“Suddenly these caves don’t seem so bad.”
He chuckles. “They are quite comfortable, from what I remember. Spacious.”
“As comfortable as a queen’s quarters in the castle?” I wonder if Saoirse has already moved in.
“More comfortable than this wagon.” His tongue traces a line over my collarbone.
“It’s growing on me.” Especially now, with Zander here. I close my eyes as his teeth playfully scrape against my skin. There was once a time, so long ago now, that he did the same for a very different reason. I whisper, “Show them to me?” I don’t have to elaborate.
He freezes.
“Please?”
“Why would you want to see the part of me I abhor so much?”
“Because it is a part of you, and I want to know every part of you, inside and out, good and … otherwise.” I hesitate. “We have a long life together ahead of us, don’t we?” Or have I misread that?
I swallow my doubt and wait for him to deny me again, to find some excuse about why it’s not safe. When he pulls back and the two white, needlelike fangs are already elongated, awaiting my inspection, I’m taken aback for a few seconds.
They’re nothing like the daaknar’s frothing yellow fangs. These are delicate—not two inches long, widening closer to his gums, but only marginally, and gleaming white—even though the ends will draw blood with a simple touch.
“Does it hurt when they come out?” I remember him wincing the night I saw him feeding on that tributary in his bedchamber.
He shakes his head, studying me closely. Maybe he expects fear or disgust, but all I feel is curiosity.
I reach up and slide my finger along the inside of one, avoiding the razor-sharp tip.
A sigh slips from him, and when I meet his eyes again, they’ve gone molten.
“That feels good?”
“Yes,” he admits softly.
I touch the other one, earning another sound, this one deep within his throat.
“How good?” On impulse, I reach down and smooth my hand over the front of his pants. He’s impossibly hard. Did touching his fangs cause that? Are they for more than feeding?
No wonder the act so often ends with sex.
Does Zander feel an impulse every time he slides these teeth into a woman’s neck? Will he, from now on? If I spend any time thinking about it, I might get angry and jealous, but I remind myself that I can’t be angry about that; it’s not his fault. It’s how Malachi designed his kind.
All I can ask is that he doesn’t act on that need.
Unless it’s with me.
I lean in and ever so carefully drag the tip of my tongue along that same inside edge.
His fangs vanish with his snarl, and in the next instant, he’s on top of me. “Do not torment me like that.” He punctuates his words with a thrust that goes nowhere, our clothes an effective barrier. Rarely are we ever dressed when we’re in bed together. It adds a layer of heady anticipation now.
“Is that what you think I was doing? Tormenting you?” I work my hands between us and push against his stomach until he lifts himself high enough that I can reach the strings of his breeches. My fingers fumble as I hastily unfasten them, exposing the velvety soft skin beneath. It’s only been a day since we were alone like this, and yet it feels like an eternity. I curl my hand around his hard length, drawing a desperate moan from his lips as I stroke him.
“Please.”
“I like it when the king begs, I tease, reaching for his pants, intent on pushing them down for easier access.
A bloodcurdling scream stalls my hands and terror slows my heartbeat.
Oh my God.