Page 30 of Claimed

‘It does.’

‘See, that’s the sort of thing that makes people root for revolutions.’

His hand lifts but it’s not in command this time. It’s in invitation. ‘Eira. Come.’

My name in his mouth weakens me more thoroughly than the command did. I hate the ache it causes. Hate the part of me that wants to fly across the room, climb onto that slab, press my fingers to the mark until I know whether my blood saved him or ruined him further.

His gaze sharpens, as if he hears the shape of my debate. ‘You can’t leave,’ he says.

The pull in my chest remains, but the hard edge of command eases as the room steadies. My mind clears enough for the terror to catch up with me. ‘You summoned me in my sleep.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not helping your case.’

‘No.’

His honesty is fucking disarming. ‘I should walk out.’

‘You should. But you don’t want to, do you, hunter?’

‘No.’ The single word vibrates through me, stripped of arrogance. Bare. Ancient. Hungry. Terrifyingly honest.

His eyes darken. ‘Then come to me.’

Something in me twists. I want to tell myself he’s compelling me, but I know he’s not when my feet move willingly towards him.

Valentin’s hand remains extended, like he has all the time in the world, which apparently he believes he does.

Save for the standing upright on his own, he doesn’t look any better than he did before. So whatever this is, it has ‘very bad idea’ written all over it.

My throat tightens, but it’s not my name trying to rise, no truth cutting me open from inside. Only want. Fear. Guilt. The unwavering reminder that he stopped, again and again, when it mattered.

And he will this time too. Maybe.

When his fingers close around mine, the contact is immediate and violent, a shock through blood and nerve and bone. The mark at his throat flares. The sigils answer beneath our feet. I gasp, and Valentin’s other hand comes up to steady me.

‘You’re burning,’ I say.

‘You’re trembling.’

‘Observation skills. Excellent. Maybe you are recovering.’

He pulls me onto the slab.

The obsidian is cold beneath my thighs and ass. He is not. He’s heat, hard muscle and hunger barely leashed, his mouth swooping down on mine with a sound that leaves no room for doubt or any version of me clever enough to survive this untouched.

The kiss breaks me open.

I clutch at his shoulders as he drags me closer, his hands shoving up my nightshirt to my thighs as my body fits against his like it’s been summoned by more than magic. His mouth moves to my throat but he doesn’t bite. Just tongue and lips and the terrible brush of fang.

‘Valentin.’

‘Say yes.’

My head tips back. The words scrape out of me. ‘Yes.’

He yanks my thighs wide, stares at my sodden centre for several breaths. Then he growls low and deep, falls forward, enters me in one hard, claiming thrust, and the pleasure is so sudden I cry out against his shoulder. His hand catches the back of my neck. Mine locks around him. For stolen, impossible seconds there’s no curse, no lie, no dead courier or witch’s potion sitting like ice beneath my tongue.