Page 73 of Orc's Veil

“Varkhul.” Her voice breaks on the second syllable. “Please.”

“Please what?” I look up at her from between her thighs, letting her see the hunger in my eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” No hesitation. No shame. “I want you. All of you. Now.”

I give her what she wants.

My mouth finds her center, and she arches off the bed with a cry that echoes in the small cottage. She tastes different now—sweeter, with an edge of ozone that reminds me of lightning. I explore her slowly, thoroughly, learning the new geography of her body.

Her hands find my hair, fingers twisting tight, holding me against her as her hips rock in desperate rhythm. I grip her thighs—firm enough to anchor, gentle enough not to bruise—and drink her in like she’s the last water in a dying world.

FORTY-ONE

EIRENE

He takes me apart with his mouth until I shatter, calling his name, my fingers twisted in the sheets. Then he does it again. And again. Until I’m boneless and trembling and ready to murder him if he doesn’t give me what I really need.

“Inside me.” I grab his shoulders and pull him up my body. “Now. I can’t wait anymore.”

He rises over me, and gods, the sight of him takes my breath away. His skin has changed—the scars from his executions have become shifting patterns, runes that move and flow across his chest and arms. The iron rings that used to weigh his tusks are gone, shed in the transformation the way a snake sheds old skin. The boundary holds that tally now, not him. The brand over his heart blazes with our shared power. He looks like a god of war and shadow and terrible beauty.

And he’s mine.

He positions himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. “Last chance to change your mind about forever.”

“Ask me that again and I’ll show you what a boundary witch can do with blood magic.”

He grins—that predator’s smile I’ve come to love—and pushes inside.

I gasp at the stretch of him, at the feeling of being filled so completely. It’s different than our first time—not desperate, not frantic, but slow and deliberate and infinitely more devastating. He holds my gaze as he seats himself fully, lets me feel every inch.

“Okay?” His voice is strained, his arms trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Perfect.” I wrap my legs around his hips, pull him deeper. “Move.”

He moves.

Slow at first. Controlled. Each thrust deliberate, measured, designed to drive me slowly insane. I feel him everywhere—not just where our bodies join, but in the claiming that hums between us, in the Veil that pulses around us, in the very air we breathe. We’re not just making love. We’re becoming part of each other in ways that transcend flesh.

“Faster,” I demand, my nails raking down his back.

“No.” He catches my wrists, pins them above my head with one massive hand. “I told you. I’m savoring.”

“You’re torturing.”

“Same thing.” He punctuates the words with a deep thrust that makes me see stars. “When done correctly.”

He keeps the pace agonizingly slow, building the pleasure in waves that crest and recede before I can find release. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to worship him. I’m going to spend eternity doing both.

“Varkhul.” His name is a plea and a curse. “I need?—”

“I know what you need.” He releases my wrists, slides his hand down to grip my hip. “And you’ll get it. When I decide you’ve suffered enough.”

Bastard. Beautiful, infuriating, magnificent bastard.

I surge up and kiss him—hard, desperate, pouring all my frustration into the press of my lips against his. He growls intomy mouth, and I feel his control crack. His thrusts speed up, roughen, lose their careful rhythm.

Yes. This is what I want. This is what I need. Not gentle, not careful—real. Raw. Two monsters tangled in each other, claiming and being claimed.