Aeromancist - The Beginning (Seven Forbidden Arts 2)

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Do you need to ask? That day at the lake, you told me you liked it.”

“What are you?” She struggled away from him and stood on shaky legs.

He watched her emotionlessly. “I’d never risk your life. I promised you. It was only for a few seconds.”

She trembled from head to toe, and it was from more than the after-effect of her orgasm. “What if you miscalculate? What if you forget yourself in your own pleasure?”

“Katherine,” his voice was stern, sounding strangely reasonable, “I promised you I’d take all the control so that you could lose yours, and that’s what I did.”

She turned away.

“Where are you going?” he asked darkly.

“I need time,” she said, a quiver in her voice, “to process this.”

“What you need is to ask yourself if you enjoyed it. Was that the best orgasm of your life? Did you explode inside, feel only pleasure, and nothing else?”

She faced him again slowly. “I don’t like the idea of being strangled.”

“It was far from strangling.” When she instinctively touched her neck again, he said, “I didn’t leave marks. I used a silk scarf.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He reached for her. “Katherine, I—”

She took a step back. “I want to be alone.”

She needed to understand, to come to grips with herself, to get over the shock of how much she had enjoyed what he had done to her. It couldn’t be normal.

“Krasavitsa, I would never harm you.”

“Have you…” She needed to ask a question that had nothing to do with the situation or with how they were having sex. It was one she’d skirted for way too long. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

His eyes turned cold and his voice hard. “Not while fucking them.”

The intake of her breath was loud. She’d suspected. No, deep down, she’d known. Why, then, did it come as such a shock? She needed to get away. To think. Her gaze fell on his clothes that were draped over a chair. Grabbing his shirt, she pulled it on with jerky movements.

“Run, krasavitsa,” he said, “go hide in your room, cry in the dark, and convince yourself that I’m a monster.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” she said, fisting her hands at her sides. “I need time.”

“No,” he said evenly, “you need me to be a monster.”

“Why would I need that?” she exclaimed.

“To make it easier.”

“To make what easier?”

“Facing the fact that we’re coming to an end.”

Her insides heated with anger. She shook so hard she thought she might combust. “Go to hell.”

“If that’s what you need to get over it, I’ll gladly carry your misguided guilt for you.”

A sob escaped her throat. She ran for the door. He wouldn’t see her tears. She climbed down the steps and ran from the library and down the hallway, all the way to her room.

For the first time since she’d started sleeping in Lann’s room, she got into her own bed. The sheets were cold, and they felt like what they were—not her own.Chapter 9Kat huddled in her bed. She wanted to curl into a ball and cry because she was here instead of in Lann’s bed. She wanted to cry because he confirmed her worst suspicions. People had died at his hand. She wanted to cry because his words had cut deep. But most of all, she wanted to cry because he was right—she couldn’t face the end.

Despite it all, the hard, cold truth was that Lann was perfect for her. After everything he told her, she still trusted him. Instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t harm her. She trusted him with breath play during sex. She trusted him with her life. With a jolt of her heart, she realized that she more than trusted him. She was in love with him. She’d fallen hard and fast. It was a new record for her. Her heart had betrayed her more effectively than ever.

When the door between their rooms opened, she gave a start. Lann was dressed in a silk gown, carrying a tumbler with golden liquor. He studied her over the rim of his glasses as he approached.

He handed her the glass, sat down next to her with his back leaning against the headboard, and pulled her into his lap.

“Drink that,” he said. “It’ll take off the edge.”

She sniffed the drink. “Whiskey?”

“Scotch.”

She regarded him from under her lashes. “Are you still angry?”

“I’m not angry.” He sighed. “Did you think I wouldn’t want to soothe you?” He stroked her hair, playing with her curls.

“I owe you an apology. It was just … overwhelming.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry. I thought you were ready.”

She wanted to be everything he needed, but she couldn’t deny he’d frightened her. Anyway, it wasn’t as if they were building a relationship.

“You don’t think I’d hurt you?” His voice was pained. “Is that why you asked me if I’ve ever killed someone?”