Page 89 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Then,” he murmured, “may I?”

She didn’t trust her voice. She only nodded and willed her hands still in her lap. He shifted closer. His hand rose to her shoulder, then stopped—claws glinting, fingers hovering just above her skin. She felt the hesitation in him. The same restraint she’d seen every time he’d wanted and held back.

She wouldn’t let him hold back now.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

Something broke open behind his eyes. His hand closed the distance. She felt his claws first—the faintest graze against her collarbone, precise as a jeweller setting a stone. His thumb brushed the collar of her cardigan, and her breath shuddered out of her.

His fingers moved to the neckline. One button, then another. He eased the collar aside, baring the curve of her shoulder and the slope of her neck. His claws whispered against her bare skin—lethal and restrained all at once. The contradiction of it undid her: all that danger, held in perfect check by tenderness.

She had spent her whole life being handled carelessly by a world that thought her disposable. And here was a demon touching her like she was precious—with hands built to destroy.

He was so close now. She caught his scent—smoke and cedar. She couldn’t look at him; she stared at his collarbone instead, hands pressed flat against her thighs. Every inch of her prickled with awareness. His head bent down, dark tresses spilling over to cover his face.

The warmth of his breath reached her first. Then, his mouth touched her—a single, reverent kiss against the hollow just beneath her ear.

Cassia’s breath hitched. Her head tilted instinctively, baring more of her neck. The second kiss came lower, just above the spot where the neck joined shoulder. He lingered there, mouth warm against her skin, and her pulse fluttered wildly beneath it.

Then she felt his magic.

It was subtle at first—like heat caressing her skin. Her breath caught on a quiet gasp as her insides opened. Her body recognized his magic—welcomed it. It spread in slow, spiraling waves, like a sigh that started deep and rolled outward, every nerve singing awake. He kissed her again with lips parted and began to draw, the suction gentle but unrelenting.

His magic flowed, warm and heavy and sweet as incense, seeping into her skin. He wasn’t just leaving a mark; he was pouring himself into her. She could feel the mark taking shape—a deep, spreading pleasure that had her back arching, lips parting, breaths stuttering. It dragged a sound from her throat she didn’t recognize. Eyes slipped shut, her head tilting back to give him more.

He took it.

His hand came to her waist, grounding her. His mouth stayed sealed to her skin, and she could feel his restraint—how carefully he held himself, how tightly he reined it in, but his magic told a different story. It surged through her in pulses—wild, possessive, a drumbeat she couldn’t silence.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. He didn’t even lift his head. His hands slid from her waist to her back, climbing up to cup her shoulder blades, bringing her even more flush against him. He kissed her neck again. He couldn’t seem to stop, as if her skin had become his gravity. He groaned against her throat, a tortured sound that made her belly clench. Cassia exhaled, shaky and hot, her hand rising without thinking to touch his jaw.

Ark didn’t startle. He leaned into her palm instead.

She shifted, slowly—just enough for her lips to brush the edge of his cheekbone, for her nose to rub against his skin.

He turned his head⁠—

—and their lips met, as though by an unspoken accord. As though they’d both been waiting for the permission this mark had finally given them.

His lips were warm, more velvet than heat, at first. The moment they met hers, something in her caved. There was no pretence left. No mission, no performance. Just the truth of his mouth on hers and the way her body responded to every touch, every slow stroke of his tongue against hers.

The kiss deepened almost without warning. One moment, it was soft—like the brush of breath between them. The next, his hand lowered again to grip her hips, anchoring her, while her own slipped into his collar, brushing against his neck. Her other hand came up, sliding into the silk of his hair, and then her fingers brushed against it: the solid, ridged, warm base of his horn.

He froze. His body went rigid against hers—breath hitched, kiss stalling. Her instinct was to pull away, to apologize for the intrusion, but his arm tightened around her, holding her in place. A silent plea to stay.

And in that suspended second, the magnitude of it crashed over her.

His horns were the crown of his true self—the symbol of everything he kept hidden from the world. To touch them was an invitation into the most sacred space he possessed. He was letting down the final wall. For her.

Her heart hammered—awed, frantic. Her fingertips traced the ridges slowly, feeling the texture, the warmth, the low thrum of power that seemed to pulse in time with her own heartbeat. A low, guttural sound came from him, a raw noise of pleasure and surrender that seemed to be torn from a place beyond his control. The kiss turned hungry again. She pushed against his shoulder and climbed onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The heat between them rose. Her magic stirred beneath her skin, answering his, brushing against his like a match finding kindling.

When they finally broke their kiss, he didn’t go far. Their foreheads touched, their breaths came in unsteady pulls. His thumb rested in the hollow beneath her lips.

Cassia blinked at him—flushed, undone. Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, near the base of his horn. Ark was silent, his eyes half-lidded, lips parting slightly. He was trembling. She could feel his muscles quivering beneath her. His heartbeat thudded through the thin barrier of their clothes, echoing her own.

“Well,” she murmured, voice barely there, “that was . . .”

“Thorough?” he offered, his voice hoarse.