me in silence—a silence that isn’t altogether uncomfortable, if not a little nerve-racking.

We cross paths with no one, and when we reach my closed door, we stand facing each other like earlier. Unlike earlier, though, there is no playful banter being exchanged. No smirks either. We are both still like a forest before the storm, except the storm Lore unleashed over Luce has ended, whereas the heavy air between us crackles with new beginnings.

“I never want you to feel as though I’m cornering you, Fallon.” His features are feverish in the darkness—his irises lightning bright, his skin luminescent like the moon, his lips glossed as though he’s just dampened them with his tongue.

I take a step nearer, aligning the tips of my shoes with the polished toes of his boots.

“What of me cornering you, Mórrgaht?” My pulse bangs against my skin, against my eardrums, against my bones. “How do you feel about that?”

His shadows unspool and wrap around me, dragging me infinitesimally closer. “Petrified.”

Although the tension in my body is at an all-time high, my arm is steady as I raise it to his neck, and so are my legs as I roll up onto my toes and kiss the smirk off his mouth.

The scent of wind and night thicken, swirling off him and into me until I am so full of Lorcan Ríhbiadh that oxygen does not manage to worm its way into my lungs. And yet, I cannot find it in me to unfasten my mouth or my body from his. I’ve plunged headfirst into his darkness and am sinking fast, my pulse rippling, my ribs tightening, my stomach clenching.

Lore cups my cheek with one hand and the small of my back with the other and smothers what few particles of air remained between us.

How did I ever think I could resist this . . . this magic? But mostly, why did I spend even a second trying? At times, I am baffled by my stubbornness.

Lore gently thumbs my jaw, parting my lips wider and sweeping his tongue into every corner of my mouth.

I sigh, and he consumes the sound before pulling away.

Breathe, he instructs.

I’d rather kiss you.

And I’d rather not asphyxiate my mate. Especially so early on in our relationship.

My lungs burn as they inflate with not only air but with a laugh.

He presses open my door. “Now, go inside and rest. Knowing your father, he’ll have energy to spare in the morning.”

My laughter becomes air which becomes a tight press of my lips. I’m not ready for this night to end. Not when it was just beginning.

Lore’s pupils shrink as he, I imagine, reads my thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder if he has any more space for thoughts of his own what with absorbing all of mine.

His lips curve into a slow smile. “I assure you, I have many thoughts of my own, Little Bird.”

“Prove it.”

“Step inside my mind.” He lowers his lids. When he reels them up, his irises are lambent.

My vision whitens as I not only penetrate his mind but drop into it. And I see myself through his eyes, the flush of my cheeks and the sputter of my pulse point, my widening violet eyes and my reddened mouth.

I turn, and I am there too, but dressed differently and galloping atop Furia. I spin again to find ghostly hands fastening the laces of the gown I wore in Tarespagia. And then I catch water beading over my collarbone and collecting in its hollow, and a thumb pressing into it gently, tipping my head back, back, back before lapping at the glimmering drops.

Everywhere I look, I find myself, and I feel him watching me, thinking of me, feeling me.

I shut my eyes, extricating myself from this disorientating and heady blend of memories and fantasies. “They’re all of me,” I murmur in wonder. “Gods, you must be terrible at your job.”

He frowns. “And how, do tell, have you reached this conclusion?”

“You cannot possibly be any good at ruling a kingdom if all you do is daydream of me.”

His black eyebrows jolt, and then his mouth splits open around one of those rare laughs that stirs every fiber of my being. “I assure you, when I need to rule, my mind becomes a frightful place, full of rigor and gore.”

I must make quite the grimace because he runs the pad of his thumb over the divot between my brows and the rumpled bridge of my nose. “Remind me to keep out.”

“Consider it done. Now go.”

I hold out my hand.

It takes him a moment to grasp my intent. Actually, he must not grasp it because he takes my hand and carries it up to his mouth. Before he can kiss my knuckles or lick my palm, I curl my fingers around his and draw him into my bedroom.

“Once upon a time, Lore, you told me that we were just beginning.” I glance over my shoulder as my words settle into him. “So let’s begin.”





Fifty-Four





My bedroom is dark save for the slashes of moonlight across the hand-tufted wool rugs that dapple my smooth stone floors and the lone candle bleeding firelight beside my bed. All the other candles Phoebus lit have puddled on their brass holders.