Page 192 of Vasmora

“Hmmmm.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, and I swatted him, chuckling. A grin pulled at his lips as he leaned in for another kiss. “I suppose I get the pleasure of both with you.” Clutching my jaw with one hand, he kissed the column of my throat. “Killing to protect what I love,” he said, leaving a trail of kisses across my collarbone. “No matter the threat. God or monster. So long as I breathe.”

Which will be longer than me. I wanted to believe that he had the power to rival the gods, but I’d come to learn how fragile the thread that tethered us to life could be. How easily it could be snapped by their cruel whims.

He tipped his head, brows tight. “What’s troubling you?”

Running my finger over his lips, I smiled. “Mortality. Mine, specifically.”

“How so?”

“Even if we survive this plague, it’s fated that, someday, I’ll die, and you’ll live on.” I traced the curve of his shoulder. “I don’t mean that resentfully. I want you to live on. I’m simply jealous of the world that gets to have you longer than I do.”

“Live on?” His words carried an edge of bitterness, our playful exchange turning serious. “There would be no life after you, moon witch.” He lifted a lock of my hair, running it through his fingers. “Stars would lose their brilliance. My world would dull to a colorless hellscape.”

“Initially, yes,” I said with a smile, trying to lighten his mood. “But in time, that grief would fade.” Despite my words, I knew better than that. Even if I’d been given an eternity to mourn him, my heart would never have healed entirely. The scar left behind would’ve festered and bled, tearing itself open with every memory of him.

“You think time would heal me? Time is inconsequential when it comes to you.” He threaded our fingers together, squeezing my hand. “You are so entwined in me that my heart would stop the moment yours ceased.” Lifting my hand to his lips, he kissed my knuckles. “Your last breath would be my own.”

“That’s a depressing inevitability. Why any immortal would choose to fall in love with a mortal … it seems masochistic.”

He snorted, wrapping his arms around me and gathering me closer. “You say that as if it was a choice I made consciously.”

“You would’ve avoided it otherwise, then. Avoided me.”

“Believe me, I tried,” he said, shamelessly. “There is no love without the promise of pain.” He pressed his palm to my chest, above my breast. “In training, we aim for the heart. The center mass. A deeper target, yes, but skill can deliver an effective blow. Fate duels like a cunning warrior. The most ruthless. When it longs for a fatal strike, it aims for what you love most. A jab to the heart.”

“But you’re a precise and calculated killer,” I said, fingertips mapping the deep grooves in his chest. “Surely, you have the advantage.”

“I was trained to keep a steady hand and sharp mind. Without hesitation, I’d kill for you and lose myself in the thrill of blood and gore.” He trailed his thumb down my face, eyes riveted on my lips. “But should fate ever take you from me, I’d carve my own heart from my chest.” He pressed my hand over the scars there, as if to emphasize his point, but his comment reminded me of my nightmare, and I winced, desperate to banish the visual from my head.

I leaned forward and kissed his chest. “No more talk about death tonight.”

“Agreed.” Palming the back of my head, he pulled me to his lips. “There are far more interesting matters at hand.” He seized my lips, then reached to the side, spilling water over the stone floor as he lifted the bottle of soap before drizzling it over a sponge set out on a tray. Once saturated, he dipped it in the water and gently dragged it down my arm, the delicious scent of his soap sinking into my skin. He kissed my shoulder and dipped the sponge again, leaving a sudsy trail down the other arm, across my chest and breasts. Lifting my hair in his palm, he squeezed the soapy water over my neck and back, working the sponge in small circles.

I closed my eyes, lost in his caresses as he bathed me.

With a gentle nudge, he urged me upright and set one of my feet onto the edge of the bath, placing the apex of my thighs at his face. Steam curled up around me, a gentle blanket of warmth that sheltered me from the chill of the room, while he scrubbed my leg and rinsed away the suds, kissing a heated trail from my knees to my inner thigh.

Head tilted back, he watched me as he dragged the sponge across my stomach then down. Lower.

Lower.

The moment the sponge spilled between my legs, a wild flame raced through my veins, and knees weak, I gripped his shoulder to steady myself. Fresh water trickled across my seam as he squeezed the sponge over it, rinsing the soap away, before his wet lips sipped the drops of water left behind. My legs trembled, stomach tight as the obnoxious sounds of his sucking echoed around me.

A throaty moan ripped from my chest, the room spinning with a dizzying euphoria that settled over me. He pulled away, placing my foot back in the water, and urged my other leg up onto the edge of the tub. After washing me, he followed the same path of kisses, but only spared one long lick of his tongue before tugging me back down into the water.

“You long to torture me, is that it?” I asked with a ragged breath.

His dark chuckle grated on me. “I long to stretch this out as long as it takes to hear you beg for release.”

“Good luck with that.” Before he could lure me into more of his torment, I reached for the second sponge and drizzled soap over it. Just as he had, I dragged it over his arms, chest and neck. With a slight nudge, I prompted him to sit at the edge of the tub, and surprisingly, he indulged me. I gulped when his erection sprang from the water, greeting me with all ten rungs. Practically begging to be touched, the way it stood upright from his thighs.

Light glinted off the silver bars as I squeezed the sponge over the length of his shaft, drenching him in soap. I sketched gentle circles over his groin and bent forward to drag my tongue over one of his nipples. He braced himself, arms planted at either side of his body, and his jaw slackened. “You play a dangerous game, moon witch,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“Just feeding you your own poison.”

After rinsing the soap away, I gripped his rigid flesh with my clawed hand.

Zevander shuddered and tipped his head back, his muscled thighs flexing around me. “Fuck,” he muttered, his graveled voice tight.