I scowl. “You don't know me.”
“You keep saying that. To you, it is the truth.”
The Prince lowers his mouth, hovering over mine and for a moment I think—for a moment a searing flash of heat in the air—and then he pulls away, releasing my throat, and I—I don’t want him to.
The instinct silences me. I can’t keep ignoring these responses.
Is this—did I trigger it? Did my scent change, and signal him? I force myself to think theword.
Yevserra.?1
He lets me exhale before his hands sweep up my sides, settling on my upper ribcage.
“You are unclaimed.” A quiet statement of fact, shorn of emotion. But I shiver, feeling the threat. “I sense no other's touch on you. Fortunate for them. Your House must have protected you.”
“None asked for me and if they did, I can say no all by myself.”
Curling my hands around his wrists, I tug, ignoring how every caress coaxes an answering ping of desire. Maybe it's not yevserra. I'd be dead not to physically react to the seduction of a beautiful, virile male. Not even I am immune to the lure of power. I’m still half Fae.
I can’t deceive myself, no matter how desperately I want to. The way I'm beginning to respond to him, so insidiously that I didn't recognize it at first and despite every screaming objection,isthe hallmark of only one thing.
He allows me to push his hands away, a strategic retreat.
“There were offers, Aerinne.” His voice is cool. “You are Muriel Kuthliele’s only daughter and you have held your House against Montague for a decade though you are scarce more than an infant. There were offers. Therewill be no more, however.”
If this is rut, and he's going to acknowledge it publicly, I need to warn Faronne. And tell Nora.
If this is a rut, and this is yevserra. . .I’m screwed.
“Is it your intention to stake a public claim?”
“I intend to do more.”
The Prince captures my lips without warning. No mercy, only that false gentleness hiding ever present danger.
The press of his mouth demands entry, but when I open, he takes his time. Sucking my bottom lip into a swollen mess, the tip of his tongue slipping right inside as if requesting entry, then surging forward when I don’t deny him. He controls my mouth, plays with my tongue, and though he tastes like lust and urgency, still, he kisses me as if he’s content to do nothing else, forever.
Well, that’s a damn lie.
His mouth, his tongue slipping into mine, awaken answering heat I struggle to bank, furious with him, furious with myself. My spine begins to arch and I stiffen to remain ramrod straight.
His kiss is savage, starved, coaxing, all at the same time and the hands on my rib cage tighten to the point of pain. It takes both my breath and my will, and questions if I need either. To live, I only need him.
His breath, his will.
With this kiss, he shatters any lingering delusion of freedom.
I make a noise, somewhere between a mewl and a moan and a plea, and shudder.
Renaud releases my lips, trailing his fire and brimstone kisses up my jaw, along my rounded ear, his breath tickling myinsides. I press my thighs together in defense against the growing ache.
Think. I need to think. “This can't?—”
“Can’t, Aerinne?”
A wealth of warning in that word, in the darkening voice. There are other signs now; the full-blown pupils turning his eyes black, the unblinking stare, the way that stare slowly trails from my lips, to the pulsing vein in my neck and once more to my lips. As if he’s deciding whether to kiss me again, or tear out my throat.
Rut.
