Dark Skye

TWENTY-FIVE

“Oh, look! Pitha fruit.” Melanthe stretched for a black gourd above her, just out of her reach. She scratched at the bottom of it like a little kitten.

He pulled the fruit down for her, scenting it. “This could be poisonous.”

“It grows in Rothkalina.”

He cracked open the gourd for her. The inside was succulent and smelled sweet.

When he handed the halves to her, she scooped some into her mouth, then rolled her eyes with delight.

“You’re certain of that?” he asked. “Though Sorceri are vulnerable to poisons?”

She was already finished with one half. “Poisons and venoms.” Between chews, she said, “But I’m sure of this.”

“How did you get cured of that morsus anyway?”

“When Omort died, his poisoner—a fey female dubbed the Hag in the Basement—delivered the antidotes to us. Otherwise we would’ve died.”

Yet another time Melanthe might’ve perished when she’d been outside his protection. “This hag did so despite the fact that you called her that?”

Melanthe shrugged, taking another bite, chewing happily.

Dragging his gaze from her, Thronos surveyed their surroundings. Though he’d scented water nearby, he still hadn’t found the source, and it was growing darker. Dusk was abnormally long here—and as the sun had begun its lazy descent, the dragons had retreated from the field, their enormous shadows wavering over the treetops.

He and Melanthe had decided to return to the demon valley tonight, but they remained without water. And he hadn’t recuperated whatsoever.

Plus, he had plans for them. . . .

When a breeze blew, rustling all the flowers, she set down her finished fruit. “It’s beautiful here.”

Her black, black hair matched the petals of those flowers. Gaze still on her, he muttered, “Yes. Beautiful.”

Since Melanthe had described what copulation between them would be like, he’d found it difficult to look at anything except her. When he took her home to his Bed of Troth, would he not want to hear her keen with ecstasy? Would Thronos not want to empty his lungs as he emptied his seed inside her?

He’d been vacillating over his decision to claim her tonight—up until the time she’d said those blood-heating words to him. After that, he knew nothing could stop him. All he needed was a secure place to commence his plans.

But how to get her naked and in his arms? His skin flushed when he realized that would mean he too would have to be unclothed.

Naked. In front of her.

He’d figure it out.

Finding another pitha, he used his claw to stab a hole in the bottom to drink from. Its juice was sugary, but welcome. He handed her another pierced gourd to drink.

When some juice ran down her chin, she grinned mischievously—as she used to do when a girl.

That grin affected him differently, yet just as strongly. He wanted the kiss he’d almost taken.

Whatever she saw in his expression made her murmur, “Thronos?”

Before he could stop himself, he took her face in both of his hands, leaning in closer to her.

“Whoa, tiger!” She pushed against him. “You promised me water. Even I can smell some nearby.”

He surprised himself by letting her go. As he bit back his disappointment, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

A bubble filled with water was floating through the air between them. He and Melanthe silently watched it bobbing along. Without a word, they both hastened in the direction it’d come from.

He lunged in front of her. “I lead the way.” He pushed past some brush into a clearing, bordered by moonraker trees. The massive roots encircled the area like walls, while tightly woven branches made a ceiling above them. Countless water-filled bubbles floated up like helium balloons, bursting against the impenetrable canopy.

Drops fell over this glade like a cool summer rain, then rose up to coalesce again.

Not a peek of sky could be seen, making this literal rain forest feel like a pocket of muted light and sound.

With his and Melanthe’s every step, more drops pattered up from a mat of silver grass. Bubbles were even released by flowers fringing the tree roots.

“This is wild!” Melanthe cried. “Like a fairy ring, or an enchanted glade. Let’s name this place . . . Zero-G Glade!” She popped a bubble into her cupped hand to drink.

“Let me test the water first.” When she offered her hand, he leaned down to scent and taste it. “Clean.”

After they’d both had their fill, he pierced a large bubble over his head. Water poured as if a bucket had been tipped over him, a cool splash over his ash-covered skin. He tossed his sopping shirt onto a root, then scrubbed at his face and hair, his chest and arms.

Another bubble burst over Melanthe’s shoulder, making her shiver. Thronos watched, riveted, as each drop slowly trailed down her body—only to be sucked back up to fuse again.

When she let loose a peal of laughter, he asked, “What?”

“It tickles!”

Earlier, she’d laughed in the temple. Then he’d made her laugh on their march. The only thing that could make that sensual sound better? Being the cause of it.

His brows drew together when he realized she’d already laughed more today than he and all his grim knights had in centuries.

“Ah! Drops are going up my skirt!”

“Lucky drops.” Had he said that aloud?

Yes, because she faced him with an inquisitive look, as if she were taking his measure. Or making a decision.

Go to her, kiss her.

Yet when he heard bugle calls in the distance, he was reminded of all the perils of this realm. This strange glade might be the only source of water around, which made it a target.

Thronos leapt to a moonraker tree to keep watch.

Cold water seeped along Lanthe’s back, wetting her hair and cooling her heated skin.

She’d never seen a place like this glade and was determined to relish it—even if Thronos had deserted her.

After drinking her fill, she sat on the silver grass, removing her boots. “Just because you don’t have a skirt doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this.”

He crouched on a limb, scanning the woods, looking both sexy—and demonic.

She didn’t know how he could continue to deny his demon blood when evidence kept mounting. Aside from his similarities to those dragons and his seamless adaptation to this place, he could read the demonic writing!

Maybe that was due to a genetic memory, passed down through the blood—a memory formed here.

By his ancestors.

Now that Thronos had returned to his “realm of origin,” his very behavior was changing. There’d been an overall mellowing of rage, and he’d actually cracked jokes. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d probably committed more offendments than in his entire lifetime. She could take some of the blame for those, but not for other changes.

His voice, already a baritone rumble, had grown even deeper, raspier. And his language was deteriorating rapidly. Over the day, he’d begun carrying his seven-foot-tall frame differently, with not quite so much tension in his shoulders, not so much stiffness in the spine. Even his horns seemed prouder somehow.

He not only sounded like a demon, he looked like one. Which she was discovering she might have a weakness for.

Sabine adored having a demon lover. Would Lanthe?

Maybe the realm of Feveris was precisely where she and Thronos needed to go. In the Land of Lusts, she’d feel no guilt for bedding an enemy Vrekener. No fear of the future.

Wait. What was she thinking? She was a daughter of the Sorceri, a born hedonist. She’d take pleasure where she found it, and laugh in the face of guilt.

Well, as long as she didn’t get knocked up.

Thronos could be an endless source of pleasure. She’d enjoyed teasing him earlier, wanted to some more. “Come back down here”—she crooked her finger at him—“with all the other offendmenters.”

Though he looked like he wanted nothing more than to join her, he remained where he was. “I’ll keep watch. It’s my job to protect you.”

Because his instinct told him so. She sighed. She appreciated the protection, but she wished he was doing it because he wanted to, not because he was compelled to.

For once, she’d love to hear a male say, “I’m going to do you a solid—not because of what you can do for me in return or what you can give me—but simply because I like you.”

Was Thronos so different from Felix? Thronos wanted offspring. Felix had hungered for power.

Both of them sought something from her; yet neither truly cared about her. They only saw what she could give them, how they could use her.

Which she didn’t care about, because she had a plan to get her back to Rothkalina: beguile Vrekener. Afterward, she’d never have to see Thronos again. “Come on, don’t be a killjoy. You’ll scent anything that comes near.” When he made no move, she said, “I think you don’t know how to have fun.”

“Why would I be versed in something I haven’t experienced since our last day together?”

She frowned at that. How . . . sad.

But she wouldn’t dwell on it when fun was here to be had now. “Thronos, we might not make it out of Pandemonia alive. We should have died multiple times over the last few days. These things remind me . . .”

“Of what?”

“You’re bound by your sacred duties—and I’m bound by mine.”

“This I must hear.”

“I’m bound to show gratitude for every second of life I’m given by enjoying it to the fullest. Why should the gods—or fate or whatever—grant you more of these precious seconds if you waste the ones they’ve already provided? It’s exactly like—are you ready for this?—GOLD. There’s only so much of it to be had. Sorceri believe The End of the Ore will come one day. But life can be shiny and savored and glorious until then.”

He raised his brows. “Shiny.”

“You squander the coins you’ve been given. In my eyes, you’re more of an offendmenter than I am.”

“How do I squander them, then?”

“Your mind is always in the past.”

He scowled. “You’re as mired in the past as I am.”

“Maybe, but I usually recall good memories. Like how much fun we used to have playing in that meadow together.”

Thronos rose to pace that limb. What was he contemplating?

She probed, but found his shields up. Fine. She turned from him, determined to enjoy Zero-G, and its upskirt rain, all by herself.

She spied a leafy branch that arched down beside a smooth trunk, heavier streams of water following it, making a shower head of sorts. She wished she could shuck off all of her clothes and finally take the shower she’d been longing for—

A bubble burst against the back of her head.

With a gasp, she whirled around—and caught another bubble against her arm.

“Thronos!”

He was using a wing to wave them over to her, because he was playing with her, having fun.

She gave a cry when another hit her chest, cool water trickling behind her breastplate. And once those delicious drops trickled down, they traveled right back up her body.

She opened her arms wide. “Give it your best shot. I’ll bet you can’t hit me”—she pointed to her navel—“here. Oh, wait, I forgot, Vrekeners don’t gamble.”

“I’ll enter into another wager with you. If I hit your target, then you have to remove your breastplate.”

He was certainly getting the hang of flirting. “And if you don’t?”

“You have to remove your breastplate.”

Her lips curled. “I think I’m going to have to teach you the finer points of wagers, demon.” For once, the word didn’t seem to bother him; of course, she’d all but purred it. “Honestly, I would love to take it off, would kill to bathe under that tree limb’s cascade.” She hiked a thumb in that direction. “But we’re back in the same boat as before. How can I be sure you won’t lose control?”

“Melanthe, you want to be naked for me.”

This authoritative side of him was kind of hot. “Do I?” She sounded completely unsure, even to her own ears. Maybe they could just play tonight—taking the edge off their need. They didn’t have to go further.

Surely premarital sex was an offendment Thronos would never commit, no matter how worked up they got. I’ll breed no bastards.

“You told me that if I got you to safety, you would show me anything I wanted to see,” he said. “I got you to safety, and I want to see everything.”

She arched her brows. Sexy Thronos. And a promise was a promise, right?

Lanthe shouldn’t want to take off her clothes for him, but he was right; she did. She wanted him to see her and desire her. She wanted to experience his reaction as he beheld his mate for the first time.

If simply holding hands with this male had nearly brought her to the edge . . .

At that thought, she reached for her breastplate, eager to have it gone. As she had in the temple, she gave him her back while she unbuckled the piece. Tugging it off, she tossed it away, then started on her skirt, unfastening the hidden hooks. With a swish of her hips, the garment dropped, pooling at her feet.

Leaving her in a black thong.

She grinned when she heard his wings shoot open with a snap.

Draping an arm across her breasts, she craned her head around to find him crouched, body tensed. His horns had straightened. There was no mistaking it.

Just as unmistakable? Her response. As her gaze followed those proud lengths, her nipples hardened and the folds of her sex grew slick.

“Your panties too,” he rasped. The pulselines on his wings were glowing brighter and moving faster than she’d ever seen them.

Keeping her back to him, she hooked her thumbs around the frayed lace, pulling them down her legs. As she kicked the thong away, she thought she heard him swallow thickly.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Very.” The word was a harsh grate.

“You sure?”

“Melanthe,” he growled in warning.

She dropped her arm and turned with her shoulders back. She caught one of his thoughts, and it sent a ripple of satisfaction through her.

—Mother. Of. Gods.—