“Yes.” Despite a qualm of unease at the thought of what his body could do to mine, my center is hot and slick at the thought of throwing my skirts up and sinking down over his stiff shaft.
A click from behind me is the only warning of Alistair’s return. I tense, pushing back, my palms still planted firmly on Killian’s bare chest. Unwitting, he squeezes the back of my neck, hard. I flinch.
The deafening bang of the door slamming into the wall makes my ears ring.
“Get off her,” the prince shouts.
Everything happens all at once: he grabs Killian’s arm and wrenches it away with my hair still caught in his fist. I yelp and tumble onto the floor. Long strands of fine blond hair drift down onto my face as I lay there, staring at the prince’s knees.
He bends. Green eyes meet mine.
“What happened?” Alistair demands. Accusatory. Guilt cuts through the sensual haze clouding my better judgment. Rolling up, I rub the back of my head where Killian yanked out my hair.
“It was my fault. I leaned over to check his bandages, and he caught me. He’s delirious. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Mollified, the prince rises and offers me a hand. I ignore it and get up awkwardly, shaking my skirts to conceal my trembling hands.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I brush him off. The scalp near my nape tingles, but I’m otherwise uninjured.
Killian twitches. The last scrap of modesty goes sliding off. I turn away from his nakedness. I can’t resist sneaking a glimpse from the corner of my eye as the prince shakes the bedding over his friend’s nude form, though.
“Take me,” the knight grits out, trapped in a nightmare of some kind. I can scarcely pick out the words. “Take me…underworld. Rather die…than lose…arm.”
“Horny bastard,” Alistair mutters with begrudging admiration. “I suppose he mistook you for the goddess of death.”
Something inside me shrivels. It wasn’t me Killian wanted, after all.
Men.
Even on their deathbeds, all they think about is sex.
11
Killian
Idream of nothing but the taste of my dream woman’s lips, and awaken with an unquenchable thirst. Eyes, throat, mouth, skin—everything single part of me is dry and itchy.
But the worst part is my shield arm. I roll painfully upright, blinking in the dim room of a none-too-fancy inn. Bright light spears my vision. Pain radiates from my temples straight into my spine.
I’ve woken up in worse places, but never with a worse headache.
Grimacing, I reaching for the floor with my toes and I stumble to my feet. On a chair by the window is a stack of folded clothes. The pants are mine, freshly laundered and patched. The shirt could be anyone’s. I put them on.
Staggering downstairs to the common room, I find the place strangely deserted. Only an ancient barmaid is in the back, knitting.
“You survived,” she says. “We didn’t know if you would. The healer did what he could for you with what limited magic he had.”
The harpy scratch. Infection. I unwrap the bandage from my left arm. A long, puckered scar angles up my forearm. Flexingmy hand, it’s clear that my days as a knight are numbered. Once word gets around that I’m maimed…
I yank the sleeve down to cover it. Alistair had better keep his promise about giving me that damned castle. “How long was I out?”
“Ten days.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Gone to town.”
