Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

His arms cross over his chest, his body tightening even more, which I really didn’t think was possible until his shoulders lift higher and his knees lock. “That’s all?”

I stuff my hands in my pockets, but the crown of my cock still presses painfully against my fly. I pull my hands out of my pockets and cross my arms, trying to mimic his pose.

His gaze never leaves mine. It traps me and I’m profoundly grateful for his indifference now. My loose sweater isn’t long enough to fully hide my erection and I don’t want him to see me like that. Not that exposed. Not after whatever just happened in the bar.

“They might have decided that I should go visit the Summer Court,” I say, checking his expression for any hint of his thoughts. No changes. I’m starting to recognize when Roark uses his glamour on me. It’s a subtle shift, more about the way his body holds itself than the change of his face, but I see it now. “I didn’t agree with the idea.”

“A wise decision.”

“It is?” The question comes out far meeker than I intended, but it’s like talking to a statue. Perfectly carved lines without any movement, any change, any adaptation. Somewhere under the alcohol-induced haze in my head, I wonder if he’d agree that staying out here with him, having this discussion, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

“I believe it’s considered poor taste to kill the opposing royalty’s subjects during diplomatic negotiations.”

It should be a joke. Except he says it so quietly it sounds more like a statement of regret.

“You wouldn’t have killed them,” I argue. I need that to be true. I need it because if it’s not, I don’t think my world is ever going to put itself back together.

“Ah,” he says, accent caressing the syllable with dark humor. “That’s where you’re wrong, Finn.”

He called me Finn. Not Smith. Finn—

Chapter Twelve

Roark

I am my Mother’s son. I am the Prince of Air and Darkness. I control the minutiae of this scene, weaving my rage and fear from that near disaster in the bar into the calmest, most diplomatic conversation I can manage with Smith.

I shut it off. All of it. The emotion, the sarcasm, the expressions I cover desperately with my glamour so he can’t see the muscle in my jaw ticking. I withdraw into that darkness until I can look at the man across from me without wanting to kiss him or kill him or kill him as I kiss him. Until I don’t have to strangle the need to tell him everything. To admit everything, damn the consequences, and to finally learn whether this obsession can end.

He stands there in the darkness and for the first time since I met him, I don’t want to stare at his body and lust after him. I want to hold his gaze. I want to force him to look at me, to see me. Finn is flawed and desperate and blameless and so beautifully human. His soul and all his good intentions shine from him. He’s a lantern, and now I understand why all those monsters from the Wyld realms come for him.

They don’t want the ley line’s power, the heat his skin barely contains.

They want his light. They want him, even if they don’t know it.

I know because I crave his hope more than they do. My mother, the Summer Court, anyone who dares look at him as a prize to be won will have to destroy me to reach him.

“You wouldn’t have killed them,” he accuses, but his voice wavers, as if he knows he’s lying to himself.

Panic in his dark eyes. He knows we’re teetering on the edge.

Answer his question. Lie to him. Keep him safe.

“Ah,” I say, willing myself to dismiss his question. Lie, Roark. Say anything else. Just don’t give him that.

The words are there. My mind organizes them, plays with them, arranges them into the sharpest arrow possible. The weapon that will land a killing blow.

I open my mouth and my throat closes around the excuse and refuses to relinquish it. Instead, new words claw their way forward and shatter my defenses. “That’s where you’re wrong, Finn.”

Smith stares at me, his soul written in his eyes because I slipped and called him by the name I only use in my head because it’s the closest I can ever come to saying what I really want, to admitting where my heart lies.

Then he slams into me, his momentum carrying us to the wall, and life blazes back into me. Hands. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. The world explodes into sensation that reaches past my ribs and rips a groan out of my chest.

The fingers he tangled in my hair ease their grip, and the sting in my scalp relents. He moans back into my mouth when I wedge my thigh between his legs, rubbing the straining erection his jeans can barely contain. I use that shift in our bodies’ positions to spin him so his back is against the wall. He surrenders perfectly and lets me drag his arms over his head, pinning his wrists. We kiss until I’ve memorized his mouth and the slide of his tongue. The urgency never leaves, only slowed at times by our need to breathe, by the harsh exhalations Finn makes when I roll my hips slowly into his. His fingers flex and scramble for purchase and when he finds none, his body draws tight against me until he loses control and lets his head fall back against the wall. I worship the curve of his jaw and the hollow of his throat, but can only stand to let so many breathy sighs escape him before I have to return to his lips.

It finally becomes too much. His arms strain against the shackle of my hand as he tries to chase my mouth. I nip his lower lip as punishment and he settles back against the wall, panting and watching me with too-wide eyes. Eyes clouded with lust and confusion and worry and—

Goddess, will I ever catch a break?