Page 77 of How Does It Feel?

“Why are you helping me when you are the reason I have these wounds in the first place?” I asked, rising on my elbows to get a better look.

He stood at the edge of the bed, holding my bare thigh, and my other leg lay just on the other side of him so that he was positioned right between my legs.

“I’m not sure. I can’t seem to help myself.”

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. He set my leg down gently and replaced it with my arm.

“This is deep, I imagine it’s going to hurt,” he said, looking concerned.

I stared at him. His gentleness was a weapon I hadn’t seen him wield, not even to his mother.

“Where is the king?” I asked.

His throat bobbed slightly, and his face flushed. “King Marco is dead.”

That was not what I had expected. I moved to sit up while he held my left arm gently.

He bent down to kneel on the floor at the side of the bed. He was so tall he still easily reached me.

My foot pressed against his chest, and I moved it to the side on instinct.

I bit my lip when I realized I had just moved my legs to either side of him, basically straddling him while he sat on his knees.

His jaw clenched, and a muscle feathered at the sharp curve. His eyes paused at the shadow my nightgown had formed between my legs.

Smoke unfurled from his back, showcasing his wide wings.

It was intensely intimidating, but also—a part of me longed to touch his wings—they were unbelievably beautiful when you looked past the sharp edge. Like their owner.

What would it be like to have such a bad, heartless man want me? To come apart only for me and no one else. I shook the deranged thoughts from my head.

Desperate to dampen the heat lingering in the air, I asked about his dead father.

“I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“I killed him,” he said calmly.

“Is that truly your answer to everything? Just kill it?” I asked incredulously.

He looked up from where he knelt between my legs and into my eyes with icy resolve. He rested my arm over his shoulder as he leaned over and pressed the compress firmly into the wound on my chest.

I hissed in pain and grabbed at his shoulder as I scowled angrily at him.

“You develop a taste for blood when you’re constantly licking your own wounds,” he stated coldly, still watching me.

His wings pulsed, and the dark smoke feathered but remained spread wide at his back.

He leaned back, still on his knees, and grabbed my waist. With one quick motion, he pulled me until my ass was at the edge of the bed, and he had nestled himself between my legs.

It was probably more terrifying to see him in such a submissive position, though I seriously doubted he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me from where he knelt between my thighs.

He still held my waist as his chest pressed against my center, and my hands fought for purchase on his broad shoulders.

“Why did the humans choose you to destroy me?” he asked, his voice void of all malice as his strong hands left my waist to dab more liquid on the bloodied rag.

I laughed despite myself. “They didn’t.” I rolled my eyes as I sat, looking slightly down at his face. “Trust me when I tell you, I am the last person the humans would send to disarm you.”

His hand steadied warmly again at my waist. The other grazed the wound on my chest.