Chapter Three
The air in the Shadow Wing had transitioned from humid to hallucinogenic. The Luna Floris was now fully unfurled, its jagged petals vibrating with a violet intensity that made the veins in Elara's own wrists seem to glow. The scent—a heady, thick musk of nectar and ozone—was so potent it felt like a physical weight against her tongue.
Caspian didn't reach for the golden key resting in the iron niche. Instead, he kept his hands anchored on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of her shorts. He was staring at her as if she were the miracle, not the century-old mechanism that had just hissed open at their feet.
"The key is only half of the lock, Elara," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel and silk. "The Orisons say the nectar must be tasted before the gate can be passed. A communion of sorts."
He reached out, his hand steady despite the visible tension in his jaw, and dipped his index finger into the heart of the glowing flower. When he pulled it back, a thick, iridescent drop of gold clung to his skin, shimmering with a light of its own.
Elara watched, mesmerized, as he brought his hand back to her. He didn't tell her what to do; he didn't have to. The pull between them was no longer just a physical attraction—it was a biological imperative. She parted her lips, her breath hitching as he slid his nectar-coated finger slowly into her mouth.
The taste was explosive. It was honey, ginger, and something sharp and metallic that made her nerves feel like they were being rewired. Her eyes fluttered shut, her tongue swirling around his finger, sucking the sweetness from his skin with a desperation that made him groan low in his throat. The heat in her core, already a simmering coal, flared into a wildfire.
Caspian's composure finally cracked. He withdrew his finger and grabbed the back of her head, pulling her into a kiss that was no longer an invitation—it was a conquest. He tasted of the nectar and the night, his tongue demanding entry, his teeth grazing her lip until she cried out into his mouth.
He hoisted her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, the damp denim of his trousers a rough contrast to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He backed her into the potting table, sweeping a tray of terracotta pots to the floor with a crash that echoed through the glass dome like a gunshot. Neither of them flinched.
"You have no idea," he whispered against her throat, his breath coming in jagged hitches, "how many nights I've spent imagining this. Watching you through the glass. Seeing the way you touch these plants and wishing, God help me, that those were my hands."
"You were watching me?" Elara gasped, her head falling back as his mouth migrated to the swell of her breast, biting through the thin silk of her camisole.
"I couldn't look away," he growled.
He reached for the hem of her top, his hands shaking as he pulled the silk over her head and tossed it into the shadows. In the violet light, her skin looked like polished marble, her nipples dark and taut from the cooling mist and the rising heat. Caspian froze for a heartbeat, his gaze traveling over her with a reverence that felt almost like a prayer.
Then, he lowered his head. When his mouth closed around her, Elara's entire world narrowed down to the sensation of his tongue and the rough friction of his stubble against her skin. She arched her back, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails drawing thin red lines through the linen of his shirt.
"Caspian, please," she whimpered, her hips bucking against him, seeking the hard, heavy pressure she could feel through his clothes.
"Not yet," he muttered, his voice thick with a dark, agonizing restraint. "I want to see the map on you first."
He reached for the black silk book, flipping to a page that looked blank to the naked eye. He held it up to the light of the Luna Floris, and as the violet rays hit her bare skin, the "map" finally appeared. Faint, glowing lines—identical to the veins of the flower—began to trace themselves across Elara's skin, starting from her heart and spiraling down toward her hips.
Caspian's eyes went dark, a terrifying, beautiful hunger taking hold. He began to follow the glowing lines with his mouth, his kisses hot and demanding as he traced the path of the orison across her stomach. He knelt between her legs, his hands sliding down to her thighs, parting them further until she was completely open to him, bathed in the amethyst light of the garden.
The world outside—the city, the rules, the safety of the daylight—was dead. There was only the pulse of the flower, the weight of the book, and the man who was currently worshipping the secrets written on her skin.
As his tongue found the center of the map, Elara's scream was swallowed by the heavy, humid air of the conservatory, a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin.