Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(34)
I turn the corner into a new hallway, which is domed like a tunnel. The walls and ceiling project wintry scenes. Holographic snow falls around me. The rooms along this corridor are much smaller than the others—virtual rooms. I pause at one, activating a program that transforms it into a salacious dungeon. I back away and pass another with an open door. A few steps past it, I’m captured around the waist and dragged back into the room. The door slams. My cheek is pressed to the wall by a hand that covers my mouth.
I throw my elbow back and simultaneously attempt to use my heel to crush my assailant’s shin. The man behind me avoids both strikes. He whispers, “Is that any way to say hello?”
My eyes widen. A small squeak slips from me. He loosens his hand on my mouth, and I turn in his arms.
“Hawthorne!” I whisper. Storm-cloud eyes meet mine. His sandy hair is hidden beneath an ancient golden helmet. The faceplate has eye slits angled in a fierce scowl. The gold nose guard comes to a sharp point. Cheek protection follows the contours of his chiseled face. A golden half-moon shape adorns the crest of his helmet, slicing through the center of it, deathhawk style. Only his full lips are exposed.
He’s dressed as Tyburn, the God of the West Wind. A crimson cape hangs from his powerful shoulders. His chest is encased in a hard brown leather hauberk. A warrior’s leather skirt stops at his midthighs, showing his powerful legs in tall leather sandals. His bare arms are cuffed with golden circlets that highlight the sheer enormity of his biceps. A round golden shield is strapped to his back, covering the crimson cape. He sheds the shield, setting it beside us.
My knees weaken. He doesn’t wait for me to catch my breath. Strong lips cover mine in a searing kiss. His large, calloused hands glide over my shoulders to my neck. The contact sends shock waves of sensation straight through my belly. My lips part. I exhale. Hawthorne’s tongue infiltrates my mouth. I lean into him. My fingers splay over his hard chest. My heart pounds. Blood floods my cheeks, turning them rosy and hot.
“I found you,” he murmurs.
His fingers slip to my nape. Sharp thorns from the vines in my hair dig into the backs of his hands. He hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. I break our kiss, taking one of his hands in mine. His blood drips in tears from the scrapes. My thumb runs over the top of it, wiping at his wounds.
“The thorns cut you,” I murmur.
“Worth it,” he growls. Hawthorne leans down and kisses me again.
“I was afraid you were dead,” I whisper. Tears brighten my eyes. I’m having a hard time containing my emotions.
“I’m devoted to you, Roselle,” he whispers, “and you know it.”
In this moment, I could believe he’s a god with supernatural powers, capable of destroying all my enemies. His hands move down my back and cup my butt. He lifts me in his arms. My legs encircle his narrow waist, and he presses my back against the wall. His hard torso rocks against me. Heat bursts in my core. Every nerve in my body strains to get closer to him. I want to snatch his golden helmet from his head so that I can see his face. My back brushes against a control panel on the wall, and the lights dim. The walls and ceiling become an ominous, darkening sky. Storm clouds gather on the horizon.
“Where have you been?” Hawthorne groans, like he’s in agony, but he continues to ravage my mouth. A rumble of thunder reverberates. The deep sound penetrates my soul. Brilliant flashes of lightning ripple through the landscape, turning it white, and then gold, and then gray. Gusts blow across a field of barley, the stalks bowing in the wind. “I couldn’t find you,” he says, breathing the words.
“Halo Palace,” I whisper. The silver moniker on the back of my hand shines against the gold of Hawthorne’s helmet. I wrap my arms around his nape. His lips slip to my neck. I gasp softly. He groans, and the vibration fills me with fire. Hawthorne forces me harder against the wall. A thrilling ache of longing shudders inside me.
“I’ve dreamt of kissing your skin,” he murmurs, trailing his mouth over my flesh. “It’s all I dream about.” His lips find the hollow of my neck. He’s the moon, and I’m a wolf willing to howl and commit mayhem to possess it. Hawthorne’s hand grips me, and my eyes close, feeling the warmth of his touch to my marrow.
My head falls forward. The iron sword points of my crown battle with the golden, sickle-shaped blade of his helmet. He lifts his chin, finding my lips again, covering them with his. Opening my eyes, I reach for his helmet, sliding my fingers on either side of its dome. I lift it, pull it from his hair, and let it fall to the floor with a loud clang. My fingers tremble when I cup his face. He gazes into my eyes.
“I walked the beach in Swords where I last saw you,” he says, “hoping to find you, even when I knew you weren’t there. I thought I’d die without you. I’ll give anything to be with you—my firstborn title, my wealth, my soul, all of it.” I lean forward and kiss him. He groans again, as if I’ve stabbed him in the chest.
“I missed you, too. What are we going to do, Hawthorne?”
He hugs me to his chest. “Whatever it takes. I need you. Life without you is—”
A harrowing scream resonates through the rumble of thunder in the holographic room. At first, I convince myself that I imagined it. But then more shrieks and cries bellow from beyond the corridor. Hawthorne goes rigid in my arms. He reaches past my shoulder, cutting off the storm-effect sounds. My legs unwind from him, and my feet slip to the ground. He turns toward the closed door, listening. The ring of fusionmag pulses rises above a cacophony of panicked shouts.