Page 39 of Bought By the Manticore

“Skaros.”

I didn’t say it aloud. I couldn’t. But I felt him hear it, the way he had heard me when he was only vines and I was dying.

“Ianthe.”His voice in my mind was raw, barely human, a growl shaped into meaning.“I can feel you. Your heartbeat, your scent, your desire. Even where I’m not touching you. Especially there. I can’t stop feeling you.”

“Then don’t,”I sent back, and I didn’t know if I was comforting him or begging him.

Skaros groaned against my neck. His massive frame shuddered. He drove his hips forward one last desperate time and poured his own release deep into my core.

He held me tight against his chest as the tremors slowly faded from our limbs. His breathing was harsh and ragged, stirring the golden strands of his mane where they fell across my face. He didn’t pull out of me. He simply let his heavy weight settle over my body, burying his face in my hair.

I let my head fall to the side, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.

I lifted my right hand. The skin across the back of my knuckles was glowing. The intricate mark was the undeniable proof of what we had done. I wasn’t a dying woman anymore, and he wasn’t a scattered ghost haunting the dirt.

I dropped my hand to his back, burying my fingers in his thick tawny fur.

Skaros eased back just enough to look down at me. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder, his rough tongue licking the blood away from the bite wound. With Asphodelia’s magic at work, it would likely soon disappear. But the mark on my hand would stay forever.

The den was quiet. The fire pit cast long, shifting shadows against the basalt walls. For the first time since the thorns had taken root in my blood, I closed my eyes without bracing for the pain, perfectly safe in the arms of the monster who had claimed me.

15

An Elegant Solution

Skaros

The feel of Ianthe’s body against mine was like a miracle. Her hand was still tangled in my mane, and her breath came slow and even. The bite on her shoulder had stopped bleeding, but I could smell it. Copper and salt. Clean. No sickness. Just her.

My tail twitched, an involuntary response. She was dreaming, and the bond carried it to me, a faint pull in the base of my spine. She was reaching for me, even in her sleep, and my body answered before my mind caught up.

Rock scraped against basalt at the den’s entrance, the stone grinding in its track. I pulled out from under her hand, careful not to jar her awake. My tail lifted with the barb hovering above the floor, a drop of venom pooling at the tip. I flared my wings.The embers behind me threw my shadow forward, and I angled it to cover her sleeping form.

A snarl built in my chest, low and rattling. If Eryx and the Weaveguards breached my den to drag her back to that freezing temple, I would tear their throats out before they took a single step inside.

The stone stopped moving. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, and the mist of Asphodelia rolled over the threshold, damp and metallic. I braced my hind legs.

Aion entered first. He had to lower his bronze shoulders to clear the frame. Medea followed, keeping close to him. Finally, Phix stepped into the amber light.

My mother folded her obsidian wings tight against her back and stopped a few paces away. Her dark eyes found my face, then traced the muscles of my chest and the curve of my tail.

None of them carried weapons. They smelled of caution and sharp disbelief, but the air lacked the biting tang of a threat.

Behind me, the bedding rustled. Ianthe’s breath caught as she woke. She rose from the furs, wrapping a thick pelt around her body, then came to me. Her hand found my flank, her fingers sinking into my fur as she pressed her weight against my side.

I didn’t lower my wings. I kept my stance wide and my tail raised, positioning myself between the door and my mate.

“You breached my den,” I growled. “Why?”

Phix met my eyes. “You’re my son. I needed to talk to you. Did you think I’d wait for permission?”

She was my mother. She’d kept my den ready, and she’d never believed I was gone. But she was also a creature of this city, bound by its laws. She hadn’t come here just to embrace me. I could smell it on her, the same weight she carried when she spoke of the Loom, of her duties in the Agora. She had come to tell me something I wouldn’t want to hear.

Medea took a step forward. The cold, sharp scent of her death magic filled my nose, stronger now. But her eyes held something I didn’t expect. Relief.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “When you died, Asphodelia said your death was a gift. The grace of Thanatos, your people called it, and they celebrated. But I grieved. You were kind to me. Kinder than I deserved.”

Medea had once been my bride in name only. The woman whose uncontrolled power had scattered me into threads of death energy. But she’d mourned my loss after I’d been unwoven. I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know if it changed anything.