Page 87 of Fire to the Stars

His mouth finds my cheek and jaw, planting delicate kisses as if I were made of glass. I stir with impatience, then sigh when he finally reaches my neck. Anne-Sophie would lecture me for allowing him this close—for jeopardizing my secret—but I can’t help myself. My fingers curl into the fabric above his belt. His fingers twine through my hair, just firmly enough to tilt my head aside. I’m already weak with satisfaction by the time his hand begins to shake.

I giggle, half from the subtle sign of nervousness, half from the tickle of his breath. “You can slow down,” I whisper into his ear. “We have all night.”

Abel walks me backward until I hit the dresser with a gasp. The pitcher, candle, and medicines rock dangerously, but Abel doesn’t stop long enough for me to see what happens to them. I’m just grateful for the added support as the shock of his mouth returns to that delectable spot on my throat. He’s there for several seconds or minutes or days, until his newfound assertiveness peaks and he nips at my skin, a gasp-worthy sharpness that inspires me to pull our hips together.

When his tremors spread to the rest of his body, his mouth abruptly leaves my skin.

“What’s wrong?” I breathe, looking up at him.

“Hold still.”

“If your shoulder hurts—”

“Holdstill,” he commands, voice like ice. The lust in his gaze freezes over. His attention drops to the spot on my neck where he intently kissed.

I shove him off me, slapping a hand over the spot to hide it. Did he leave a mark? Is it fading?

Did it heal?

“Did you kiss me as an experiment?” I ask, betrayal thick in my throat.

Grief strains his handsome features as he takes several steps backward, shaking his head at what he saw.

“Claire.” The frail tone of his voice breaks my heart. “Tell me this is a trick.”

A trick. A con.

“Tell me you’re not a dragon!” he pleads.

I hug myself, as if that can protect me from the consequences of the lies I’ve told.

“You weren’t supposed to care about me,” I whisper.

“You didn’t hire me back in Bourlin because my services came cheap,” Abel realizes, eyes wide. “You’d heard the rumors about my experiments. You hoped I’d found a cure. So when you read my journal and discovered that I hadn’t…”

“I kept lying.”

Emotion brings my body to a terrifying tremble that compels me to pace the room. Abel wavers in place, hand half raised, as if the truth has already killed his desire to touch me.

“Claire—”

“I’m none of those things you said about me!” I scream. Candlesticks, fire pokers, pillows—one by one, I snatch them up, then throw them across the room with all my might. Not a single crash drains the rage and resentment that’s festered beneath my guilt. “I deserve this curse! I’m an evil person who wanted to have your heart and crush it too, once the time came for you to kill me!”

I lift my satchel next. Abel grabs my wrist.

“Stop, Claire!”

“No! Let me go!”

“You’re scaring Lucy!”

My satchel falls from my grip. The contents spill, including Abel’s journal. It lands open, on a bloodstained page, still unwrapped after Lyle read it. Lucy scurries under the bed to avoid the impact.

The sight of her watching me, shaking, under the shelter of the bed skirts, douses my fury like a bucket of water on flame.

“You were right.” I smile, wobbly. “Lucyisa good judge of character.”

He releases my wrist, but only to trace my cheek with his thumb. I’m too greedy for connection to stop him.