Page 80 of A House of Gold
My breath catches. "What?"
"You." His hands frame my face. "When I look at you, when I touch you, when you look at me like you're seeing past the gold to whatever's underneath, for just a moment, the hunger quiets. Just a moment. But it's more peace than I've had in three thousand years."
"Croesus," I whisper.
"That's why I kissed you. Why I called you mine. Why I can't let you go." His voice is raw. "Because you're the first thing I've wanted that actually satisfies something. Not the hunger for acquisition. The hunger for connection."
I should pull away. Should remind him this is temporary, that I'm leaving in less than a year, that whatever this is can't last.
But I just felt what he feels, experienced his curse. Just lived inside his pain for fifteen minutes that felt like eternity.
And I can't walk away from that, away from him.
I kiss him.
Not because he's claiming me. Not because I'm too tired to resist. But because I choose to. Because I felt his suffering, and I want to ease it, even if just for a moment. Because under the gold and the greed and the three thousand years of endless hunger, there's something worth saving.
He makes a sound, surprise and relief and desperate need, and kisses me back like I'm water and he's been dying of thirst. Like I'm air and he's been drowning. Like I'm the first sunrise after three thousand years of night. His hands are in my hair, on my back, pulling me closer like he's trying to pull me inside his skin.
The kiss is hungry but not greedy. Desperate but not demanding. It tastes like blood and salt, his power and my tears, and something underneath which might be hope. That might be healing. That might be the first moment of peace he's felt since the fall.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Stay with me tonight," he says. "Don't go back to your room. Stay here. With me."
"Croesus. "
"Not for sex. Not for anything except..." He stops for a moment, then starts again. "I don't want to be alone tonight. And I don't think you do either."
He's right. The thought of going back to my empty room, of lying in that bed alone after feeling what he feels, after understanding his pain...
I can't do it.
"Okay," I whisper. "I'll stay."
His private chambers are nothing like I expect.
Not a dragon's hoard or a throne room or anything ostentatious. Just a bedroom, large but simple. A massive bed with black sheets. A fireplace that burns with golden flames. Windows that show impossible views: desert sunsets, ocean waves, mountain peaks. All of them fake. All of them beautiful. Not going to lie, I’m relieved to see something besides ambiguous golden light out the window at this point.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the bed. "I'll get you water."
He disappears into an adjoining bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at my arms. The forty-seventh tattoo is forming, I can feel it burning itself into my skin. A coin. Simple. Elegant. The mark of greed.
The mark of understanding what Croesus is.
He returns with water and what looks like a first aid kit. Crouches in front of me, starts cleaning the cut on my arm with careful, gentle hands. It’s not necessary. It’s already healing easily.
"You didn't have to help me," I say quietly. "You could have let me do the ritual alone."
"No, I couldn't." He wraps my arm with clean bandages. "Your blood wouldn't have been strong enough. You needed mine to break my curse. And even if you hadn't—" He looks up. "I couldn't watch you suffer through that alone. Not when I know exactly how it feels."
"You suffer through it alone every day."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because I'm used to it." His hands still on my arm. "You're not. And you shouldn't have to be."
