Grim was gone. One moment, he was there, so close to her, and the next, she was alone. There had been a breach in the scar, he said.
How did he know? Could he feel it?
It had been hours since he had vanished, and she began to worry.
A part of her, a whisper in her mind like a shot of ink tainting all other thoughts, imagined the worst. It spun possibilities. What if the dreks had defeated him? What if he was stuck on the battlefield, slowly being consumed by the darkness that only her elixir seemed able to heal quickly?
What if he needed her?
She told herself she was worried because if he died, he couldn’t help her at the Centennial. Only for that reason.
Night bled into early morning, and Isla decided she couldn’t sit in her room and wait. She had to do something.
She was wearing one of her nightdresses. Isla considered changing, then forgot it. Grim could be dying. He could be in his room, bleeding out, not able to portal to her . . .
She portaled in secret to Poppy’s room to steal more serum and drew her puddle of stars.
Isla had been waiting in his room for half an hour, sitting perched on the edge of his bed, when he finally entered.
Relief filled her, then rushed away.
Grim wore a helmet with spikes that curved down over his nose, his temples. His shoulders had barbs like blades. Touching him anywhere would draw blood. His armor resembled dozens of scales, plated together. He looked like a creature of the night, a monster in the dark. Shadows puddled at his feet, circling.
Isla didn’t dare breathe. She told herself she should be afraid. If she had met him like this for the first time, she might have been.
But when the demon shed his layers, there was a man beneath. His helmet cracked against the floor when he dropped it. He stripped the armor off, with the tiredness of someone who felt suffocated, who wished to be free.
His shirt beneath was black and tight, fabric wrapped around and around. Isla didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed her yet.
All she could do was sit in shocked silence as he took off his shirt. Only when the fabric was over his head did his back tense.
And he slowly turned around to face her.
Isla felt her face go scarlet. He was unharmed. She felt foolish. Of course he was unharmed. Last time must have just been a fluke. He was the ruler of Nightshade; he knew how to defend himself. He didn’t need her, of all people, looking after him.
Stupid. She felt her face heat. She stood from his bed—why had she decided to sit there?—and smoothed her hands down her silk dress. Grim’s gaze dropped. She felt it like a flame, heating her from her collarbones, down her chest, her stomach, to places that made her dress suddenly feel too thin. “I—I just wanted to make sure you were fine,” she got out.
He motioned toward himself. “I’m fine,” he said.
Isla swallowed. “I can see that.” She straightened. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Her gaze slipped down his bare chest. She had seen him without a shirt before, of course she had, but she hadn’t ever allowed herself to truly study him this way. Now, she took all of him in.
He looked etched out of marble. Every muscle was defined by training, cut perfectly. His shoulders were wide. She studied him, and part of her ached to keep watching, to get closer, to touch him—
His words from the ball were right. Late at night, she sometimes thought of him, of his hands, rough against the softest parts of her.
In her imagination, she followed the muscled lines of his stomach, lower, lower, only to awake gasping.
Now he was right here, and he wanted her. She could see the evidence of it, right there in front of her.
She looked away. Suddenly the wall behind him looked very interesting. There was a mirror there, and she saw herself, standing very stiffly in her red dress. She studied her reflection, wondering what could have possibly made him want her in that way when she wasn’t doing anything special, she was just standing there, in a dress she often just wore to sleep.
The straps were thin; the bodice was overflowing. Her dress clung to her. It was more revealing than she had previously realized.
Isla looked to Grim. He was looking at her like she was the world, and he wanted to conquer it. For a second, she felt brave. Powerful, in a strange new way.
She stepped toward him.
Grim stood unnaturally still.
Her hand pressed against his chest. Her fingers were trembling. His skin was cold and hard as stone. Isla wasn’t sure if he was breathing. His eyes were hungry, devouring her, taking in every inch of skin. She bit her bottom lip.
He studied her mouth, and she didn’t want him to keep looking, she wanted him to do something.
She stepped forward, until every part of her pressed against every part of him. Her fingers did not shake any longer as she traced the large scar in the center of his chest. His reminder of her. Her hand ran lower. Lower.
Lower.
“Hearteater,” he said, voice strained. The word was a warning.
She met his gaze. His eyes held all sorts of dark promises, and she wanted them all.
He was too tall. Too far away. She went on her toes to reach him, but she still could not.
She frowned and fell back onto her heels. He desired her, that much was clear. She felt like a flame, like she might just simply burn away if he didn’t extinguish this feeling building inside her, this insatiable want—
Grim had told her he wouldn’t touch her unless she begged. Back then, she had promised herself that wouldn’t happen.
Now, she was ready to go on her knees before him.
“Touch me,” she said, her voice just a whisper. “Please.”
Grim didn’t move an inch. He stood almost impossibly still.
Isla frowned. Did she have to say it again? She ran her hands lower, as if to show him exactly what she meant. Until she could almost feel all of him. “Please, Grim, would you just touch—”
Before her sentence was over, his mouth was on hers. The kiss was punishing, exploring, unrelenting. He tilted her head back, hands cradling her neck, thumbs brushing across her throat.
She made a sound into his mouth, and he seemed to like it, because he growled and bit her bottom lip before swiping his tongue over the hurt. She was on fire; everything burned, some places more than others, and she needed those hands, that tongue, everywhere. Now.
He broke their kiss and looked down at her. She looked down too. Her nightdress was pulled so low, she was nearly spilling out of it. Her chest was heaving.
Grim looked at her body like he was committing it to memory. “You know, I really like this dress,” he murmured. He traced the neckline. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and Isla gasped at the cold, then moaned as he traced every inch of her chest. “But it’s in my way.”
He gripped the silky fabric with both hands. He paused, looking at her as if for approval, and when she gave it, he ripped it right down the center. Stitches broke; fabric was torn.
He kept going, until her nightdress was nothing more than shreds of fabric on the floor.
And she stood naked in front of him.
No one had ever seen her this way. Isla was burning, ready.
But all he did was look at her. For far too long, he just stared.
Was something . . . was something wrong with her? Was he not attracted to her? Had they gone too far already?
Isla began covering her body with her hands. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs, embarrassment heating her face.
“Is . . . something wrong?” she finally asked.
Grim laughed. It made her want to crawl into a hole. But then he said, in a tone so earnest and gentle that she believed him, “Nothing, absolutely nothing, is wrong with you, Hearteater.”
He removed her hands covering her chest and replaced them with his own. She stood and groaned as his calluses stroked against the softest and hardest parts of her skin, as his hands pulled and explored. Then, he lowered his head and did the same thing with his mouth.
Isla’s head fell back. She had never felt so sensitive, all her senses zeroing in on the strokes of his tongue on the peaks of her chest, on his mouth taking everything in.
His hand traveled down her stomach. Before he reached the place she wanted him, he paused, again waiting for her approval.
She parted her legs, giving it, then gasped as his fingers finally touched her right there—
He felt her own want for him and made a deep sound that rasped against the back of her mind.
“Are you always like this around me?” he asked.
Isla gasped again, then glared at him. He only grinned.
“You certainly think highly of yourself,” she said, breathless. Grim explored her with his hand, and she moaned.
“It’s hard not to, when I can feel the effect I have on you. Tell me, Hearteater, has anyone ever touched you like this?”
He knew the answer. He must. The demon just wanted to hear her say the words. She ignored him. Her eyes fluttered closed, as he pressed—
“Is it just me who elicits this response?”
Her head fell back as he kept circling. Her chest was bare to him.
“No need to reply,” he said. “The sounds you’re making are all the confirmation I need.”
She scowled. “You just like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” His fingers slid lower, and her breath hitched.
“I do. But I like to hear you talk more. So, tell me.” He stopped suddenly. Withdrew his hand. “Are you always like this around me?” he repeated.
She scoffed at him. “Are you always this desperate for validation?”
“No. Not from anyone. Only you.”
She blinked, surprised by the admission.
“If you want me to continue, answer my question,” he said. He was breathing just as quickly as she was, chest heaving. “Please,” he added.
Isla knew he wasn’t used to saying that word at all. Yet, now he had said it to her multiple times.
Part of her wanted to portal away. Leave them both unfulfilled. But right now, the way he was looking at her . . .
She felt truly powerful for one of the first times in her life.
“Yes,” she said, and took great pleasure in watching his eyes burn even brighter in intensity. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Leaned in until her lips brushed his ear as she said, “Always.”
Grim was unleashed.
His hands gripped her waist, lifting her into the air with little effort. He hooked her feet behind him and brought them to the bed. Her back hit the sheets, and his hand returned to where it had been. Their chests were flush, just as they had been when he had shielded her from the arrows. He leaned down and looked her right in the eye, like he wanted her to hear every word. “Next time, I’ll use my mouth,” he said. “And then, after that—”
She needed to feel him. Her hand shifted below his waist, to the evidence of his desire, and all thoughts eddied away.
He filled her with all sorts of want, and she didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to make him feel as good as he was making her feel, but just having her hand on him made his breath catch.
At least, until he gently removed her hand and laced their fingers together. He pinned her hand above her head. “Let me focus on you,” he said. “I don’t want to miss a moment of this.”
He filled her more than she ever thought possible, and she met him movement for movement, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s it, Hearteater,” he said. “Make it good for you.”
“Grim,” she said. His name caught in her throat and she clutched his shoulders.
He looked her right in the eyes and said, “Remember this, Hearteater, the next time you want to stab me through the chest.”
He swallowed her final moans with his mouth and pulled her into him, lifting her to his chest with a hand against her lower back. He held her closely, so closely. Only minutes later did he set her down.
Lost for breath, lost for sanity, she managed to say, “I’ll remember.”
