Page 72 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

But I’m too exhausted to dive into that with him right now. We’re here for one reason and one reason alone—and that reason isn’t to start a fight over our accommodation.

I look up at him over my shoulder. The light catches the metal studs in his ears and the silver hoop through his septum with every slight movement, a metallic glimmer against the velvet dark.

The silence between us is a lead weight pressing against my chest, filled with the hum of a world that feels like it’s going to swallow me whole. And one thought has been nagging at the forefront of my mind since I stepped into those streets—a cold little itch I can't scratch.

“Where are they?” I ask hesitantly. “The people. The… human souls?”

I expect him to lie, or to give me some cryptic, demonic riddle designed to make me feel even more like a glass figurine. But he doesn’t. He just leans against the railing, his silhouette cutting a hole in the skyline.

“There are designated hubs throughout the city,” he says simply. “Some of them are close to where we came through the Veil. And then, there are the Grey Archives. Out that way.”

He raises a hand, pointing a long, black-nailed finger toward the very edge of the world. In the impossible distance, far beyond the jagged obsidian spires, there’s a flicker. It isn't the neon purple of the city; it’s a low, angry burnt orange. A line of fire on the horizon.

I stare at that orange line, my heart hammering against my ribs, until he turns back to me, and his fingers slide into my hair. He cards them through the strands, his touch surprisingly slow, almost hypnotic, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You are scared,” he observes, massaging my scalp.

“Yeah, well,” I breathe. “Turns out being a mortal in Hell is a little bit scary.”

He reaches up with his other hand, his palm warm as he frames the side of my face. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone with a deliberate pressure that forces me to keep my chin up, pinning my gaze to his. Those golden, snake-like eyes are dark, focused, and terrifyingly possessive.

“I have told you,” he murmurs, bending down until his face is hovering inches from mine, “no harm will come to you while you are bound to me.”

He leans in closer, a soft breath of that cloyingly dark spice brushing across my lips. “I can take it away if you’ll allow it,” he purrs. “The fear. The grief. The noise of the horizon. I can make the world very small, little summoner. Just the size of this balcony. Just the size of my hands on you.”

“I'm filthy,” I whisper. “I'm covered in soot and Hell and...”

“Excuses, excuses,” he tuts softly. “You think I care about the dust of my own home?”

My fingers go numb as he moves behind me and begins to unlace the ridiculous Victorian corset I’m shoved into. It’s a slow, agonizing process; he treats the laces like he’s disarming a bomb, his knuckles grazing the skin of my back with every deliberate tug of the cord. The stiff fabric finally groans and relents, falling away in a heap of useless finery.

“Lift your hips,” he rasps against the back of my neck.

I obey like a sleepwalker, my movements fluid with a strange, narcotic heat. He slides the skirt down my legs, the velvet whispering against my skin until it pools at my feet.

I’m exposed. Bare-breasted and shivering in anticipation from the way his gaze devours me, his golden eyes tracking every shudder of my frame. His fingers roam over the jagged scar on my stomach, tracing the raised, uneven tissue with a slow reverence that makes my skin crawl in the best possible way.

Then, his hands dip lower, sliding under the waistband of my underwear. His knuckles drag through the patch of hair, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. A desperate gasp escapes my throat as his fingers swipe over my pussy.

He pauses, his brow furrowing. “You aren't wet,” he murmurs. “Not enough. We have to fix that. I won't have you dry for what I’m going to do to you.”

He kneels down and drags me across the bench, laying me back across the cool iron, the metal biting into my spine as a contrast to the furnace-heat of his skin. He pushes my knees back toward my shoulders, opening me up completely to the neon night and the violet skyline of a city that could eat me alive if it wanted to.

“Malachi—”

His hands pin against my ass cheeks, spreading my thighs as wide as they can go as he leans in, nipping at the sensitive, pale flesh of my inner thigh with his fangs, just deep enough to make me hiss.

Then he drops his head and feasts.

The first lick is a heavy, hot stroke that drags through my lips from bottom to top. He sucks my clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, sending sparks up my spine.

My hips buck up off the iron. “Oh, fuck,” I choke out.

It feels so fucking good it’s offensive. It’s a betrayal of my grief and a riot in my veins.

Before I can catch my breath, his fingers shove inside me—two at once, a blunt stretch that punches a ragged cry out of my throat. He curls them upward, finding that one spot that makes my toes curl, and begins to fuck me open with his hand while his mouth continues its assault. I claw around myself, searching for purchase, my body a frantic, grinding mess against his face.

He chuckles darkly against my skin, the vibration rattling through my pelvic bone, and he reaches up, grabbing my wrists and guiding my hands to the base of his horns.