Page 56 of How to Claim A Shadow King

He doesn't drop me. He keeps his hands locked securely under my thighs, holding me pinned to the tree, his forehead crashing against mine as his chest heaves in desperate gasps.

His dark eyes are completely dilated, practically black with the same hunger I feel inside. Still, his grip stays steady, gentle… refusing to slide an inch lower.

"If you keep looking at me like that, Duchess," Malakai pants, his voice a raw, gravelly ruin that sends a final, lethal shiver straight down my spine, "I am going to break every single rule of your courtship right here on the dirt."

I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, my lips swollen and burning, realizing with a sudden, dizzying panic that I wouldn't have stopped him.

“I think that’s enough magic lessons for today,” I manage, trying to smooth my skirts. Except, I’m wearing pants. Right.

I don’t wait for a response. I untie my horse, and let him run as fast as he wants back to the castle.

20

MALAKAI

Ihave spent the last twelve hours counting the beats of my own heart, and every single one of them has belonged to her.

They always have.

Since she tore off at a suicidal gallop, practically throwing herself off the saddle to sprint up the stairs and lock herself away, I’ve replayed every moment of that kiss in my mind.

Every curve of her body, every breath she took.

Aveline didn't come down for the evening meal.

She didn't let Ter through the window.

She has treated my castle like a fortress within a fortress, hiding from the ghost of a kiss that nearly brought the entire Elder Forest to its knees.

All I can think is that the one time I let my self-control slip with her has ruined any progress I’ve made.

I rub my lips as though I can still taste her on them.

The Shadow Keeps find her before I do, whispering of a quiet, stubborn presence out in the eastern courtyard.

When I step into the cold, midnight air of the rose garden, the scent of frost-bitten petals and damp stone hits me. And there she is. Sitting on the low, curved stone bench beneath the arched iron trellis.

My chest tightens. It is the exact same bench she sat on three hundred years ago when the white winter roses were in bloom, looking up at me with the same defiant set to her jaw. This version of her soul doesn't remember choosing the stonework, doesn't remember the hours we spent here arguing over court logistics, but her body chose it anyway. Instinct is a beautiful, terrifying thing.

"You're going to freeze out here, Duchess," I say softly, keeping my steps slow so I don't send her running into the night again.

Aveline stiffens, her back straightening into that rigid, elegant line her mother taught her. She doesn't look at me. She keeps her eyes fixed on a frozen rosebud. "The air is clear out here. I needed to think."

"About the ward?" I step closer, the shadows around my boots rippling with a heavy, restless longing. About me?

"About the magic," she corrects sharply, finally looking up. Her beautiful, aristocratic face is pale in the moonlight, her rosebud mouth set in a defensive pout. "I want to try it again. Alone. Without…" She swallows, her gaze flicking to my lips before she darts it away, her cheeks flaring with a sudden, delicious pink. "Without the distractions."

God help me, the standoffishness makes me want her even more. It is a shield, and I know exactly how fragile it is.

"Very well," I murmur, closing the distance until I am standing right over her. The temperature has plummeted, the autumn wind biting through the fine fabric of her overdress. Her hands are tucked into her lap, but I can see the slight, telltale tremor in her fingers. "Show me. Summon the spark."

Aveline takes a deep breath, her chest rising sharply. She extends her hand, her brow furrowing in deep concentration. For a long, quiet moment, nothing happens. Then, a faint, erratic glimmer of orange-gold light spits from her knuckles. It struggles, flickering like a dying candle in the wind, before snapping out completely.

She lets out a frustrated, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging. "It won't catch. It felt so easy in the woods."

"Because you are fighting the current," I say, my voice dropping an octave. I want to touch her so badly it feels like a physical ache in my ribs, but I force my hands to remain at my sides. "You are trying to force it from your head. Magic doesn't live in your thoughts, Aveline. It lives in your blood. It lives where you feel."

"I'm cold," she whispers, a tiny deflection to hide her frustration.