Page 191 of The Mercy of Dawn

In all his years—in all his encounters—Mikael had never struggled with the itch of a primal urge consuming him like this. Even as the rolling aftershocks of his fucking mind-blowing orgasm trembled through every inch of his body, pulling the sweetest fucking noises from Cyril, he couldn’t wrench himself away from her neck. She smelled like sex and sweat and cinnamon, and it was gods damn intoxicating.

Mine mine mine mine mine—it was all his fucking lust-addled, blood-drained mind would spit out as he grazed his mouth over that soft, delicate spot of flesh in the crook of her neck. All he wanted was to mark her, claim her, make her his. He wanted every person who saw her to know that she was his, that he would protect her, and he would keep her safe from—

Mikael took a slow breath and brushed his nose up Cyril’s neck.

He needed to will some semblance of reason back into himself and calm the fuck down.

“Mika?” Cyril’s soft, breathless voice ghosted his ear.

Her chest still heaved beneath him, and no small amount of pride coursed through him at that. Even her legs were still wrapped around his waist, keeping him buried in her, and he had no complaints about that.

“Mm?”

“Is this…” She fucking laughed, and the pull of the very depths of her muscles had him groaning. “Is this when you…drink my blood?”

Mikael blinked.

“Is this when I…what?” He pushed himself up on his forearms. One look at the flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips of the woman below him did nothing to help how painfully hard he still was. “Drink your…blood?”

A lopsided smile peeled across her lips.

“Back home, they…well they say that moon-fae, that you…” Her nose wrinkled and Mikael wanted to kiss her again, badly. “...Drink blood, and…sacrifice virgins, and—”

“Mm. Guess you’re no good for sacrifice now, are you?” Mikael rocked his hips for emphasis, a half-scandalized squeak leaving Cyril. “No blood drinking, though. We…we mark our mates, our partners…” He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the crook of her neck again. “And the urge to mark, to bite and claim, is…strong, sometimes, after really good sex.”

A lie. Sort of.

Mikael had been treated to some pretty fucking mind-blowing sex in his life, but the urge had never felt like this before. Cyril just didn’t need to know that right now. Not the details of his past exploits nor the knowledge that marking was supposed to be something special between two moon-fae, a sacred sort of act not taken lightly.

“You’re flattering me now.” Cyril, the wicked fucking woman she was, tangled her fingers in his hair and tipped her head back, baring even more of that perfect, snowy flesh to him. “You can, if you want. I think I’d like it… Your teeth…”

This woman was going to be the death of him.

He grazed his teeth along her neck, just to revel in the shudder that rolled through her, before he said, “You never mark someone the first time you sleep with them, wrath. Terribly bad manners.”

Cyril laughed again, and Mikael groaned. He was holding on by a damn thread.

“Do manners matter now?”

“Of course they do.” Cyril’s eyes flared as Mikael hooked his arm under her knee, angling himself deeper than he dared before. “It’s the difference between me telling you I’m going to have you again, and me asking nicely if I can.”

Something wholly bashful settled into Cyril’s face as she said, “I think I like it more if you just tell me.”

Chapter 46

Waking up beside Mikael was something Cyril had done many times in the last month, but it never felt this right.

Every other time, a boundary existed between them that Mikael mustered up some excuse not to cross.

Every other time, clothing had been involved.

Every other time, Cyril hadn’t felt the overwhelming urge to find a creative way to wake him up. But she smothered that trail of thought for now.

The prince looked so peaceful, laid out on his back, one muscular arm draped across his eyes. The other was sprawled out like an open invitation for Cyril to lie right back down. She’d woken with that arm wrapped around her, her back pressed up against his side, and feeling more content than she ever had.

A feat, considering the events that brought her there.

She didn’t dwell on that much, as she eased out of Mikael’s bed and padded through the piles of their discarded clothes. She pulled on the first shirt she found—his, she realized, when it rolled down to her knees—and slipped quietly into the bathroom.