Page 50 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar’s fingers tangled in her hair, thumb pulling her lip from between her teeth. He studied that spot like it held his dying breath. “You’re mistaken, Emmeline. I’ve known for a while I would be your ruin, but you are the brightest star in the sky. You could never ruin me except in the most delicious, sinful ways. And those?” He pressed down on the swell of her lip, and she inhaled sharply. “Those are all way better than I deserve. So why are you saying you’re not good for me?”

“Because I’m not,” she panted.

“You’re a Fatesdamned liar, Huntress,” Roremar whispered, gravelly voice waking every spot on her body that she wanted to feel that rough tone. Her breasts, between her thighs.

His other hand slipped around her waist, and it was clear from the hardness pressing against her stomach that he wanted her, too. She wished he could take her here, fuck her against this wall and show her how good they could be for one another, but it wasn’t an option.

“I’m not lying,” she gasped. “You and I can never be together.”

Everyone close to her wound up dead. Her magic was a curse that slayed every caring heart. The best place for her to belong was alone, and from that isolation, she’d save him.

“Tell me it’s because of what I did,” Roremar begged. “Tell me I’m not good enough for you, and I’ll believe it.” His lips ghosted over her jaw, and her head tipped back, her body arching into him, silently begging for more. “But don’t say you’ll ruin me. You are the only good thing to happen to me in a long time.”

“I’m not—” Her words cut off in a gasp as Roremar nipped at the spot beneath her ear, tongue smoothing over the sting.

His forehead dropped against hers, his breathing as wild as her own. Her body ached with the grief of letting him go, the longing to hold on tighter.

“What do you want, Emmeline? Do you want me on my knees? Because I’ll happily spend eternity there to get an answer from your lips.”

It ripped her in two to be unable to give him that. Roremar clearly read her silence as reluctance. The desperation rolling off him made her limbs weak.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You’ll ruin me, too.” In so many more ways than she could name, in so many she wanted him to.

“You’re right.” Roremar nodded, squeezing her waist. His acceptance sank through Emmeline like a sour tonic. Voice ragged, he added, “I don’t deserve you, Emmeline, but if I’m to die, please let me taste you before I go.”

“What?” she asked.

Roremar’s lips were already back on her neck. He traced down her chest, kissing the swell of her breasts pressed against her leathers.

Reckless energy rolled off him, and she understood then. This. This was what he needed, where he was channeling all his inescapable emotions, because she was the one good thing he could still see, and he’d do anything to hold on to her for a little while longer, ruin be damned.

Emmeline tangled her fingers in his hair, a possessive grasp that had him smirking against her flesh, surely had him doubting her words.

We aren’t good for one another.

Roremar worked his way back up her neck, kiss by heart-wrenching kiss. The buckles on her leathers loosened under his steady fingers.

“Is this okay?” he whispered as his warm hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingers brushing over the bare skin of her stomach.

We only ruin each other.

They shouldn’t get closer, but she needed him, and those two impossible facts warred through her.

“Yes,” Emmeline breathed, nearly sobbing at the relief.

Roremar slipped her leathers off her shoulders, and the fabric thudded to the floor behind her. She stood only covered by her black lace chemise, nipples pebbled against the tight fabric.

Roremar looked her over as if this was the last chance he’d get and he had to memorize every inch. His fingers skated down her side, making her shiver, and Emmeline was taken back to the apartment above Fated Ink, where he’d watched as she’d driven her own pleasure—where she’d watched him. Heat flooded between her thighs at the memory.

She wanted that again—wanted his desirous stare drinking her in and to feel him in return. Everything outside of this room paled in comparison to them.

“Is no kissing still the rule?” Roremar muttered, his eyes molten as his thumb skated over her nipple.

Emmeline swallowed, no on the tip of her tongue.

But while his chains were removed tonight, the locks may as well have been placed around her own throat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Still the rule.”