Page 152 of Claimed

The ritual requires no perfumes, oils, glamour or spellwork clinging to either of us. Every trace of Selphine’s magic that Rowan could safely quiet has been burned back. The rest lies dormant under my tongue, tense and sullen, as if waiting to see whether I survive this.

According to Valentin, the only scents that should exist between us tonight are ‘yours on mine and mine on yours’.

He said it with that imperious, molten certainty of his, and my body, disgraceful traitor it is, reacted so hard I nearly dropped the towel.

Now there’s no towel or clothes or knives.

The last part is the most disturbing.

I flex my fingers at my sides, far too aware of the absence of my beloved Widow’s Fang and Arachne wire and every sharp little friend that lets me pretend I’m in control.

‘You’re missing your weapons,’ Valentin says. His voice comes from across the circle. I look at him and nearly swallow my tongue.

He’s naked too. Completely and devastatingly.

Candlelight moves over his broad shoulders, carved chest, old scars and faint tattoos like worship. His hair falls loose around his face, his eyes glowing like silver fires.

And his cock… sweet Gods, his cock is fully erect, thick and harder than I’ve ever seen it, flush against his chiselled stomach, and apparently even the potential arrival of death, prophecy and underworld collapse cannot stop my body from noticing that the man is built like a sin commissioned by an emperor.

‘Subtle,’ I manage.

His mouth curves faintly as he prowls towards me. ‘I have no interest in subtlety tonight.’

‘Clearly.’

His gaze travels over me… slowly. Reverently and with such savage hunger, I can’t quite locate the breath I lost… oh, hours ago.

The look is worse than a touch. It moves over my throat, my breasts and diamond-hard nipples, my stomach, the place between my thighs already slick because fear and desire have joined forces to pound, pound, pound.

The bond hums between us in solidity.

Open.

Bright.

Terrifying.

You are afraid, he says into my mind.

I lift my chin. ‘I’d be deeply concerned about my intelligence if I weren’t.’

His expression tightens. Not with anger. With love.

Gods, I know his love now. I feel it. It’s savage, protective, possessive, humbled by its own helplessness. It’s an impossible thing, being loved by Valentin Moretti. Like standing under a storm and realising the lightning wants to keep you warm.

He crosses the outer circle. The runes flare under his feet, then settle.

He stops an arm’s length away. Close enough to touch, for me to feel the cool heat coming off his skin. But he doesn’t reach for me yet.

That matters. Apparently.

‘Remember what I told you about the ritual?’

I swallow. Then nod. ‘The time and the place do not matter.’ I repeat his words to me… a lifetime ago. ‘But…’ My pulse beats hard in my throat.

‘But it begins and ends with consent,’ he finishes. ‘Without it, the bond will not take. It cannot be forced to completion by violence, by blood, by fate, or by fear, regardless of what some would attempt.’

‘And it requires verbal consent.’