Dark Skye

SIXTEEN

When Lanthe woke again, night still clung to the realm, the battle ongoing. Perhaps both were endless here.

Thronos was gone, probably out sourcing food. Since she didn’t eat meat, she had scant hope for her own breakfast. Would he remember the time he’d tried to hunt for her?

She was surprised he’d left her alone, not that she could escape. She rose, testing her tongue—all healed!—and stretched her stiff muscles. If she felt this rough sleeping on the cold stone, she could only imagine how he’d felt. If he’d slept.

Eager to wash the grit from her skin and hair, she crossed to the cave opening, removing her gauntlets and boots along the way. Rain poured, spattering the lava on either side of the entrance, producing steam tendrils. Sidling near the very edge, she commanded herself not to look down as she reached for warm rainwater.

Most Lore species were fastidious. Yet she hadn’t had a shower in weeks, had been forced to bathe with freezing water from a sink.

She drank from her cupped hands, rinsing her mouth of residual blood, then removed her underwear and breastplate to clean them and as much of her body as she could. While she washed, she reflected on all she’d learned in the last two days and came to a startling realization: I have nothing to hate Thronos for.

At least from the past. He was innocent of the crimes she’d pegged him for. He hadn’t had a direct hand in Sabine’s deaths, had even taken pains to prevent them. She now believed he’d kept secret the location of the abbey.

Did she wish he’d given her a heads-up that his father was going to attack that night? Absolutely. And she wished Thronos had kept a better leash on his men—on his brother—but she couldn’t have expected him to. In no universe would he not have trusted the word of another Vrekener.

After last night, her chronic anxiety over surprise attacks had begun to fade at last. She now knew who her enemy was: Aristo. And where their next encounter would be: Skye Hell, if Thronos got his way.

If Lanthe could be freed of that overriding anxiety, would her powers bloom?

After unbraiding her hair, she smoothed water over it. Once she’d rinsed it clean, she painstakingly plaited it into braids around her face. The rest she left to curl down her back.

She was glad of this time alone to digest everything that had happened—and to consider her burgeoning interest in Thronos. After she’d fallen back asleep, still heartsick at his memory, she’d had vivid dreams of him.

In one, he’d kissed her in the rain. He’d grasped her face between his palms, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones; then he’d set in, his pained groans rumbling along her lips as he’d taken her mouth with furious need—until they were sharing breaths, until he’d stoked her own desperation.

Lanthe had never been kissed like that. Like the male would die if she didn’t part her lips and return it.

In another, she’d traced her fingertips over every scar on his naked body, then followed her touches with her lips and tongue. He’d shuddered with sensitivity—but he’d bowed his rugged chest for more. . . .

She exhaled a breath, determined not to think about him like that—or to even acknowledge that her nipples were stiffening in the sultry air. She arched her back, letting rain patter over her, cooling her breasts. She wished she could say these were the first sensual dreams she’d had of him. They weren’t, and over the year since their last encounter, these reveries had grown more numerous.

She gazed out into the night. Surely Thronos would return soon. She dressed again, was reaching for her gauntlets—

A sound behind her. She whirled around.

The back wall of the cave was opening, directly where she’d sensed the gold. Thronos strode out, looking bored, while behind him was . . .

Heaven.

His mate had caught sight of the golden temple he’d found, and now looked like her legs were about to buckle. “Did I see correctly?”

Ah, her tongue was working again. Soon he’d be treated to more of her lies. But she wasn’t a master deceiver, not like he’d expected. She had tells, and he was learning them.

In his absence, she’d cleaned herself. Her skin was scrubbed, looking rosier, highlighting the blue of her eyes. Her raven hair was drying into glossy braids and big curls.

He craved threading his fingers through that length.

To see it streaming over his chest as he held her close. . . .

Inward shake. Without those gauntlets, she appeared more delicate. Smaller somehow. He assessed the rest of her “garments” with a disapproving eye. When he got her to the Skye, he’d see to it that she dressed appropriately.

“Thronos, is there gold behind that stone?”

“Yes. A temple of it, built with gold bricks from floor to soaring ceiling. Even I found it wondrous to behold.”

She sounded like she’d muffled a whimper.

When the heavy door began easing closed, she sprinted for it. The stone sealed shut before she could reach it. “Open this again!” Her tone was frantic. “Please!”

He didn’t answer, dismissively striding to the cliff edge of the cave. Behind him, he could hear her digging around for an entry she’d never find.

For once, he would ignore her. He stared out at the horizon, taking in the storms over the swamplands—the slow fade of lightning strikes backlighting purple clouds. So different from his home in the heavens.

The Air Territories were a collection of floating islands, massive monoliths that hovered above the clouds. His realm was crowned forever by seamless skies—unbroken blue or star-filled black.

Skye Hall was the royal seat, but every island had its own city, each laid out with precision. All the buildings were angular and uniform, with sun-bleached walls. His home was a testament to order, an anchor for steadfast Vrekeners.

Unlike this plane.

The scene before Thronos was chaotic. Yet he found it surprisingly . . . arresting. Was there some kind of appeal to this entire domain?

His restlessness increased, that damned expectancy redoubling. He needed to get back to his anchor as soon as possible.

“How did you open this, Thronos?”

He’d read the instructions. Over this interminable night, Thronos had come to a conclusion: not reading the glyphs was cowardly; he was no coward.

This language might not even be demonic in nature. It could be some kind of mystical tongue that only certain Loreans could read. Perhaps only the worthy.

Like himself.

And, he’d reasoned, reading would help him learn about this plane. So he’d started at the outer cave wall, making his way in. Some sections had degraded with age, but he’d been able to glean that this cave was the entry to an ancient temple for dragon worship—and ritual sacrifice.

This hadn’t alarmed him. Dragons weren’t likely to roam war-torn Pandemonia; they’d gone extinct in most dimensions.

Then he’d come upon instructions to enter the temple, and had easily opened the door. He’d found a scene that would prove to be his mate’s most fevered fantasy.

Everyone knew Sorceri loved gold. Thronos had firsthand knowledge of just how much.

He remembered a day when Melanthe hadn’t come to the meadow. She hadn’t felt well the day before, and he’d been worried. He’d flown to her home, stealing across the roof, trying to scent her room amidst the sorcery. He’d scrabbled down the side of the abbey to a window, peeking inside. . . .

A black-haired woman with an immense gold headpiece and crazed blue eyes was rubbing coins against her masked face, murmuring, “Gold is life! It is perfection!” She began to speak to each piece, as if she’d met it at the market to gossip.

Chills raced over him. He’d never seen a madwoman before, and he believed she was Melanthe’s own mother.

Sorcery steeped the room as she chanted about gold: “Band it in armor over thy heart, and never will thy life’s blood part. Gild your hair and face and skin, and no man breathes that you can’t win. Never too much can a sorceress steal, those who defend she duly kills—”

Her eyes suddenly met his. He jolted back, but she cried, “I seeeee you. Come, hawkling. Visit a sorceress in her lair.”

He swallowed, then eased over to crouch on the sill, ready for flight. Behind her were piles of gold coins and bars, more than anyone could spend in a lifetime. Melanthe’s family had wealth; why would they let her go hungry?

“So you are the one who gives my Melanthe her new smiles,” the woman said. “She raises her gaze forever to the sky and floats when she walks—as if she’s still flying with you.”

He was forever gazing earthward, as if he could watch over her.

“Earthward, then, Thronos Talos of Skye Hall?”

The sorceress was reading his mind!

“It won’t last. Melanthe will never be what you need her to be. You can’t break my daughter, and that’s the only way she’d love you . . . .”

Thronos didn’t want Melanthe’s love, had no desire for it. He would break her—but only to make her become what he needed. And he’d start by using this temple against her, getting answers out of her.

From behind him, she cried, “Why would you keep me from such a place?”

He turned to her. The distress on her face was priceless. She was practically vibrating with eagerness. He repeated her words: “Why not?”

Must get in! Behind this door was more gold than Lanthe had ever witnessed in one place. Even the great Morgana, queen of the Sorceri, didn’t have that much in her possession.

How could Thronos deny her?

Lanthe had already been on edge from his memory, then from her own dreams. She turned back to the stone, resting her body against it, raising her arms over her head—for more of her skin to touch the door that separated her from heaven. She remained like this, as if she could melt through.

He might as well be here blocking her way, her body pressed against his. He was the key! She had to convince him. Think, Lanthe! What did he want from her?

She faced him again. “Please, you can’t keep me from it!”

He sat on the ground, one knee bent, a casual arm resting over it. “I found it. I claimed it. My temple, my gold—I make the rules.”

There was something about his domineering tone that was weirdly arousing. Even though she was filled with turmoil, her nipples tightened again. She bit her bottom lip, wondering how far she’d go to sway him.

If she could just touch the gold, take its song into her . . .

She hastened over to kneel between his legs. He looked startled, but that didn’t stop him from widening his legs to accommodate her—so she moved in closer.

That electricity sparking between them made her hyper-aware of his body, of his heat. His shirt was hanging on only by a low button, revealing his chest, which rose and fell with his shallowed breaths.

When his Adam’s apple bobbed, she peeked down and found his shaft growing. It was only semihard, but already . . . generous. Demons were notorious for their size. I hope this one’s a show-er and not a grower, or I’m a dead woman.

No, no! There would be no intercourse with a Vrekener! So stop staring at his cock, Lanthe. Dragging her gaze up, she cleared her throat. “Thronos, beyond that wall is nothing less than heaven for me. Why would you keep me from it?” she asked, noticing that he had gold dust on one side of his neck. Did the temple rain gold? The thought made her pant.

He frowned at her reaction. “I’ll keep you from it because—”

He was cut short when she grabbed one of his horns and pulled his head to the side. “Gold dust,” she murmured, unable to help herself. “Give me this first.” His skin smelled as sublime as the gold. With a moan, she leaned in to rub her face against it, to get his gold on her. She rubbed her other cheek, then drew back.

A smattering remained right over his pulse point—which was palpitating along with his thundering heart.

Too much temptation! She dipped down to press her open mouth over his neck, feeling his pulse beneath her tongue, taking in the cool gold mixed with his own delectable taste. She shivered with delight. Once she’d licked him, she leaned in beside his ear to whisper, “I never knew you’d taste so good.”

His big body shuddered, bringing her back to reality. Oh, gods, was she actually gripping his horn? Releasing him, she drew back to face him.

His expression was . . . dazed, his pupils blown, his eyes glazed with lust. He shifted where he sat, no doubt because his erection was paining him. His claws dug into his palms as he fought not to touch her.

In that moment an epiphany struck her, as bright and shining as the temple of gold just one door away from her.

She could enchant this male.

In their history, she’d befriended him, run from him, fought him, and spurned him. But she’d never tried to tempt him. She was descended from the enchantment caste of the mystical immortal species. She wasn’t without innate skills.

Plus, she had centuries of sexual experience over this hard-up virgin novice. Though she’d never take it too far, she could tempt him up to a point. She’d run circles around him, wrapping him around her little finger.

If she didn’t want him to take her to the Skye, then all she had to do was ask him very, very nicely.

When she slowly grinned, his gaze dipped to her lips, so she licked them. His brows drew together, and he swallowed thickly.

Your ass is mine, Vrekener.