Extremes.
Thronos now knew what it would be like to lose Melanthe forever, powerless to save her, forced to watch her die.
But he’d also glimpsed what it would be like to claim her as his woman. Neither experience had actually happened, which made him question if he were truly here with her even now. And she wondered why he kept touching her?
In their last two realms, he and Melanthe had been tested together—making him feel closer to her. Yet she was drawing away.
The situation wasn’t helping. Her skin was wounded. She must be freezing from regeneration, and still half shocked over where they’d been.
She was probably starving as well. He had no idea when they’d last eaten. How many days or weeks were we within that beast? Already, he’d suspected Pandemonian time moved differently. He could only guess how long he and Melanthe had been missing.
He helped her over a gulley, his thoughts ricocheting among four things: concern for her immediate safety, reliving her death in those harrowing loops, recalling his pride as she’d manipulated those demons to save him—and relishing how she’d responded to him in their dream of Feveris.
For the latter, he lowered his mental shield, letting her hear his musings loud and clear.
He replayed her wet heat kissing the head of his shaft . . . the pressure of her sex beginning to squeeze the crown as he inched inside . . . her pulse racing because she’d needed him too . . .
“It wasn’t real!” she insisted.
“It feels bloody real!” No one got his wings up like she did! “Damn it, I know your taste. I know your moans. Why are you so eager to deny what we felt?”
It was as if she considered herself weak because she’d surrendered to it. And all I feel is strong.
“Because it never happened!” Brows raised in challenge, she said, “If that hallucination truly took place, then shouldn’t Nïx’s lock of hair be in my pocket?” She dug into the waterlogged leather strip, one of the last remaining.
She pulled out a lock of Valkyrie hair.
He gaped. Could Feveris have been real?
Melanthe pinched her brow with confusion. “No, no. Nïx must’ve planted this on me when she attacked me on the island. She could’ve slipped this in when I was unconscious. Or maybe she was in the beast herself?” Melanthe shoved it back in her pocket. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“Like I made you scream with pleasure?” He closed in on her. “Face it, sorceress, I nearly claimed you as mine—and you loved it.” They were toe to toe. “You wanted me inside you. You wanted more. Nothing can ever take that away.”
“That would’ve been disastrous!” She looked half enraged, half wary.
He reached forward to brush his thumb over her bottom lip. “I want to get us back to where we were before we got interrupted.”
“A male wanting sex from me.” She jerked away from him. “How novel.”
“You know I want more than just sex.” He grabbed her upper arm, drawing her close once more. “I want everything from you.”
Her lips parted, but then she seemed to collect herself. “Just because Sorceri don’t dwell on regrets doesn’t mean we set ourselves up for them either. What you want to happen between us just . . . can’t. We’re too different. Our families and factions would never accept this.”
“Maybe a relationship between another sorceress and a Vrekener would prove impossible. But we’ve been through too much. We’ve earned each other. You can’t deny that. If you took away all the strife surrounding us, could you accept me?”
She didn’t reply, wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Look at me, Melanthe.”
When she eventually faced him, he stared into her eyes, seeing that same vulnerability he’d beheld when he’d been about to claim her.
He thought he was beginning to understand it. . . .
In Pandemonia, he’d discovered his mate yearned for love. She’d never found it with another—and she clearly wouldn’t settle for anything less. She’d told him she would give her heart only to the right male.
I’m that male.
Looking at her now, he comprehended that she felt vulnerable—because her heart was already in play. He believed he could make Melanthe fall in love with him, claiming something from her all his own.