The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(77)

“Will.” He spoke hoarsely, but he didn’t stop me.

I cupped my free hand over his cheek, letting the cool silk slide beneath my fingers; his face was sharp and angular, and his jaw tensed, as though he was worried I’d lift the mask. But I left it as I rose to my toes and pressed my mouth against his, only that thin silk between our lips.

He gasped and pulled back. “I don’t—”

Shame welled up inside me. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” I was such an idiot.

I shouldn’t be here. I needed to get back to the palace, offer as much information about the wraith as I could, and then return to my real life as an Osprey. As a future queen of orphans. It would be best if I never saw Black Knife again.

Black Knife closed his eyes. His mask puffed as he exhaled through his mouth.

The packet with his gifts dropped as I retreated toward the trapdoor. “I’d better go.”

I’d barely taken three steps when he grabbed my arm and spun me around. His hands were tight around my forearms; his body angled toward mine. When I stepped back, my shoulders hit the window with a thud.

He kissed me, just another touch of our mouths through silk. His breath came hot and ragged. “Don’t leave.”

“I’ll have to, eventually.”

He couldn’t rescue me, and I didn’t want him to. I’d chosen my path long ago.

“Don’t leave now, though.” He released my forearms and touched my face, gloved fingertips gliding over my temple and cheekbone and chin. “Stay here a while longer?”

“For now, I suppose.” When I closed my eyes and let my head drop back, he kissed me again, light and sweet and restrained with the silk of his mask still between us. It wasn’t enough.

Haltingly, I slid my hands up the sides of his neck, beneath the base of his mask. The barest hint of stubble scraped my fingertips as I folded the layer up.

“Will—” He touched my hands, halting my progress.

“I won’t look.”

His eyes were wide, dubious, but he released my hands and let out a shaky breath.

“Wait.” I withdrew and pushed back my hood, and fumbled with my scarf, pulling it from around my throat. One last look into his eyes, I lifted the scarf to cover mine. His fingers grazed my temples, pushing back my hair as I tied the scarf behind my head. His fingertips ran down my throat, down my collarbone and arms.

The world was dark when Black Knife lifted my hands to his face.

He’d taken off his mask.

I slipped one hand to the back of his neck, my fingers sliding into strands of soft hair, and pulled him close.

Our lips touched with soft, hesitating movements, and for a moment, I thought he might pull back again. But Black Knife sighed my name as he kissed a trail of sparks down my cheek and throat, and I lost myself in memorizing the curves and contours of his face. His cheekbones, sharp and prominent. His nose, aristocratically strong. His jaw, angular and firm. When we kissed again, a low moan vibrated in his throat.

His arms wound around my waist, pulling my hips closer to his. His hands splayed out on the small of my back; the very tips of his fingers dug against my clothes.

I touched his throat, his chin. Pressing upward, I explored the ridges of his brow and temples. The soft fan of his eyelashes breezed over my palm. He was forbidden to look at, but I mapped his features with my hands.

And when he kissed me again, all warm invitation, my thoughts swirled away, like drops of ink in water. I wanted more and more.

“Wait.” His breath came in short gasps as he took my wrists and pulled my hands away from him. “I need a moment.” He rested his forehead on mine and breathed. Breathed.

I leaned back against the window. His chest expanded under my palm; his heart raced like mine.

Then came the susurrus of his mask going back on. “Can this really work?” I whispered, pushing up my blindfold to look at him. Black silk covered his face, like always. “Neither of us knowing the other’s real name? Both of us wearing masks all the time?”

He touched his mask, a distant look crossing his eyes. “Just because I wear a mask doesn’t mean you don’t see the real me.” He took my hands and squeezed. “And just because I don’t know your real name doesn’t mean I don’t know who you truly are. I’ve seen you rush to help the people you love, and the pain you feel when you’re afraid they’re hurt. I saw the way you raced to help that boy, and made sure all your friends were safe before you left that night.”

I’d been right to be wary of this boy. He paid attention to everything.

“But can this really work?” He gazed beyond me, and a frown creased between his eyes. “I don’t think so. No. We both have obligations we won’t be able to ignore when masks come off.”

Or go on, in my case.

Those were unappealing thoughts. “Are you going to tell me how you chose your name? Are we good enough friends for that now?”

His tone was a smile. “So you’re admitting that we’re friends?”

“We’re something.” I smoothed my hair off my face and sighed. “In some ways now, you know more about me than my own best friend.”

“She doesn’t know you’re a flasher? A radiant?” His eyebrows drew in; I could see just the tips of them through the holes in his mask.