Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(79)

“I am safe. And I am going to stay safe.”

“I’m not sure safe is the word I’d use.” Rowan looks down at the sigil on his arm. He touches it and frowns. “It hurt you, to use this magic. When you stopped me, it hurt you.”

“Yes. But it was my choice.”

“It’s still there.” He touches the sigil again, puzzled. “What have you done to me?”

He traces his fingers along the lines of the spell, and I shiver as the magic sparks, in response, across my own skin. I look down at my hand, marked with the blackened crescent. My wrist, marked with the sunburst spell. Then I place my fingers around the sigil. Rowan shivers as the spell sings between us. I catch the rush of emotions that are mine but not mine. A mess of heat and despair and want. We are connected.

“I’m bound to the Lord Under.” I show him my palm, then I touch the sigil. “I’m bound to you.”

He wraps his hand around his own wrist, frowning. Colors wash through my mind, rose, peach, gold. “Leta. Just because we’re connected, doesn’t mean you have to—” He lets his hand drop away, and the shift of colors fades into darkness. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Do you mean the fair as the moon part, or the part where you wanted to drown me?” When his frown deepens, I laugh gently. “Yes, I know.”

“You saved me. But that doesn’t mean you owe me anything more. If you still feel this is impossible, tell me so, and I won’t speak of it again, ever.”

Slowly, I climb into his lap, my mud-stained skirts frothing around us in an opalescent cloud. I put my arms around his neck, and press my forehead to his. It steadies me, this closeness. My fingers in his hair, the prickle of his eyelashes against my cheek when he blinks. My heartbeat slows. Whatever hesitance I had before—the want and can’t that I struggled against—it’s gone.

“Everything about this is impossible,” I murmur. “I can speak to the lord of the dead, and you are a monster.”

I lean forward as he melts back, until I’m folded over him with my ear against his heart, my cheek against his rumpled shirt. He runs a tentative hand over my hair, and a tangle of dried leaves and wilting petals tumbles loose.

He catches one of the flowers as it falls, confused, then looks down incredulously at my still-filthy clothes. “You’re all muddy. Why haven’t you changed your dress?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I was too worn out from saving your life.” I push his hands away, laughing. “Do you want me to take it off?”

His eyes widen, then his expression turns heated. “Yes,” he says, low. “I do.”

My laughter changes into a shy smile. I’d only meant to tease him. But now it’s said, all I can think of is that long-ago day when he helped with my buttons and I felt the roughness of his fingers against my bare skin.

“It unfastens at the back,” I whisper into his ear. “You’ll have to help me.”

He gives me a careful look. “You’re certain of this?”

“Yes.” My hands have started to shake. But I know, undoubtedly, that I’m sure. “I’m certain.”

“Turn around, then.”

I turn. Rowan scrapes the weight of my hair from my neck and slips it forward over my shoulder. He reaches for the topmost button at the base of my neck. Each time he undoes a button he marks the newly bared place with a kiss, going all the way down my spine. My pulse beats hard in my throat, my chest, my stomach. With each button, with each kiss, I unravel further until I’m breathless and unsteady.

My dress slides away from my shoulders. The air is cold against the heated flare of my skin. I slip free of the mud-stained tangle of my skirts, until I’m only in my undergarments and camisole, all lace and ribbon.

Rowan stares at me like I’m a poem, a wonder, a story. He puts a tentative hand on my waist. I shift toward him. Then his gaze lowers to my thighs, still marked by when he clawed me. “Leta,” he says, stricken. “Leta, I’m sorry.”

I take his hands, push back his sleeves, and kiss every mended cut on his arms. I unlace his shirt and gather the fabric into my fists, pulling until it untucks. He sits very still, letting me lift his shirt slowly over his head. His skin is warm, patterned with scars. It’s so strange and precious to see him like this, bared and flushed and mine.

I slide my hands over his chest. His breath catches. He knots his fingers through my curls and pulls me gently toward him. Our faces are so close that when I speak, my words cast across his mouth. “Rowan, I love you.” He makes a wretched, helpless noise and shoves me back against the tangled quilts. All breath is gone from my lungs in a single, sudden gasp. He pulls sharply on my hair and crushes his mouth against mine

His kiss is like fire. It burns through me until I am razed clear. There’s none of the hesitation of when I kissed him that first time. This is rough, a mess of feverish heat. Magic sparks from my fingers. Desire spirals through me, coiling tight at my center where it becomes a persistent ache. I gasp and he kisses away the sound. He tastes of blood and silt and shadows.

His hands are all over me, tight against my waist, tangled in my hair. His teeth are at my throat. He bites down—softly, then less so. I dig my fingers into his shoulder, drag him closer. I want the space between us to become invisible. I kiss him, tracing a path down the line of his jaw to the side of his throat. I kiss his bruises and his scars. His heartbeat is a captured moth. His skin is honey and poison.