I try to imagine a little Nox curled up in that room, and it’s then that it truly hits me. How young he was when he was taken.
How young I was when I was taken, too.
My heart gives a little lurch, and as we sneak through the dark corridors, his hand in mine so he can lead me in the dark, I can’t help but give his hand a little squeeze.
When we reach my little dungeon and he fidgets with the key before letting me inside, I glimpse a shimmer of pain in his eyes.
He slips his hand from mine and begins arranging the blankets upon the dais, taking care to fold them into a pillow at the head of the slab.
Something pricks in my chest.
“Hopefully that’ll be a little more comfortable,” he says, patting the sheets down as if they were a mattress in need of fluffing and not a stone slab underneath a thin sheet of blankets.
The gesture is still sweet, though.
Then he turns to go, and before I can open my mouth to thank him, he’s at the dungeon door.
The key doesn’t rattle.
When I turn to face him, he’s holding the key to the lock, but he doesn’t turn it.
“I hate locking you in here,” he explains.
There’s a pain throbbing in my chest, but I don’t allow it near the surface, lest it infiltrate the edges of my voice. “You could always lock yourself in here with me. Make things a little more fair.”
I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, his thumb fidgets with the key and he turns to face me. Slowly.
When I catch the hunger in his expression—the way his eyes have darkened from a pale blue to that of the night sky surrounding the glowing edge of a star—my limbs begin to rattle.
“I never can tell when you’re joking,” he says, but there’s no light-heartedness to his tone.
I try to swallow, but there’s a catch in my throat. So instead I whisper, “I’m not.”
I blink, and he’s there, right in front of me, so close I can feel his breath against my forehead. It’s warm and tender and ragged and all-consuming.
This time when he sweeps me onto the dais and sets me there, there’s no teasing in his eyes, no flirtation in the lilt of his voice.
Just my name on his lips. “Blaise…”
His blue eyes are frosted over, drunk and swimming with pent-up longing, and as always, mine are his mirrors.
Nox knits his fingers through my hair and cups my head in his hand as he pulls me into him.
His lips meet mine, and it’s as if all the colors of the aurora swarm my vision, as if my body and soul are alight with the effervescent glimmer of the night sky.
Here in this dank dungeon, here in my prison cell, I’m glowing.
At first his kiss is hungry, as if he’s been starved for this and he’s afraid if he lets go of me, someone will take me away. It’s in the way he grips my waist and clutches my hair. It’s in the urgency with which he presses his lips to mine.
But then something shifts within him, and it’s as if he’s been mesmerized. His kisses become softer, more intentional, and when I peek open my eyes to catch a glimpse of this beautiful male kissing me—like I need evidence that it’s actually happening—I can’t help but notice he looks intoxicated.
He traces the path from my jaw to my neck with his lips, and I find myself clutching onto his back, memorizing the path he’s taking.
His teeth graze the surface of my skin, and I fight back a shudder and close my eyes.
“Nox,” I whisper his name, his name that tastes of honey and stings of venom on my lips.
But then his body goes rigid in my arms, and the kisses cease, though he keeps his mouth pressed to my neck.
“Blaise…Blaise, I need you to tell me to stop.” His voice has dropped an octave, steeped into a low growl.
“Why would I want that?” I whisper into his hair, relishing the feel of his soft hair against my nose, my cheek.
But then Nox trembles, and there’s something about the intensity of it that sends a bolt of dread through my chest.
Or maybe it’s the way his fingers are digging into my back. A sharp pain punctures the skin surrounding my spine, and I let out a whimper.
Teeth trace my neck, but there’s more pressure this time, and I know if he presses any harder, he’ll break the skin.
“Blaise, please.”
He sounds as if he’s downed an entire liquor cabinet, but it’s not a natural desire I detect in his plea.
“Please tell me to stop.”
Panic grips me, and I realize he’s not teasing, that there’s something in his voice that doesn’t sound like him at all. That sounds like him the day I sliced my finger on the parchment.
What if I’d rather keep you?
