Page 115 of A House of Gold
"You are mine!" The words come out raw, furious. "You bound yourself to me. To my house. You told me you belonged to me. And now I can feel you, always, constantly, and it's driving me insane because you're here but you're not mineenough."
Through the binding, I feel it, the desperate hunger, the jealousy, the self-loathing that he feels this way at all. He hates wanting me this much. Hates needing anything. Hates that three thousand years of perfect control have been shattered by one human who won't belong to him completely.
"This is killing you," I say quietly. "Wanting me."
"Yes."
"You hate it."
"Yes."
"You hate me for making you feel this way."
"No." The word comes out sharp, definitive. "I hate myself for feeling it. For being weak enough to want something I can't keep. For falling for a human who's going to leave me." His jaw works. "But I don't hate you. I couldn't. Not when you're..."
He stops. Shakes his head. Turns away.
"Say it," I demand. "Finish that sentence."
"No."
"Say it, Croesus."
"Why?" He spins back to face me. "So you can have more power over me? So you can know exactly how deeply you've gotten under my skin? So you can use it against me?"
"Because I need to know if I'm the only one losing my mind here!" The words burst out of me, raw and desperate. "Because I can feel what you feel through this binding, and it's making me crazy because I'm starting to feel the same way and I hate it. I hate that I'm falling for you. I hate that the thought of leaving in ten months makes me want to scream."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"You're falling for me," Croesus says slowly.
"Yes. And I hate it. Because you obviously hate that you're falling for me, and this whole thing is a disaster, and we're both going to end up destroyed by this."
"Yes." He moves closer. "We are."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know." Another step. "I've never wanted anything I couldn't have. Never felt anything I couldn't control. This," He gestures between us. "This is uncharted territory."
"For both of us."
"Yes."
We're close now. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Close enough to feel the heat and fury and desperatewantradiating off him in waves.
Through the binding, I feel his restraint. Paper-thin and crumbling.
"Tell me to leave," I whisper. "Tell me to go back to my room and we can pretend this conversation never happened."
"I can't."
"Try."
"I can't." His hands come up, cup my face. "Because you're right here. Finally, after three weeks of staying away, trying to get control of this, you're right here and you're telling me you're falling for me too and I can't, I don't?—"
I kiss him.
It's not gentle. Not tentative. It's fury and frustration and weeks of feeling his emotions through the binding while he avoided me. It's claim and counterclaim, taking what I want because I'm tired of pretending I don't want it.
