A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(37)

I catch his wrist, digging my fingers into the leather there. His eyes spark with light from somewhere, and we stand there breathing at each other.

My blush deepens, and I glance at his hand sheepishly. “As if you couldn’t break my hold.”

“As if I’d want to.”

“As if—”

He leans in to press his lips to mine, and I suck in a breath. My fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, but it feels like he has caught me. His mouth is warm against my own, slow and intense, drawing a small sound from my throat when his tongue brushes mine. I don’t know if I let him go or if he breaks free, but his hands are suddenly on my waist, lighting a fire inside me. My back hits the cold frame of the window, making the panes rattle.

I gasp in surprise, but he captures the sound with his mouth, his weight against me now, heavy and addictive. We’ve kissed before, but he seems closer than he’s ever been. His kisses have grown more insistent, more sure. More of a challenge than a question.

My hands drift along the muscles of his arms to his shoulders, his chest, seeking skin but only finding so much leather, so many weapons. His fingers play at the edge of my belt, where I’m a little ticklish, and it makes me giggle and squirm—until his other hand slips lower, finding my hip through the robes, making me flush and gasp in an entirely new way.

I break the kiss, tucking my face into his neck, breathing hard against the sweet warmth of his skin. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I want to laugh. I want to cry. “Grey,” I whisper. “Grey.”

“Faer bellama,” he says against my hair. “Faer gallant.”

Beautiful girl. Brave girl.

My eyes fill, and I draw back to look at him.

He lifts a hand to brush the tears away, then leans in to brush his lips against my damp cheek.

“Faer vale,” he says.

Gentle girl.

My hands find his neck, my fingers stroking the hair at his nape as I inhale the heady scent of him.

He begins to pull away, but I hook my fingers in the straps along his chest and hold fast.

He stops, his eyes searching mine, but I dodge his gaze and fix my eyes on the buckles. I take a deep breath and begin to unfasten one.

He goes very still.

My cheeks are on fire. Once again, our breathing is very loud between us.

“There are a lot of buckles, you know,” I say, but my cheeks are burning. I can’t look at him.

He smiles. “As you say.”

His hands are quick and deft, easily three times faster than mine, born of a time when he was trained to adorn himself in armor to face an immediate threat. But the leather and weapons are in a pile on the floor in seconds, leaving him in a linen shirt and calfskin trousers. At least, I think so. I barely have time to register that he’s still dressed before he’s kissing me again.

Oh, I was so wrong before. Now he’s closer than ever, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to hide the warmth of his skin. There’s nothing hesitant about his kisses now, and I drink in the taste of him until I feel like I’m drowning. He can surely feel my heart pounding against his own, especially when his hand sweeps down the length of my body, tugging at my robes, hiking the silk higher, baring my calf, my knee. His hand finds the bare skin of my outer thigh just as his hips meet mine.

I suck in a breath and cling to him. I forget how to breathe. I forget how to think. I want to feel all of him at once. I tug at his shirt, and my knuckles are rewarded with the smooth slope of his waist, the gentle curve of muscle leading toward his rib cage.

Then my fingers settle over the harsh edges of his scars. I can’t tell if he freezes or if I do. Either way, my hands slow. Stop. Slip away.

Grey has drawn back a few inches. His eyes are dark and inscrutable now.

I’ve only seen his scars once, when we were on the run from Emberfall. We’d taken shelter in a cave in the mountains, and he didn’t realize I was looking. Even then, it was only a brief glance, a tiny glimpse of something terrible. Noah has seen the worst of it, from before Grey was healed, but otherwise, he’s kept the marks hidden. Even when Princess Harper first brought him clothes, he refused to let her see what had been done to him.

Maybe the scars make him feel vulnerable, or maybe they’re a reminder that someone he once trusted could cause such torment, but the air between us has shifted. There’s a shadow where a moment ago there was light.

I don’t know if it’s pity for his anguish or awe at his strength or rage for what was done to him—or some emotion I can’t even identify. Whatever it is, I reach for him again, sliding my hands under his shirt. He’s tense now, but he doesn’t move. When my fingers drift across the marks, he shivers, his breath catching the tiniest bit, but he doesn’t pull away.

I push off the wall and step into him, pressing my lips to the skin at the base of his neck, letting my hands travel up his back, holding him against me. I can feel his heart beat against mine, quick and fluttering like a trapped bird, but as I hold him, as my fingers trace the lines and my breath warms his neck, his tension eases. Calms. Settles. His head dips and he presses kisses to my temple, to my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“As I said,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, “you know all the ways to make me yield.”

This is different from the wildfire attraction of a moment ago. More powerful. More precious. This is trust. Faith. Hope.