Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,121

appeared through the hole in the ceiling, descending quickly. His head was down, his gaze on his feet, and only when he reached the bottom of the stair did he look up.

His eyes fixed hard upon her. Then they slowly dropped, taking in her exposed flesh. The seductive black garment was rather the worse for wear after her wild flight through Ninthalor. But it still served its purpose, displaying every womanly attribute to its most desirable advantage.

A rush of heat flooded Nelle’s face. Her heart caught in her throat.

Without a word, Soran turned and started up the stair again. He would be gone in a moment.

“Wait!”

The word burst from her lips. It rang sharply in the room, so sharp that the wyvern darted outside through the open door, muttering complaints.

Soran paused, one hand resting on the wall. He still wore only the trousers and loose, bloodstained shirt he’d been wearing down at the shore. He’d probably come down in search of fresh clothes.

“Please,” Nelle said softly. Leaving the armoire, she stepped across the room toward him. Blood pounded in her throat, and she felt dizzy. Dizzy, yet somehow purposeful. “Please, sir, don’t . . .”

“I saw the boat.” Soran didn’t look at her. His head bent, his silvery hair falling to cover the side of his scarred, ugly face. “I saw it pass through the veil. I thought you’d . . . I thought . . .” He drew a long breath. “You should not have stayed, Miss Beck.”

“I know,” she answered softly. She was just behind him now, her foot on the lowest step. She hesitated, pinching both lips between her teeth. “Please.”

Partial thoughts, schemes, and half-baked plans drained from her brain to run off like so much rainwater, leaving behind only this heat in her breast. Distantly she recalled the gold locket hidden in her corset, but she couldn’t think about it or the poison it contained. Not now. Not in this moment.

“Please,” she said again, climbed the second step, lifted one hand. Rested it on his shoulder. “Soran.”

He turned. His face was worse than it had been, the old scars carved over with fresh cuts which the Hinter air had only just begun to heal. His eyes blazed with what might be fury or might be something else entirely. Something hot, searing. Dangerous.

When she took another step, they stood on the same tread. Her hands slid around his waist as she leaned into him. He stood like solid granite, but she didn’t care. Resting her head against his chest, she closed her eyes, listened to the wild beat of his heart, and simply stood there holding him for a long, long moment. The stench of blood filled her nostrils, but she smelled life as well, thunderous life simmering with vital energy.

“I’m not going,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She felt the power in him surge and knew that it must soon erupt. Was she ready for whatever violent, impassioned reaction would follow?

Perhaps not. But she wanted it even so.

Her arms tightened around him, bracing against any force that might seek to tear her away. And suddenly his arms moved in response, folding around her body. One cold nilarium-crusted hand rested on her bare shoulder, then slid up her neck, making her tremble at the chill. He tangled his fingers in her long, snarled hair. Then his head bent, and she felt . . . was that his mouth? Pressing against the top of her head as he inhaled deeply?

She lifted her face, fighting a little against the pressure of his hand on the back of her head, and looked up at him. His face hovered close to hers, his scarred, misshapen lips slightly parted, mere inches from her own. He was so unlike Kyriakos—so ugly, so broken. Frail and mortal compared to that glorious immortal fae.

But the feelings swelling inside her were also unlike anything she’d experienced amid the seductions of the red room. No fear underscored her desire. This was Soran. She knew him. The good and the terrible. The disgraced mage. The patient teacher. The arrogant ass. The courageous rescuer. The tender caregiver with the gentle touch, who had once longed to create beauty and who had watched his longings crumble into ruin.

She knew him. And maybe she was a fool, but . . . she trusted him.

She wanted him.

Rising on her toes, Nelle closed the distance between them. Her lips softly brushed his in an invitation as delicate as