And I wasn’t sure how I even felt about him since my feelings toward him seemed to change every five minutes. But either way, I shouldn’t allow anything like this. If I did, everything would be harder, even more confusing than it already was. Tawny could perfectly sum up what it was now in two words: a mess.

But a woman was about to die.

Her mother said I was still Chosen.

A man in there didn’t want my touch.

Some in that room feared me.

Hated me.

I could still feel Lord Chaney’s teeth in my flesh even though there were no wounds.

I could still see the burning coal of his eyes, and feel how I was nothing more than an object to him. Food. Sustenance. A thing.

And I didn’t want to feel any of that.

I wanted to bask in Casteel’s awe of me, and maybe…maybe I already knew, deep down, how I truly felt about him.

“Just pretend?” I trembled as the tips of his fingers skated down the side of my throat, around to the nape of my neck.

“Pretend.” His lips hovered above mine once more, right there, teasing.

I closed my eyes, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”

Chapter 18

Like before, the night of the Rite, when we’d been under the willow tree in the gardens and I’d asked him to kiss me, he hadn’t wasted a moment.

Except he’d been Hawke then, and we hadn’t been pretending.

His lips brushed over mine, once and then twice, so incredibly soft and gentle that it threatened to unravel all pretenses. I shuddered and felt his lips curve against mine. I knew he grinned. I knew that if I opened my eyes, I’d seen that infuriatingly tempting dimple of his. The touch at the back of my neck and against my cheek, just below the scar, was featherlight as he seemed to map out the feel of my lips with his, slowly, leisurely reacquainting himself. Tiny shivers skittered through me.

But I wanted more. Already.

Impatience burned through me. Lifting my hands from the shelf, I gripped the front of his tunic and pulled him against me. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

I shook my head. “That’s not what you can do.”

He chuckled against my lips. “You’re right. It’s not.”

Then he truly kissed me.

He claimed my lips as if he were staking a claim to my very soul. The possibility that he was already well on his way to doing so should’ve served as a dire warning, but I was far too immersed, far too gone at the feel of him, lost in how demanding his lips were. He tugged on my lower lip with his fangs, urging my lips to part. Gasping, I yielded to him. The kiss deepened, and his tongue slid over mine. I let out a little breathless moan against his hot mouth. The taste of him, his smell…all of him invaded me, scalding me.

We kissed and kissed, and I…I still wanted more. Wanted to keep pretending as liquid fire poured through me, erasing the icy touch of Lord Chaney, washing away the suffocating feel of the room where death had surely come and gone by now, and all the unknown of what awaited.

He knew this, sensed this, and he gave me what I desperately needed.

His hand finally, finally moved from my cheek, trailing down, smoothing over my breast. There was a reverence to his touch, as if he worshiped me as he slid his hand under the hem of my sweater. Flesh against flesh. My body jerked as his fingers skimmed over the patchwork of scars and then moved farther up, over the lines of my ribs, the bottom swell of my breast. I moaned into his mouth as his thumb reached the turgid peak. Sharp spikes of pleasure twisted through me.

He made a deep, dark sound that rumbled through me as the hand at my neck dropped to the small of my back. He pulled me away from the cupboard, against the hard length of his body, and still, he devoured me with his lips, branded me with his touch. The hunger in him should’ve scared me, but all it did was inflame the same need within me.

We were only pretending…

But this felt so very real.

He felt all too real, his lips against mine, my chin—his touch at my breast, my back, and against my body. My head fell back as his mouth trailed a blazing path to the healed bite. I felt the hot wetness of his tongue, the wicked sharpness of his fangs as he scraped them along my flesh. I cried out, my entire body tensing, coiling in delight and forbidden anticipation.

“Poppy,” he breathed, maybe pleaded. I wasn’t sure. His tongue flicked over my skin.

Would he bite me?

Did I want that?

Would I stop him?

My body already knew the answer as I reached up, sinking my hand into the soft strands of his hair.

“You want that?” he whispered against my sensitive skin. “Don’t you?”

I shuddered, unable to answer.

“You do.”

An aching pulse stole my breath, and then, in a feat of impressive strength, he shifted his hands under my thighs and lifted me as he turned. My back hit the door as he hooked my legs around his waist. His body met mine, and he pressed in, the hardest parts of him against the softest parts of me.

I moaned as his mouth closed over my neck. He drew the skin between his sharp teeth, and my hips lifted from the door, pushing against his.

He drew harder on the skin, wringing another cry from deep within me, but he didn’t break the flesh. He didn’t draw blood. Instead, he teased and taunted until every nerve ending felt stretched to its breaking point, until I rocked against him, with him.

And when his mouth finally returned to mine, I knew we were both quickly losing control.

We were pretending.

Even as he kissed as if he drank from my lips. Even as he ground against me, and I dug my fingers into his shoulders and then the material covering his chest. We were pretending.

Slowly, the kisses slowed, his hips still pinning mine to the door. He was breathing as raggedly as I was when he lifted his mouth from mine. “I think…I think that is enough.”

Was it?

Letting my head fall back against the door, I nodded as I swallowed. It had to be enough because this was insanity—it was leading to more insanity. It seemed like he was minutes away from stripping me bare and taking me against the door. It felt like I was seconds away from begging him to. My grip on his shirt loosened as I opened my eyes.

Casteel stared down at me, his lips swollen, eyes a vivid, molten gold. Gods, he was shamelessly beautiful, and he looked as thoroughly undone as I felt.

He made a deep, rumbling sound. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” I didn’t recognize the throaty voice.

“Like you don’t think that was enough.” His hand smoothed over my hip, cupping my rear as he pulled my lower body away from the door and against his ridge of thick hardness. He caught my gasp with a quick, deep kiss I wanted to sink into.

But the kiss ended, and he gently eased my legs down. He stayed close for several moments, his forehead resting against mine as he smoothed the strands of my hair back with hands I swore trembled slightly. My knees felt oddly weak when he took a step back, putting space between us. Our gazes met, and the aching want in me pounded along with my heart.

“That was…” I bit my lip, having no idea what I was going to say.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He returned to where I stood, catching a strand of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. “It’s probably best that we don’t.”

“Right,” I whispered, wanting to press my cheek into his hand but somehow resisting.

He smiled slightly. “I do have something that you need. A gift. One I planned to give to you when we left the room. Before I became…sidetracked.”

Sidetracked? Was that what this was for him? Was it more for me?

“It’s not a ring,” he said. “But it’s something I think you’ll appreciate nonetheless.”

My brows furrowed in confusion. “What kind of gift?”

“The best kind,” he said. “Retribution.”

I had no idea how Casteel could be so cool and collected after that kiss, but as I glanced over at him, he looked like he’d just attended a reading of The History of The War of Two Kings and the Kingdom of Solis, which was as stimulating as watching grass grow.

It was almost like what had occurred in the pantry was a figment of my imagination, and if it weren’t for the feeling of aching unfulfillment, I would seriously be doubting what had happened. But it wasn’t. It was real. He’d kissed me, and he’d done so like his very life depended on it.

Was he truly that unaffected, and if so, what was the point in pretending?

Before I could use my senses, Casteel opened a heavy wooden door. The musty, damp scent was immediately recognizable.

“My gift is in the dungeon?” I asked, my steps slowing as we made our way down the cramped stairwell. My stomach churned at the scent.

“It may seem like a strange place for a gift, but you’ll understand in a moment.”

Ignoring the paranoid voice that whispered that this was some sort of trap, I moved along. After agreeing to the marriage, I doubted he planned to throw me into a cell. Still, it was unsettling to be here again, where I’d almost died.

A shadow peeled away from the wall as we reached the torch-lit hall. It was Kieran. The wolven’s pale gaze flicked from Casteel to me. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. You?” I asked for some reason, and then felt my cheeks flush. There was no way he could know what’d happened in the pantry, even with his extra-special wolven—

Unless he knew because of the bond.

I really needed to figure out more about that bond.

His lips curved into a grin. “Just dandy.” He looked at his Prince. “And you?”

“The answer is the same as when you last asked,” Casteel said, and my brows pinched.

I turned to him. “Were you injured?”

“Would you fret with worry if I was?”

The corners of my lips turned down. No? Yes? “Not particularly.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me yet again.”

“He’s not wounded,” Kieran answered. “At least, not physically. Emotionally, I believe you left him shredded.”