Hank was waiting for me at the plaza in Underground. I’d called him from my car, but I didn’t need to see him to know he was there; I felt him, my mark going annoyingly warm and happy.
He was rising from his seat on the fountain before I cleared the steps—the siren felt it, too.
As Hank straightened to his full height, he drew the gaze of at least a dozen eyes. Men, women, kids, all drawn to him by something they couldn’t control, all willing to jump off a cliff for him and thank him going down. All he had to do was ask.
One of Titus’s many inventions, the torque-like device worn by Hank and every other siren by law subdued the majority of their potent voice, but not all of it. And it didn’t do a damn thing for the natural lure that seemed to emanate from every pore.
Also annoying.
Hank shoved his hands into his leather jacket and strode forward as I came down the last step, the zing from being so exposed to the darkness above lessening, now replaced by a different kind of zing. I bit down hard, clenching my teeth and stealing myself against the sudden one-two punch—first butterflies, followed by a sharp stab of heat, which I refused to define as lust.
He wore khaki cargo pants, black combat boots, and a white T-shirt beneath a blue button-down shirt that set off his tanned skin. His wavy blond hair curled past his ears, brushing his collar. He hadn’t bothered to shave, which I liked. A lot. It gave him a rugged appearance. Unkempt. Wild. Slightly bohemian.
I rolled my eyes.
Yes, I liked Hank. I knew it. He knew it. But it would’ve been nice to feel unaffected in the midst of work. Once I saw him as someone other than my partner, I’d fallen down the rabbit hole, on a fast track to wanting it all. It was confusing and quick and so unlike me …
His blue eyes glittered as he approached. One corner of his mouth was drawn into a knowing smile. I frowned harder, clamping down on my emotions and aura.
Hank stopped in front of me. “How are the Motts holding up?” The words were deep and rich, and lowered to an unnecessarily intimate tone. No, a concerned tone, so maybe you should stop imagining things and get on with it.
I stepped around him, focusing on crossing the plaza as he fell in step beside me. “As well as can be expected,” I answered, looking straight ahead. “Amanda should pull through as long as she stays under watch and in the restraints.”
“Em doing okay?”
Some of my ire deflated. “She’s worried … I wish—”
“Wish what, Charlie?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “It doesn’t make you weak to say how you feel.”
I shot him a flat look. “I do know that.”
Usually, I wasn’t one for lamenting things beyond my control. But I’d taken all I could take. The Sons of Dawn had been behind everything, from creating me to be the only being in all three worlds capable of bringing darkness to the city, to letting ash loose upon the population, to making puppets out of its victims …
I went a few more steps before I finally answered. “It’s just that … all this crap they’ve put into play from the very beginning … I just wish it was over. Wish they had picked someone else.”
Everything that had happened since I died and was brought back ten months ago had been, in one way or another, the cult’s doing. Their plan. Their interference in my fucking life. And I was sick of it.
“You don’t mean that,” Hank said quietly. You’d be dead if they had picked someone else to revive, was his un-spoken thought; I could hear it in his voice. I knew it, but I needed to rant, to get it out.
“It’s not like there aren’t other people out there with off-world blood in their family tree. Any one of them could’ve survived the gene manipulation and been able to complete the darkness ritual just as well as me …”
I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and let out a loud sigh. “But … no,” I admitted, belligerently. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and I know I wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t interfered.”
If I’d been conscious before my heart stopped, if Titus and Mynogan had stood above me and offered me life or death, knowing exactly what I’d be getting into, I would’ve agreed. I’d do anything to keep my kid from suffering that kind of loss.
“That was their first mistake—choosing you,” Hank said softly, his shoulder knocking mine for a moment as we walked around a jewelry cart. “No one else would’ve been able to do what you did, Charlie. Defeat Mynogan. Stop the ritual before it spilled darkness over more than just Atlanta. I bet the cult is kicking itself for involving you.” His voice went firm. “The bastards created the very thing that will destroy them.”
I did a mental blink, nearly bumping into a shopper who’d stopped to window-shop. The absolute surety of Hank’s tone and the fact that he thought this way about me … It was nice hearing it out loud. It took me several seconds to respond. And then when I opened my mouth I didn’t have any words.
We fell into an easy silence, both lost in our own thoughts and emotions as the light grew dim and the air thickened. If Underground was the heart of the off-world population in Atlanta, then Solomon Street was Charbydon central. Home to a few nobles, some ghouls, and a large population of jinn, darkling fae, and goblins.
The street grew darker as we went. Years ago, the Charbydons had petitioned the city for the right to burn open fires on Solomon Street. They used the fires for light, for cooking, for warmth, for getting rid of things … It was part of their lifestyle, something that they didn’t want to give up. So in went ventilation shafts and city-approved fire barrels, and up went the soot and grime to cover the glass of every street lamp, giving the Charbydons a world that mimicked their own—sweltering, smoky, dark.
The jinn had gone one step further, and dug a subterranean village out of the bedrock beneath Underground, a maze of corridors, chambers, and dwellings that reflected the way they lived in Charbydon. Here, tribal customs and laws ruled.
The main entrance to the jinn’s underground territory, which I’d dubbed The First Level of Hell, was located at the dead end of Solomon Street, Grigori Tennin’s base of operations, the Lion’s Den—a gambling house, bar, and strip club.
Sweat formed on the small of my back as I walked down the street. The smoke from the fires made it hard to breathe; the city needed to overhaul the ventilation system big-time. The scent of tar hung heavy here—a telltale sign of a large jinn population. Like on the other streets and alleys in Underground, doors were thrown open, sales carts rolled slowly over the brick pavers, music and voices blended into a chaotic hum.
It was too early in the morning for the Den to be open for business, but that didn’t stop Hank from opening the heavy iron-and-wood door. No need to lock up—everyone knew who owned the place, and you’d have to be an idiot or looking to get yourself tortured and killed if you took from the boss himself.
Inside, the space was quiet and empty. Our footsteps thudded loudly on the planked floor as we made our way past tables, the bar, and to the door that led below.
“After you,” Hank said.
I stepped through the open door and then went carefully down a flight of wooden stairs. A female jinn, part of Tennin’s personal guard, turned and glanced over her shoulder. She wore traditional jinn war regalia and was just as deadly and strong as her male counterparts. When they said warrior race, they weren’t kidding.
“We’re here to see Tennin,” I said.
Her violet eyes assessed us, unimpressed. And why should she be—she was six feet tall, armed, and had biceps that rivaled Hank’s. “This way.”
Deep, angry echoes filled the corridor, followed by the high-pitched crash of glass or pottery. Not unusual, as the jinn relished fighting and were quick to anger. The sounds grew loudarefully we approached the main chamber, where Tennin usually had meals and held court. The Charbydon language was being shouted so loudly that it vibrated off the bedrock walls—echoing and bouncing and filling the subterranean village.
As we entered the chamber, I immediately noticed Sian standing near Tennin’s great wooden table. Her eyes flashed to mine in alarm, and she warned me with a slight shake of her head as Grigori Tennin threw another jar at the massive fireplace across the chamber, his booming Charbydon words jolting through me.
I understood none of it. But I did understand the tension and fright filling the massive space, emanating from the other jinn gathered in the room. I flinched as another vase crashed into the bedrock wall and rained pieces down over the floor.
The guard turned and went to usher us back out of the chamber, her face a shade paler than before. But before she could do so:
“YOU! CHARLIE MADIGAAAAAAN!”
Shit.
It got so quiet I could hear Tennin’s ragged breathing from where I stood.
Slowly, I turned, swallowed, and leveled my voice. “Tennin.”
His thick chest and shoulders rose and fell as he panted like a raging bull. His gigantic fists clenched and unclenched, his face a dark gray mask of seething jinn rage. His eyes glowed red violet and scary as hell. Veins swelled and ran over his temples and over his smooth bald skull. His earrings flashed in the firelight.
In front of the fireplace, scattered over the floor, were remnants of alabaster jars. Tennin strode to the table and grabbed the last intact jar in his big hand.
And then it hit me. My eyes grew round. I knew what that was. A spirit jar.
Tennin grinned, feral and evil, his white teeth flashing. He tossed the jar and caught it again. Christ, Aaron was right. I glanced at the debris on the floor. How many had there been? Had they been empty when he threw them? Or full?
Better question, though: why was Tennin destroying the jars?
“Another ash victim tried to kill herself this morning,” I said slowly, observing his reaction. “But then, you already know that, don’t you?”
Hank chuckled, completely devoid of humor and full of hostility. Sian’s indigo eyes went wide and more frightened than before. I glanced over as realization settled warily in my gut. Tennin had planted an axe in Hank’s back during the battle on Helios Tower. And Hank, obviously, hadn’t forgotten.
“What’s wrong, Tennin?” he asked in a menacing tone. “Your moles not listening to you anymore? Or maybe,” he ventured, “you’re not the one in control after all? Is that it?”
Tennin’s eyes brightened even more. I’d only ever seen them this bright once before, when he’d killed one of his own tribe members here in this very room with a thought. Something, I hoped, he could do only to other jinn.
He pointed the jar at Hank. “The last time, I was aiming for your skull.” He stuck out his other arm and the battle-axe hanging on the wall flew into his outstretd hand. “Let me try again.” As soon as it met flesh, Tennin threw it. It sailed end over end, whooshing like a countdown clock. One. Two. Three.
Hank ducked as I leapt to the side. The axe slammed into the wall behind us, cleaving the rock and sending pulverized bits flying in all directions.
I swallowed, heart pounding as I straightened and rested my hand on the hilt of my firearm. This was not good.
Hank rose to his full height, casually wiping the bits of rock from his jacket. He gave Tennin a challenging look. “Missed again.”
“Who’s giving the suicide order?” I interrupted before they went at it.
A slow grin split Tennin’s face. “You’re like a blind nithyn in a nest full of moon snakes.” He waved his hand around. “Going around and around. Lost. Stumbling.” He shook his head, turned, and then flung the last spirit jar at the fireplace. It hit the mantel and smashed into a spray of tiny fragments.
After the last piece hit the ground, Tennin moved to his table and sat down, propping his booted feet on the corner of the table. “Tell me, Charlie—how is your Revenant companion? He remembers his jinn past now, yes?”
“You know he does. But if you think he plans to join with you, you’re wrong. Rex is one of the good guys.”
“And I am not? Come, Detective. Be nice. Your Rex will turn in time. He is a jinn after all. He knows what he is. Matter of time. That is all. You will see.”
Rex had come to Tennin to find a way to repay the twenty-one-thousand-dollar collection debt I’d been hit with, thanks to Rex’s oversight. Tennin had waived the fee in return for Rex agreeing to drink a potion that made him remember his past life, his original, physical life as—surprise, surprise—a jinn. It had worked. Rex remembered. And Tennin got what he wanted, though what his ultimate goal was regarding Rex remained a mystery.
“Run along, blind nithyn, run along,” Tennin said, shooing us away and chuckling to himself as a pair of jinn brought out his meal.
I had to actually tug on Hank’s arm to get his feet moving. I’d gotten the information I’d come for, and I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Powers That Be that we’d arrived when we did.
Once we were in the club upstairs and headed for the door, I said, “He’s not the one giving the suicide order. And he’s pissed about it.” So pissed that he was destroying the spirit jars. “Could you tell how many jars there were?”
“No. But there had to be at least four, judging from the debris.”
If there had once been Sons of Dawn spirits contained in those jars, Casey and Mike could’ve accounted for two of them. Amanda, and possibly Bryn, for another two.
As we left the Lion’s Den, a flash of movement to my right caught my attention. I followed it, peering into the darkness as my eyes adjusted to see a dark figure—female and small in stature. The shadow darted into the alley that ran between the Den and the apartment block. Soft, feminine laughter echoed in her wake, a daring kind of laughter, the kind that said Areyou brave enough to follow me?
“You heard that, right?”
“The laughter? Yeah.” Hank was looking in the same direction.
“I bet that’s a sylph. Come on.” I took off at a run toward the dark alley. And she was not only going to give me her gift, she was damn sure going to tell me how to use it.
The alley was pitch-black, reeking of urine and tar mixed with smoke. Obstructions rose up in front of me so fast I only had a second to adjust and then jump or dodge as I hurried after her. A dim light illuminated the end of the alley and the narrow delivery street that ran behind the backs of the buildings.
Laughter again. Echoing. Taunting. Calling my name. Oh, yeah. Definitely a sylph.
A shadow passed through the light. Metal banged. I raced around the corner and slid to a stop, scanning the area. There. A small metal service door hung open. I scrambled over a discarded couch to get to the door.
This was one of the entrances that led to the old sewer tunnels and supposedly intersected with the MARTA rails. The sewage system was long gone, leaving behind some impressive Gothic architecture and brick-domed tunnels.
My boots on the metal steps rang softly through the dark space below me.
“You sure about this?” Hank whispered above me, following me down.
“Yeah. Once you’ve seen a sylph …” I dropped to the ground and stepped away from the ladder. “Shadows or not, there’s no mistaking it. I know it’s her and I need that gift.”
I pulled my ITF-issued flashlight from my belt and aimed it down both sides of the long tunnel. Hank dropped down beside me and clicked on his light. We followed the soft echo of laughter.
The scents of earth, bricks, and musty water hung heavy in the air as we went through the tunnel. The ground vibrated. A loud rumble filled the space as a MARTA train passed somewhere close by.
As the rumble slowly disappeared, a shadow appeared far down in the center of the tunnel.
The hairs on my forearms stiffened. My fingers flexed on the barrel of the flashlight. Anticipation heightened my blood pressure and added to the adrenaline already pumping through my system.
Hank turned to me suddenly and grabbed my arm. A deep frown marred his shadowed features. “Christ, Charlie, what the hell am I supposed to do, watch it kill you?” He glanced down the tunnel. “Don’t ask me to do that. Don’t ask me to step aside and just stand here.”
I hadn’t thought about that. I knew what was coming for me, but the idea that Hank would have to stand by and watch … He just wasn’t made like that and it showed in his aura and the chaotic anger emanating from him. He was tense, jaw tight, holding the flashlight so tightly, his knuckles were white.
He released me, his frown deepening in exasperation. “Why are you smiling?”
Before I could think better of it I grabbed his face. His stubble scratched my palms as I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouthhen stepped back.
He stared at me, dumbfounded.
“Thank you,” I said, removing my jacket and weapons and then handing them to him. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I jogged down the tunnel toward the sylph.
She was petite, pretty, stockier than the other two. A tough little thing by the expression she wore. Her brown hair was braided in several small cornrows and pulled back into a high ponytail. It made her large eyes look more slanted and her cheekbones more prominent. A brown tattoo fanned out from the corner of her eye in a swirling design, like some intricate leaf, and her irises burned a mean green flecked with brown.
She wore a gold torque and two gold armbands, and a bare minimum of clothing like her sisters, though hers looked like some kind of suede material.
“Earth, I presume,” I said, coming to a stop before her.
“Emain,” she introduced herself. “And you’re Charlie.”
“I am.”
No sooner than the words were out of my mouth, the ground trembled at my feet and opened up. Hank’s shout behind me filled the tunnel and mingled with my gasp.
One minute I was standing and the next I was waist-deep in the earth, completely trapped. The faint beginnings of panic flirted with my mind. Dirt hugged me from my chest down. But my arms were free, thank God.
My flashlight was kicked out of my hand. It hit the wall and landed on the ground. It remained on, however, and while it wasn’t pointed directly at me and the sylph, it was enough to illuminate the space and allow me to see the legs in front of me.
The bare knees bent and Emain’s face appeared in front of me, one side illuminated and the other shadowed. The skin closest to the ground shifted color, blending into the shades of the dirt like a chameleon’s. “Neat trick,” I said, trying to control my breathing.
Her face moved closer, eyes narrowing. “Tell your siren to back off or he’s going under.”
Hank’s shadow fell over us. I angled the best I could to see him standing there, chest heaving from the run, one hand holding the flashlight, the other holding his Hefty. His gaze was pinpointed on the sylph.
“Hank.”
He wouldn’t look at me, determined to keep the sylph at bay. Finally he flicked a glance my way and his eyes were hard as granite.
“No, Charlie, I—”
“Damn it, Hank.” From the first moment I accepted Nivian’s gift, I was on a path I had to complete. He knew it. I had to do this. And worse, he had to let me. “Just be here when it’s over.”
He swore. Turned, took two long strides to the wall, and punched a hole in the brick with an Elysian curse. I might’ve heard the crack of bone, but I tried not to think about it as Emain flicked the ends of my hair and smirked. “Do you accept my gift, Darkness Bringer?”
“Yes. get on with it.” Before Hank goes ape-shit.
A slow, menacing grin grew on her face. The earth shuddered around me. I swallowed, commanding my heart to slow. Don’t panic. This is her price, whatever it is. She won’t kill you. This is for Bryn. For Bryn. For Bryn …
And then I was sinking, the ground eating up my sides, forcing my arms up above my head. My eyes went wide, fixing on the sylph in horror as she slowly sank into the earth in front of me, feetfirst as though in quicksand. A sigh of pleasure went out of her.
The dirt was to my chin now.
Hank slid down, digging the dirt around my chin before it claimed my mouth. It was too late for him to stop things, but despite that, he dug frantically. His tormented eyes met mine. Despair thickened his voice. “Damn it, Charlie …”
Cold ground touched my bottom lip. “It’s okay,” I hurried. Oh God. I started gasping, knowing I’d need air and trying like hell not to panic. Emain stopped her descent into the ground and winked at me at eye level. “See you below, Charlie Madigan.”
Adrenaline shoved my heart into overdrive. I took one large draught of air and held my breath as my mouth and nose slid into the ground. Dirt filled in my ears, but not before I heard Hank curse with a catch in his voice and then threaten the sylph with every possible torture imaginable if I didn’t come back up.
I said a quick prayer and closed my eyes.
The last thing I felt was Hank’s hand. He grabbed mine and squeezed with encouragement before the earth swallowed me whole.
And then there was silence.
I was cocooned in pressure and weight. The sound of my own heartbeat drummed loudly and rapidly in my ears.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Going down. Down deep into the ground. My lungs burned. I couldn’t move, couldn’t struggle. Claustrophobia took hold. It was worse than drowning because at least in the water I could move, I could struggle.
The pain, the pressure in my chest, burned a hot path through my blood vessels, stinging them, vibrating them. My mind went cloudy. For Bryn. My fingers curled, packing dirt beneath the short nails. It was the only movement I could make. My arms were trapped straight above me. The dirt pressed in on my body, my neck, face, eyelids, and mouth. God, my mouth …
I bit my tongue.
White erupted behind my eyelids.
I gasped.
For a split second I felt relief but that was immediately taken away by the dirt sucked into my mouth. No air. Just dirt. And then I was gagging, gagging without air to facilitate the action. Desperate, painful, familiar gulping for something that wasn’t there.
Finally my mouth stopped moving as it filled with dirt. My chest kept lurching. In and out. Slower and slower. Still mimicking the need to breathe.
The hum is what first stirred my detached senses. It was a welcome sound, a sound that carried life. Energy. Connection. I felt wrapped in the Earth’omb. And she was alive. Pulsing. Powerful. And I was part of her, part of the cycle now. All of me, splitting apart, degrading, nurturing and feeding the soil.
Time disappeared. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Reclaimed. Dispersed. Just particles. Matter.
Eventually there came, at some point, a sense of body.
Floating, contained, wrapped in dirt, eyelids once again feeling the pressure, the weight. And it felt nice. This quiet. This cocoon.
So quiet, the city began to leak into this place. A thousand voices. A thousand random thoughts not my own. They came at me, at first just a slow trickle that became stronger and stronger until the pressure built inside of me, bloating me.
“Fighting, always fighting,” came a soft voice.
Emain.
My mind withdrew from the edge of panic. She was all around me, forcing the hum into my skin, pressing the earth closer around me, filling me, opening me up, and breaking me apart at the same time.
“I see you, Charlie Madigan. I see you now. You are as they say. Never doubt the Ceallachan. They spoke of a day when darkness would come. And here you are.” This pressure, this suffocating invasion, was too much, even for my unconscious self. “So much chaos inside of you. Fractured. She, Mother Earth, can repair this. Fix this. You’ll need to be whole for what’s to come.”
No, no. No more, my mind cried.
“Fighting, always fighting …” The space went silent again and peace settled around me.
Then Emain’s voice again. “The gift is yours. Your last gift will come soon. Once each element is inside of you, they will join to make a new element. Nwyvre. You will be transformed, able to see the energy, the magic inside of everything because you will become magic. It will happen at once. And then, after a time, Nwyvre will fade and you will be as you once were …”
Her voice faded, and I relaxed back in the embrace of Mother Earth, letting my mind go.
The easing of pressure woke me.
The dirt was thinning fast around me as though drawing back. My mouth and eyes opened at the same time. Dirt scratched at my irises, and even though I closed my eyes immediately, dirt clung to my lashes and the rims of my eyelids, scratching, damaging.
My lungs contracted, wanting desperately to breathe, burning hot and painful. The burn of failure. Of denial. My throat thickened. Every time I clawed or moved, I lost the little bit of ground I had gained. Goddammit! I struggled, panicking.
My nails broke as I fought.
My hand suddenly hit flesh. Strong fingers wrapped around my wrist and pulled. The bones in my wrist cracked under the pressure, my shoulder nearly ripped from the socket. The dirt seemed to work against me, sucking me back in.
Then out. My head was free. I opened my mouth and sucked in air. Bits of dirt flew into the back of my throat, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. I hacked and coughed and choked, every draught of air into my body a welcome, dirty pain.
wileight="0em" width="1em">Strong, bruising hands re-gripped my weak, useless body lower and lower, climbing down my arms, pulling, until my shoulders came out. Arms went beneath mine, wrapping around me, dragging me out of my would-be grave.
My hips slipped free and I collapsed on top of Hank.
He held on to me as I heaved, lungs burning fire, and turning me when I started gagging and finally puking dirt onto the ground beside us.
When the worst of it was over, he sat up, skimming me for injuries. His dirt-caked hands finally settled on my face and I felt the faint tremble in them. He pushed back my hair and removed chunks of wet dirt from the corners of my eyes and ears.
I slumped against him, grabbing on to his bicep, the side of my face planted in the crook of his shoulder. Tears continually leaked, my body trying to shed the dirt from my eyes. Hank’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He wasn’t letting go of me, and I wasn’t arguing.
“Asking me not to fight,” he muttered in a shaky voice. “Never again. You understand? Never again.”
Hot pain radiated through my wrist, and pretty much everywhere else on my body, but I heard his words and held them, stored them for a later time.
My muscles grew stiff as we sat there in the dim tunnel, both of our flashlights remaining on, lying on the ground nearby and giving me enough light to see. Another MARTA train rumbled by, shaking the earth.
After it passed and the tunnel grew quiet again, Hank leaned back to look down at me, gently laying a hand on my arm. “Your wrist is broken. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. If you hadn’t pulled me up …”
He reached up with both hands and unclipped the voice-mod from his neck. I went still and slid back, off his lap and onto the ground beside him, our legs touching. “What are you doing?”
Determination settled over his features as his eyes held mine, shifting into a dark sapphire blue. “I broke it. I fix it. Don’t argue.” He spoke true and deep, and without the voice-mod adjusting his voice, it flowed over me and through me in a warm wave of contentment and pleasure.
“But I—”
“You’re not human anymore, Charlie,” he said softly, “you can handle my voice without …”
Without jumping his bones, declaring my undying love and devotion, offering him everything I had …
Not exactly the kind of one-sided relationship I was after. But then, he was right, I wasn’t exactly human anymore.
His hand trailed down my arm. I went still; the only reaction was the light burst of awareness in my stomach. His fingers closed around my wrist. Pain shot up my arm, stealing my breath. His other hand cupped the back of my neck as he leaned forward, pulling me in, his scruffy cheek brushing against mine. My heart started to beat wildly. Pain? What pain?
I waited, knowing he was going to speak. He was so close, the act so intimate. His fingers clamped harder on my neck as his lips parted against my ear, so close I heard the faint intake of breath.
And then he spoke.
Slow, rhythmic, deep words flowed from his lips. Words I didn’t understand, but the exotic language and the accent that came with it seemed to give them power, persuading, demanding, an alluring kind of power. My wounds would obey him. Happy to re-knit and mend for him. Every muscle relaxed, every nerve ignited with vitality, pleasure, contentment, bliss …
My mouth dropped open and the stunned curse that formed languidly in mind never made it out. My broken nails dug into his arm, an initial burst of pain replaced by goodness as the cuts healed.
And the words kept coming, going deeper into my senses, and somehow more personal—far more intimate than those first healing words.
My mark burned—a good kind of burn that matched the heat building in the rest of me. My mouth still hung open and my breath was coming out swift and ragged. I wanted to reach up, to slide my hand around the back of his neck and pull him closer, but my body and mind were too overwhelmed to move.
His words ended in a low whisper. His lips smiled, brushed past my ear, and pressed into my temple.
I blinked a few times and finally was able to close my mouth and swallow the lump in my throat. My heart pounded like a damn drum and my entire body hummed with something pretty similar to an endorphin rush.
As he pulled back and released his hand at my neck, I felt the faint, feathery touch of his breath, and wondered if I was imagining it or was his breath as shaky as my own?