ISKERA
We don't talk much. We don't have to. The pull between us is magnetic, a gravitational force that drags us toward each other until the air in the small room is heavy, charged.
My breathing becomes labored when there is no more space between us, when my palm rests on the furnace of his chest, feeling the hard, sculpted planes of muscle.
My nose is assaulted wickedly by his scent, a heady intoxicant that leaves me lightheaded. I rest my face against his chest just like I had imagined, and it is pure bliss…
So much so, a low moan escapes my lips before I can catch it.
And he hasn't even touched me yet…
Maybe the shadow is heightening my feelings to all this?
I hear a dry scoff in my head, right before the stranger pushes me against the door.
His hands come up to cup my face. I gasp at the contact. No silver-lined black leather to act as a barrier. Just warmth. Just skin.
I would have cried at the sheer beauty of it if I weren't so breathless.
I raise a hand slowly, touching the back of his palm, loving the rough, living feel of it against my face. My eyes shut tight as I try to lock in this beautiful moment when I'm first truly touched by another.
But they shoot open the second he pulls the strap of my gown down.
My breath quickens as I watch him, as I watch him watch me, gauging my every reaction with that silver gaze.
He traces a single finger from my bare shoulder down the length of my arm, and I shiver violently, pushing down my nerves and wanting nothing but more of this. Then he tilts his head, and my breath catches.
His lips rest on the path his finger had just traced, while his hands come to settle around my waist. He grazes my shoulder at first, a ghost of a touch, and then moves upward to my neck.
He abides there, his teeth and tongue alternating on a sensitive spot that has me releasing sounds I never thought I would make. His hand applies a steady pressure on my waist, one roaming up the curve of my back while the other rests on my ass.
I don't know when I fist my hands in his silky long hair, nor when these dramatic hands of mine started roving around his body, desperate to find skin.
"Patience, princess…"
I snort, hearing the dark amusement that lines his voice. "I don't have all night, prince. Get to it."
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration right there in my core.
"So impatient…" he murmurs, but he backs away just a little and pulls off the black polo that had clung to him like a second skin.
Oh gods, save me…
My jaw slackens at the sheer maleness of him, while my hands itch to touch, to feel.
But when he reaches for me again, that's when I see it.
The strobe light in the room illuminates the ink on his bicep—a sprawling, intricate crest of a crowned wolf entwined with thorns. The Royal Seal.
My heart stops immediately. This isn't just a stranger. This is the Prince. Vane. The son of the Alpha King, the man who holds the leash of every pack in the territory—including the one that wants me dead.
The other person Seren talks about even more than Rian. She has shown me pictures of royal seals when she taught me things she learned at the Academy.
"You're him," I whisper, scrambling back, not even thinking to pretend ignorance.
My heels catch on the carpet, and my hands make a frantic, clumsy move to slide the straps of my tight gown back up. I am suddenly grateful for the tightness of the fabric, thankful it hadn't slid to the floor the moment the straps were off.
"You are the Prince."
I turn to bolt, but he's faster. His arm bars the door, a solid wall of muscle pinning me in place. But he doesn't look angry; no, he looks even more intrigued.
And that smile I had loved just moments ago becomes something that irritates me now.
"You—"
"And you're the girl from the attic," he interrupts smoothly, making me blanch.
He folds his arms across his chest, the smile easing away into something more calculating. "I recognize the tattoo beneath your collar."
I ignore him and make a desperate move for the door, but his hand shoots out and grabs me, hauling me back against himself. His hands come around my waist again, locking me in.
"Let me go," I hiss, my pride warring with my terror. Shouldn't he be afraid of touching me, knowing what I am? "I'm not a toy for the monarchy!"
Damn that shadow, I cuss mentally when I don't hear its purrs again. See what it has led me to!
"Maybe. But you're a death sentence," he corrects, his silver eyes narrowing. "My father mentioned you were to be executed tomorrow—something he believes will be for the good of everyone. At least it stops the plague before it spreads. He actually thinks your father should have done that when you lived past seven years."
He pauses, then his voice dips into a silk-wrapped growl. "But you're a long way from the attic, little curse."
"I'm a few hours from an altar," I shoot back, my sassy edge finding its footing despite my shaking knees. "I figured I'd see what the world looks like before I'm bled dry for it. Is that a crime, my prince?"
He chuckles, then leans down, his breath warm and steady against my ear. "The Blood-Claw pack is foolish. They think they can solve a plague by killing the only thing the Goddess actually bothered to mark?"
"They think I'm a mistake. Who are you to tell them otherwise?"
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his silver gaze mesmerizing. "I'm the Prince," he says, the title sounding like a promise and a threat all at once. "And that's enough."
He reaches out, a thumb grazing my jawline, tracing the path where my father's hand usually leaves a bruise. I should flinch, but the shadow in my blood is purring at his touch again.
Slut!
"I have a proposal, Iskera. If you go back alone, you die at dawn," he whispers, his eyes darkening to the color of a storm. "They'll open your throat to appease a goddess who isn't even listening. But if you go back as my property… if you wear my ring and carry my name?"
He leans even closer, his lips inches from mine, his scent of sandalwood and winter air filling my senses and drowning out my reason.
"Not even your father would draw his knife against what belongs to me."