“Forgive me, Cleo. Please . . . please forgive me for all that I’ve said. All that I’ve done.”
“You . . . you really want my forgiveness?”
“I know I don’t even deserve to ask for it. But, yes.” It was true agony to realize how wrong he’d been about her. About everything.
Cleo lowered herself to the floor, peering up at his face with a concerned frown. “You’re not acting like yourself at all. Are you in pain?”
“Yes. Horrible pain.”
She reached out with a shaky hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead. He raised his eyes to meet hers. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t put all that he was feeling into words. So instead of speaking, he just held on to her gaze, no mask in place, no protection, his heart open and raw and messy.
“I love you, Cleo,” he said, the words finally coming to him, with no effort at all because of how true they were. “I love you so much it hurts.”
Her eyes widened. “What did you just say?”
Magnus almost laughed. “I think you heard me right.”
Cleo drew closer to him, continuing to stroke his hair, which was damp from the melting snow. He froze under her touch, unable to move or to breathe. No thoughts, no words, only the feel of her fingertips on his skin. She stroked his face, his jaw, her touch growing bolder as she traced the line of his scar.
And she drew closer still, close enough that he could feel her warm breath against his lips.
“I love you too,” she whispered. “Now kiss me, Magnus. Please.”
With a dark groan, Magnus crushed his mouth to hers, breathing her in, tasting the sweetness of her lips as her tongue slid against his. She kissed him back without restraint, deeper and sweeter and hotter even than the kiss they’d shared in Ravencrest.
This—this overpowering need—is what had been building between them ever since that night. He’d thought he could forget it, put it out of his mind, ignore his heart. But the memory of that kiss had been nightly haunting his dreams and daily sending him to distraction.
He needed her, longed for her, ached for her. Not for a single solitary moment had his desire for her ceased.
Cleo broke off the kiss. He immediately started to worry. Was she coming to her senses and now pushing him away? But instead, she just looked at him, her eyes wide and dark in the shadows of the cottage.
He gently took her face between his hands and kissed her again, and a small moan escaped from the back of her throat, a sound that nearly drove him insane.
Cleo slipped his cloak off his shoulders and then pulled at the ties of his shirt to bare his chest. She brushed her lips against his skin, and he grasped her shoulders.
“Cleo . . . please . . .”
“Shh.” She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t ruin this by talking. We might start arguing again.”
When she smiled then, he knew he was already ruined.
Her lips met his again, and Magnus surrendered any small grasp of control he had left.
He didn’t deserve her; he knew he didn’t. He was the Prince of Blood, the son of a monster, who said and did cruel things. Who preemptively leapt to hurt anyone before they could hurt him first.
But he would show her that he could change.
Magnus could change for her.
She was his princess. No. She was his goddess. With her golden skin and golden hair. She was his light. His life. His everything.
He loved her more than anything else in this world.
Magnus worshipped his beautiful goddess that night, both her body and her soul, before the heat of the blazing hearth, upon the rug bearing the symbol of the kingdom his father had stolen from her.
CHAPTER 32
LUCIA