Extrait

His hand closes over mine.

"Let me," he murmurs, and a moment later, the buckle is loose. He loosens the others with quick fingers. Then he kneels to pull off the leather greaves from my shins. Moments later, I am in nothing but my shift, and he stands, closer than he was before.

"Could you -" I cannot meet his gaze, and he turns around, dropping the towel. Oh hells. I close my eyes immediately though I do not want to, and wait until I'm certain he's in the water.

When his back is turned toward me, I kick off my boots, throw my shift and drawers into a corner. For a long moment, my hand hovers above my hair. I have worn it in this braid since I was a girl, since I got to Blackcliff. The Centurions tried to cut it, but Cain told them that if they touched my hair, he would take off their arms.

I rarely wear my hair loose. The last time I remember doing so was the night of graduation, and only at my mother's insistence.

But I pull it free now. It cascades down my back, and I submerge myself in the water, letting the heat of the pool sink into my muscles. When I come up for air, Harper has turned toward me.

I cross my arms in front of me awkwardly, well aware that I am all muscle, that I have none of Laia's lush curves or Livia's softness.

Harper moves toward me, takes me in slowly. His mouth quirks in the closest thing to a smile I've ever seen from him. Skies, how long have I been staring his face without realizing it, memorizing his most minute expressions.

For some reason, I keep my attention on the water. I am afraid of rejection. Or mockery. Or realizing that his feelings are shallower than the well of desire within my own heart.

"Look at me," he whispers. But I cannot. "Helene," he says, and the sound of my name on his lips is marvelous. My eyes are hot, and his hand comes up beneath my chin. "Look at me."

I drag my gaze to his, and my breath catches at the look in his eyes. Desire to match my own, just as dark, just as heady. He holds nothing back with his look. He hides nothing.

"Tell me why you're here."

"You know why." I try to turn away, but he will not let me.

"But I need you to say it. Please."

"I'm here because it's been months since you kissed me, but I think about that moment so often it feels like it happened yesterday," I say. "And because when I saw you go down in the battle, I thought I'd - I'd tear apart the world if anything happened to you. And because I -"

His hands are at my hips, and he pulls me closer. My legs rise easily in the water, wrapping around his waist, and his fingers dig into my skin. He mutters something and kisses my throat, slow and careful as he follows the column of my neck to my jaw and settles finally on my mouth, where, suddenly, he is careful no longer.

But I don't care, because I don't want to be careful either. I bite his lip, savage, hungry, and he makes a sound low in his throat. I do not know we have reached the edge of the pool until the cold stone digs into my back and he is lifting me up, trailing kisses up my thighs, higher. In his hands, I am beautiful, sacred, beloved. Beneath his lips, I am undone.

I close my eyes and run my hands over his taut arms, his shoulders, his neck, marveling at his perfection, that impression of coiled strength. My breath quickens, and my legs, my arms, corded with muscle from years of training, quiver beneath his touch. When I slide back into the pool, trembling and impatient, he smiles, a smile that belongs to me alone.

"Helene," he whispers against my ear.

I sigh. "Say it again."

"Helene". He tilts my face toward him, and as our bodies come together, as I cry out his name, my fingers digging into his back at the ache of him inside me, he says it again, and again. Until I am the Blood Shrike no longer, but simply Helene. His Helene.