I watched him peel back the wax paper with neat precision, my mind spinning wildly. “I don’t understand. I didn’t know... Why? Why would you be punished for me?”
“It was not your doing.” There was no arguing that tone.
I did anyway. “Of course it was. The timing is too neat, you did something the Veil did not like. For me?”
“Never flatter yourself, Miss Black.”
“If it’s truth—”
“It isn’t.” Hawke lifted the finger-width bit of resin to his lips. Strong, white teeth flashed, and my insides twisted as he bit off half of the globule.
My mouth dried.
He plucked the bit from his lips, damp and misshapen. “My Menagerie does not revolve around you, troublesome pet that you are.”
“But—”
“Leave it.”
“What about this?” I demanded, gesturing at the chamber I’d called a prison. “You were chained, Hawke.”
“I said leave it.” His free hand cupped the back of my head, pulled me to my knees and forced me to brace one hand against his bare shoulder. God above, he was warm. Brilliantly, blazingly hot. “Open,” he ordered.
The will drained from me. “Damn you, Hawke.”
“Open your mouth.” Unyielding.
Lost in the driving intensity of his stare, I obediently parted my lips. His fingers passed between them, depositing the tar on my tongue, and this time, I did not await his efforts. I closed my mouth, deliberately sucked at the flesh that had so intimately known mine moments before.
His gaze darkened. His jaw tightened.
This time, when he withdrew his fingers from mouth, he did not allow the distance to keep. The hand at my nape tugged me closer, so close that his mouth seized mine, claimed my lips for a kiss that did not speak of tenderness or sympathy. Neither would ever be Hawke’s language, and I did not care. His tongue slid between my lips, to taste deeply of me, my breath, and the bitter tar that melted between us.
All that I was liquefied into a wild-light river of blue sensation.
It was not until later, after he’d taken me again against the wall, my cries muffled against unforgiving stone and my hair wrapped about his fist—after he’d driven me beyond all grasp of reality and dreamy insanity—that I realized he had not given me any sort of explanation at all.
The things we demanded of each other were not selfless—and oh, I knew I would carry the scars of this night forever.
I fell into a fitful sleep, alone in the bed as Hawke stoked the fire in the hearth, and dreamed of eyes that winked from tawny to feral blue; of blood spilled on a cold laboratory floor, and the heartrending, disturbing echo of a woman’s sobbing. I wept in my own dream, though if I did so in the waking world, I did not know.
“Cherry,” sobbed the ghostly voice. Warning, I think. “Cherry!”
I awoke, struggling against ephemeral bonds, sure that strands of red, brilliant as rubies and stronger than silk, wrapped about my limbs.
The bedclothes slid to the floor.
My flailing hand was seized in two. “Cherry! It’s all right,” soothed a woman’s voice. Familiar and soft. “Cherry, wake up.”
As my vision cleared on the windowless chamber, on Zylphia’s pretty blue eyes free of the black paint that had darkened them just last night, I found myself clutching her hands in mine. Terror filled me, unnamed and with no source. Cold sweat caused a shudder to take me.
“It’s all right,” she repeated gently, freeing one hand with effort to smooth back my tangled hair.
All right?
No. As I shook my head hard, freeing my thoughts from the foggy grasp of my fractured sleep, I studied the tumbled bedclothes, my own nude body—felt the places that ached so thoroughly—and could not force myself to agree.
Nothing was all right. I awoke with fear sour and choking on my tongue and could not fathom why. I had fallen asleep with Hawke’s presence like a storm within the chamber, and awoke feeling empty and shattered.
I let go of Zylphia to her obvious relief. “Where is—”
And even as I began the hoarse words, I recognized them; exact echo of the words I’d uttered after Hawke had saved me, tasted me so intimately the first time. My cheeks heated.
Was I forever doomed to retrace my own steps?
“Cage?” she finished for me, one beautifully shaped black eyebrow climbing. There was nothing friendly in her gaze, now. Nothing but an irrefutable resolve. “It doesn’t matter, now, does it? You’re to leave.”
“Leave?” I scrambled, pulling the bedclothes to me, though it mattered little. Zylphia had been my maid for some weeks before my exile; she’d seen me unclothed and helped dress me upon waking.
She took the opportunity to gather my discarded clothing. “You cannot stay here anymore,” she told me, her voice a pleasant echo in the stark chamber. “You’re deucedly lucky the Veil didn’t send anyone else here first.”
“Here?” I scrubbed at my eyes with the heel of one hand. “Zylla, what is here?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. You’re leaving.”
I was, certainly, but I’d meant to be leaving with more help. Not more questions. I’d never intended...this.
I frowned at her, taking in her plain day dress as she gathered my things. Not as delicate as the tea dress I’d envied so much, but certainly no one else could have made a simple white blouse and plaid blue skirt look so delightful.
Jealousy seized my heart.
I turned away as she returned to my bedside. “At least answer my questions,” I said, near enough a snarl that I appalled even myself.
The sticky remnants of my dreams refused to leave the fringes my thoughts. It felt as if I still waded through the tar I’d eaten not hours ago.
Had Hawke truly fed me? Had he shared in the flavor of it with a kiss as indecent as it was electrifying?
It seemed as if the heat in my cheeks flooded my whole body. Snatching the apparel Zylphia gave me, I made short work of pulling on my rumpled trousers—and only winced in surprise once before I learned to mask the discomfort my body felt.
No one had warned me of the aftermath of sexual congress. The understanding I’d come to in the small hours of the morning now strained my credibility.
Why would women sell themselves if this was how they’d feel upon waking?
Zylphia did not offer to help. She turned half-away, as if it would afford me privacy for modesty I was not sure I maintained.
What a fool I’d been. To expect Hawke to be waiting come the morning? For what? Polite inquiry as to my health?
The man was never there come morning. If I did not learn this the first evening spent in his bed—willing or no—I certainly would know it now.
“Ask, then,” Zylphia said, curtailing my wandering concerns with a sigh. “I’ll answer what I may. But you must hurry.”
“I’m going fast as I can,” I snapped, earning her impatient frown. Even her dismay was beautiful. To be so exotic that even surrounding herself with lovely sweets did nothing to dampen her appeal—I could not imagine it. No wonder Hawke turned often to her.
He would likely do so again upon my departing.
I jerked my shirt closed, scowled when I reached for the buttons and found none.
If possible, my face went hotter.
Biting back a harsh word, I wrapped my shirt tightly in place, tucking it into the trousers that had survived intact. “Where did he get his scars?”
“The Veil had him punished for utilizing magic upon you.”
That stopped me cold. I stared at her.
She watched me steadily in turn.
“Magic,” I said doubtfully.
“You’ve heard of the Menagerie’s wūshī, yes?” Unlike me, Zylphia did not stumble over the foreign word. When I nodded impatiently, struggling into my corset while attempting to keep my shirt tails folded closed, she gestured absently. “That’s him. That’s Cage.”