into my mouth and blow. The first two times nothing happens. Finger holes! Hands shaking, I adjust my sweat-slick grip so my fingers cover the holes and try again.
The moment I blow into the instrument, a sound fills the air. The most angelic, comforting tune I’ve ever heard. I almost stop, sure there’s no way my lips are making something so enchanting. The lion’s body grows rigid and then, slowly, sluggishly, he sits back on his hindquarters.
His bright honey-gold eyes are half-slits, a strange green glow emanating from them. Even though I know lions can’t smile, his feline lips are curved upward, his floppy pink tongue lolling to the side.
It’s working!
I draw closer as the prince glides around to his hind end. The raverous snake tail slides back and forth on the ground, but it too seems lulled by the music.
Drawing the vial out, he carefully secures the snake by its neck. The snake hisses, he slides the vial beneath its curved fang, and it’s done.
When he joins me, I notice the claw marks across his chest where the beast raked him. I try not to stare at the metallic silver blood dripping from his wounds. The sight nearly makes me stop playing the flute, but I keep my breaths coming despite my shock.
“The moment you stop playing,” he whispers, “we need to scale back down the cliff.” His gaze darts to my injured shoulder. “Can you climb?”
I nod.
His eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe me. There’s something strange about them, the silver band of iris tinged green—like the chimera’s.
His voice is soft as he begins to count.
One, two, three . . .
I pocket the flute and dive for the side of the cliff where we ascended earlier. The chimera snarls, awakened from its magical stupor. And it sounds pissed about the entire ordeal.
Right as I slide toward the edge, ready to flip around and start scaling back down, arms slide around my waist. Cold, strong, capable arms.
“This will be faster,” he murmurs. My stomach lurches as he picks me up with inhuman strength and dives toward the forest below.
The feeling of the earth leaving my feet sends a wave of panic crashing over me. A carpet of green trees grows closer with every breath. The sun is nearly set, only a sliver of fiery orange burning through the top of the forest canopy, dusky pink and red shafts spearing the air.
Midnight blue wings the same color as his hair beat the air in my periphery.
I’m not going to die because he has wings. The realization is followed by another. He has really cool, really sexy wings.
Once the thought settles into my brain, I relax in his arms. My fear melts away as I focus on the prince’s body touching mine. His cheek pressed against my cheek. His fingers splayed over my stomach.
Does he notice the way my new abs (thanks, Eclipsa) tremble at his touch? Does his body sing with excitement at being so close to me?
Oberon’s beard, I need to get a grip.
All too soon, the swampy mud squelches beneath my boots. But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten.
Whoa.
My body responds, pushing into him. The feel of his cool, muscular form like a drug sizzling through my veins.
Oh, God. I like this feeling.
The pulse in my wrist throbs. My head spins as a hollow ache opens up inside my belly. The prince turns me to face him, or perhaps I do that on my own. It’s all jumbled. My name forms on his lips, is whispered so softly I think I imagined it.
Then he’s pressing me into the rocky cliff base. His wings—Holy Fae his beautiful midnight blue wings—spread wide behind him, encapsulating us. There’s something feral and raw about his expression that should scare me.
It really should.
But it doesn’t. Quite the opposite.
“Summer.” His voice is raspy and low, his breath a cold wind. His nostrils flare as he inhales me, his pupils enlarging at whatever he smells.
Knowing what he can do, I should be terrified this close to him. At the very least, I should despise him for the way he’s treated me. The secrets I know he keeps. But I’m not in control of my body or the way it reacts to him.
I reach up, capture his inky locks inside my fingers. He watches me while I tug softly, marveling at its silkiness.