Page 95 of Their Wicked Cage

He shifts from foot to foot. “I’ve known her since I was young. My mother used to dote on her whenever she and her father visited court. Over time, she became a trusted ally. She’s done a great deal for my people as a healer, and I care for her. But there was always something missing. An absence of affection that made everything feel… hollow.” His voice softens. “It’s completely different with you. And if you must know, the moments we stole together were never just sex to me, even if I agreed they would be.”

I am rendered speechless by his confession.

I’d begun to believe the walls around his heart were as thick as the ones that surround his castle—impenetrable without waging war.

But… that isn’t true at all.

Riven Thaelon is a romantic.

Every part of me wants to reach for him, to kiss him until the world fades away, but I can’t.

Not without hurting him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have one of those tonics in your trouser pocket, would you?” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for the dagger at his hip and slices it through the air. A portal yawns open in its wake, sparkling at its edges, revealing his bedroom. His fingers lace through mine as he tugs me through. My pulse stutters as my eyes catch on the unmade bed, the twisted silken sheets that paint a picture of a restless Riven, tossing and turning, the same as I have every night we’ve spent apart.

He crosses to the bedside table, grabs the tonic, and uncorks it. In one swift motion, he downs it and tosses the vial aside. Glass shatters against the floor. He doesn’t even glance at it.

Because his eyes, those endless blue eyes, are fixed on me.

“Strip,” he commands, and heat floods through me.

I hold his gaze. “You first.”

His grin is knee-weakening.

We undress together.

His tunic comes off first, baring his broad chest and the intricate ink that maps it.

My heels hit the floor next, and he growls, displeased. He wants to see more of me, and I want to see more of him, but I won’t rush this. Not after countless days of believing I’d never see him like this again—bare and mine, if only for a night.

He teases the waistband of his trousers, fingers slowly untying them.

I mirror him, unthreading the ribbon cinching the front of my gown. The bodice gapes, revealing the swell of my breasts—heavy and tender with want—and stretches of pale skin, haunted by nearly healed bruises. The fabric slides down to my waist, catching on my hips. I shimmy it past my curves until it’s a puddle of satin and lace on the rug.

I stand there in nothing but my lacy underthings—sheer, delicate, and useless against the weight of his stare.

He takes a step forward, and I tsk. “Trousers too.”

His hands shake slightly as he pushes them down, along with the last layer. My breath catches the moment he fists his cock. It’s hard, thick, and flushed with need.

“Lose the lace,” he commands, stroking himself slowly, “or I’ll rip it off you.”

My mouth waters. “Actually… I think I’d like to see that.”

He releases himself and moves. Fast. A blur of motion and heat. His hands find my hips—strong, certain—and there’s a soft tug, a delicate tear. Cool air caresses my cunt as he lifts me into his arms and carries me to his bed.

He’s gentle as he lays me down.

This is the same male who killed a frost wraith for Dagny’s sake.

He could toss me, slam into me, take whatever he wanted.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he moves deliberately. Reverently kissing my mouth. My collarbone. My breasts. Dragging his tongue across the wine staining my skin, licking me clean, savoring the taste of it, of me.