Page 90 of A House of Gold
He leads me through the crowd, past angels and demons and creatures I can't identify, toward a set of doors that open onto a balcony.
The balcony overlooks nothing.
Or everything. It's hard to tell. The view shows stars and darkness and impossible distances, like we're standing at the edge of reality itself.
I lean against the railing, breathing in air that tastes like ozone and magic, trying to calm my racing heart.
"That was overwhelming," I say.
"That was politics." Croesus stands beside me, not touching. "This is every gathering. Every meeting. Centuries of power plays and territorial disputes and angels who can't remember why they started fighting in the first place."
"Do you hate it?"
"I hate that you had to be there. That I had to watch them look at you like you're something to be acquired." His hands grip the railing. "That I had to watch Seraph put his hands on you and pretend I didn't want to burn his house to the ground for it."
"It was just a dance."
"It was a claim. He was telling everyone that you're temporary. That in less than a year, you'll be his. And then Idris's. And Kael's. And all the others." He turns to face me. "You'll pass through all of our hands like a coin, and by the end, what will be left of you?"
"I'm stronger than you think."
"I know you're strong. That's not what I'm worried about." He reaches out, stops himself. "I'm worried that you'll change. That serving seven different angels, absorbing seven different curses, will break something in you that can't be repaired. That the woman standing in front of me right now will be gone, and I'll have six years to regret that I couldn't protect her."
My breath catches. "Croesus." I whisper softly.
"I've been cold to you, distant. Since the greed absorption, since you said you wanted to help me, I've been pushing you away." His jaw tightens. "Because letting you close is terrifying.Caring about what happens to you is terrifying. And tonight, watching them look at you, watching Seraph touch you..."
He stops, takes a breath.
"I want to kiss you," he says quietly.
The confession hangs in the air between us.
"Then do it," I whisper.
He moves like he's been waiting for permission. One hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head. The other spans my bare back, pulling me against him. And then his mouth is on mine, and this...
This is different.
Not claiming. Not desperate. Not born from crisis or near-death or the complicated tangle of curses and contracts.
This is choosing.
He kisses me slowly, thoroughly, like he's memorizing the taste of me. His mouth is warm and demanding and careful all at once, and I feel it in every nerve ending. My hands find his jacket, fisting in expensive fabric, pulling him closer even though there's no space left between us.
He makes a sound, low and wanting, and deepens the kiss. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him. Let him in. Let him take what he wants because I want it too.
The hand on my back slides lower, fingers tracing the line of my spine. The hand in my hair tightens, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper, harder, until I'm dizzy with it.
I've been kissed before. By him. By Ash. By other men over the years. But this...this is being devoured.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and his eyes are molten gold.
"That's not possession," he says roughly. "That's not hunger. That's..."
"What?"
"I don't know." His thumb traces my swollen lips. "Something I don't have a name for. Something I didn't think I was capable of feeling."
