State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(97)

A loud laugh nearby forced them apart, the jewel-coloured birds above them twittering loudly as they flew away. Rasmus’s eyes were glazed, his face flushed. They looked at each other for a long moment.

“That was foolish,” Sorrow said. “If we’d—”

“Leave. Leave the ball.” His voice was whisky-rough and rich. “Follow me.”

Sorrow nodded.

He tore a handful of leaves from the ivy and left her. She crouched down, splashing her face with the cool crystal water. She couldn’t go. She shouldn’t go.

She went.

She was blind to the rest of the party as she made her way after him, and this time no one stopped her, as though they couldn’t see her either. Within minutes she’d left the indoor garden behind, stepping out in the cooler air of the corridor. Two guards nodded to her as she passed, and she inclined her head, wondering where Rasmus had gone.

On the floor ahead was an ivy leaf, and Sorrow went to it, spotting another a few metres away.

She followed the trail he’d left, tracking him through the discarded ivy leaves, deep into the royal palace, until she found a final leaf outside a door. She opened it without knocking, arriving in a small study, complete with a desk, a chair, shelves full of identically bound books. And Rasmus, standing in a patch of moonlight, his back to her.

He turned when she entered, but remained where he was as she closed the door behind her.

“This is foolish,” she said again.

“We’re fools,” he agreed.

There was a moment, as long as a hummingbird’s heartbeat, when it seemed they might resist temptation.

Then he was beside her, cupping her breast, his thumb grazing over her nipple. Need flashed through her body, and she ground against him drawing a moan from him.

He peeled the dress from her body and threw it somewhere behind him, and she tried to undress him, fumbling with the buttons on his frock coat. Frustration made her clumsy, and she was grateful when he took over, ripping the last few buttons away and shrugging the coat to the ground. His shirt followed suit and soon her breasts were pressed against his chest as his mouth sought her lips again. He found her tongue, coaxing it with his own, sucking it gently before he returned his attentions to her lips.

One hand slipped lower, and she pushed into the pressure, whimpering against his mouth. She reached for the waistband of his trousers then and began to tug them down, eager to touch him as he touched her.

He pulled away and the loss was unbearable, until he dropped to his knees to kiss a path along her inner thigh that made her tighten her grip in his hair, heat at her centre demanding more, insisting on it. He obeyed her unspoken command and lifted her easily on to the desk, his hand returning to between her thighs as his mouth met hers. She arched into him, gripping his shoulders so tightly she was scared she’d wound him as he stroked and caressed her, his fingers discovering her once again, her body delighted to welcome him back. Then he was covering her, fitting together as easily as they always had.


Her back and shoulders were stiff from being pressed into the hard wood of the desk, but the rest of her felt like liquid gold as she lay beside him, her head back in its old place on his chest, his arms around her as though they had no business being anywhere else. Neither had spoken since they’d separated, both remaining prone on the table. She didn’t want to be the one to break the moment, though, and from the way his grip on her remained resolutely tight, she assumed he felt the same.

Finally he released her, and she immediately became aware of a sharp pain in her neck, forcing her to sit up.

“Ouch,” she gasped, rubbing it, and then his hand was there, the pain fading away.

“You’re good to me,” she said.

He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose, and each eyelid. Then he hopped down from the table, finding his trousers, and she watched as he pulled them up over his long thighs. He bent to pick up her dress, and she put it back on, before helping him find the buttons from his coat.

“Can I keep one?” she asked, without knowing why she wanted it, and he handed one over without comment.

When they’d tidied up, removing every trace of themselves from the room, they stood in silence, not quite able to meet each other’s eyes. It had never been awkward between them before, but as the euphoria ebbed away, Sorrow realized that once again they’d been unutterably reckless. And once again, minutes after apologizing for her behaviour, she’d used Rasmus to drive out some of her own misery, used his touch to mend her—

She froze, as a terrible, unthinkable thought dawned on her…

How could she be so stupid? His touch removed her pain. Made her feel better… She craved him every time she felt sad, or lost, or scared…

She’d always thought it was just her physical pain he healed – after all, he hadn’t been able to soothe away her grief after her grandmother died. But maybe that was a different kind of ache; maybe that was something nothing but time could heal. Whereas doubt and worry and fear – pain – they were all more tangible. All easier to explain. To heal. And her body knew it. Even as she’d tried to pull away from him, her body craved him, drove her to him whenever she was hurting, however she was hurting.

Like today.

Rasmus frowned. “Are you well?” he asked.

She nodded mutely, but it wasn’t enough to convince him, and he reached for her, stopping dead as she recoiled.