Dark Skye (Immortals After Dark #15)(30)

Not that her sister didn’t deserve every happiness, but Sabine had never even wanted love for herself. Lanthe had dreamed of it for centuries, leaving no stone unturned to find it; yet she was the one alone, with no prospect of it.

The closest she could get to a lasting relationship was with a murderous Vrekener. Ugh!

She couldn’t believe she’d had even a passing thought that Thronos’s physique was attractive! Damn her Sorceri hormones.

If she could get back to Rothkalina, she vowed on all the gold in her private vault that she would never chafe again.

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. She was acting as if she’d see home again. If the male pacing this cave had anything to do with it, she’d live out her days in a floating hell.

Until she jumped.





FOURTEEN


At least one of us can sleep. After about half an hour, the sorceress had passed out—while he sat back against a wall of hieroglyphs, watching her.

She seemed to have blocked him out, ignoring him so totally that he might as well not be here. In a way, ignoring him was precisely what she’d been doing for the last several centuries.

Because he didn’t rate. To her, he mattered not at all.

Positioned as she was, her ridiculous excuse for a skirt was riding up. Any higher and he’d be able to see the cleft of her ass. Recalling the feel of those shapely curves in his palms made his shaft stiffen with a swift heat.

Though he hadn’t slept in weeks, he wouldn’t with Melanthe near, for fear of what he might do to her. Over his adult life, every single one of his dreams had featured her—him doing things to her.

Sometimes he’d wake to find himself thrusting against the sheets, the pillow, his fist—anything to ease the pressure his body continued to struggle with.

Culminating like that was considered a disgrace for a mated male. Releasing anywhere outside his mate’s sex was taboo, a waste of a precious resource.

Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about such things. Once he wed her, he’d wake to find himself thrusting between her thighs.

In mere days, they’d be back in the Skye. Within his home, he’d take her to his bed—a Bed of Troth.

Craftsmen had begun carving it for him on the day of his birth, a practice that wasn’t unusual among the more stable Lorean species. For Vrekeners, this lifelong bed was considered hallowed. By law, it was the one place he could claim her.

Just that act would marry him and Melanthe. They’d be officially bound, and—with the gods’ favor—expecting.

But now he had another urgent reason to return to his home. If what she said was true and his knights had acted outside his specific orders not to hurt either sister, Thronos was going to rain down punishment.

Melanthe had once sent Thronos crashing to his doom. Years later, had they done the same to Sabine?

Not for justice. But for vengeance. The master I now serve.

Sabine had killed the sovereign of their species, his own father; Thronos could almost accept the idea of assassinating her, their vow notwithstanding.

But to target Melanthe?

It made no sense. In one thing she was correct: if he accepted Melanthe’s version of events, then his beliefs would be turned inside out.

He would investigate thoroughly, keeping her under close guard. For her safety. And ours.

How was he going to control her powers without that collar . . . ?

Thronos rolled his head on his neck to loosen the knotted muscles there. Though he should be exhausted, he was wired. Yes, he was alert to danger, feeling less than secure in this place, but it was more.

That weird feeling of expectancy hit him then, along with an easing within him. Even as constant desire for Melanthe racked him, he was feeling more nonchalant about consequences. He found himself less concerned about missteps and offendments.

Which could prove ruinous with the temptation sleeping not ten feet from him.

Were these changes because of her or this place? Both?

So what would happen to him after six more days here with Melanthe? Perhaps he should head out tomorrow and scout for an alternative portal.

He heard her sigh in sleep. Without waking, she turned on her side to face him, displaying ample cleavage.

When he could drag his gaze from her breasts, his eyes followed the seam of her lithe thighs all the way up to the shadow beneath her skirt. He shifted uncomfortably as his length grew even harder.

Conclusion: the decision to wed her is sound.

He recalled that Feveris comment she’d made earlier. Thronos had been startled by his reaction. He’d imagined them bespelled with lust, and he’d longed for it.

In Feveris, he would be incapable of denying her, unable to follow the Vrekener law of marriage before touching, kissing, or claiming. They’d have no urge to leave that place, content just to mate . . . and mate . . . and mate . . .

He barely stopped himself from stroking his aching member. He knew better than to entertain these imaginings—because Vrekener law left him no recourse for his condition.

Not yet allowed to touch her body, or ever to pleasure his own.

Despite this, he wondered what would happen if he woke her with another forbidden kiss.

At the thought of her opening up to him—her red lips and smooth thighs parting—his shaft began to throb for relief.

Though inexperienced, he believed he could move her past any hesitations—because so many males had done so before him. And more, she’d admitted to a year of celibacy. For the duration of her imprisonment, he doubted she’d enjoyed any release whatsoever, just as he hadn’t.