A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Forty-nine

Forty-nine

12:45 AM

6 hours until execution

Tyr steeled himself against life’s greatest new challenge.

“I thought I told you not to come back.” Dwyn draped her nude form over the bed while Ophir remained in the near-nude state provided by her sheer gown, which was nothing new. Dwyn lacked clothes as often as she lacked a conscience. She was objectively beautiful, the same way that a venomous cobra or brightly colored spider is beautiful. Her hair was the black, glossy iridescent of raven feathers and spilled ink. Her chest and hips curved generously, which had been a refreshing testament of confidence in a world that glorified starving itself for social norms. She owned the rooms she entered, she loved her body, her skin, the words that came out of her mouth. Her eyes were large, her lips were berry-dark, and she was all the things that might be okay to see if it was your last moment on earth as she murdered you. In so many ways, she could have been interesting, or admirable, or clever.

She was beautiful, yes. And she was profoundly, and irredeemably, evil.

Dwyn spoke to the invisible space where the door had opened and closed, propped up against the pillows on the far side of the bed while Tyr let the thoughts flit through his mind. He realized with some idleness that she almost always slept to Ophir’s right side. He’d never thought much of it, but he’d also vastly underestimated how conniving she was. Perhaps it had been a subtle way to tell Ophir that she was her right-hand man. Or fae. Or witch. Or whatever it was she wanted to be called that day.

The time to reappear had come and gone. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

Tyr sucked in a single, steadying breath. He put on his most disarming smile before stepping back into the light. “Yes, but I’ve never been good at taking orders. I prefer to be the one giving them.”

The room was already dark, save for two dim lights on either bedside. Hopefully it would help to conceal any traitorous emotions on his face. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure that his feelings toward Dwyn had changed at all. He’d hated her before and hated her now. If anything, it felt good to be right.

He didn’t expect what happened next.

Ophir extended her hand for him from where she sat on the bed. Her fingers wiggled to emphasize her unspoken request, which surprised him.

“What are you doing?” Dwyn asked, eyes flashing as she looked between them. She made no effort to conceal her horror. “Make him sleep on the floor.”

Ophir shook her head, unbothered. “I have an execution in the morning, and I’m nervous. I think I should get to sleep sandwiched between you two lunatics if it makes me feel any better. Next time you put someone to death in a foreign city at dawn, you can call the shots. Deal?”

She made a convincing argument.

He struggled to move toward her while he juggled painful truths. Keeping things from her didn’t feel right. It was dishonest. It was cruel. Yet, if he told her, he would be putting Ophir at extreme risk. There was no way to keep Dwyn relaxed and in the dark if Ophir knew what he did. But if he stayed close…if he kept her as close as physically possible…

Tyr approached, begging his heart to slow down. Its arrhythmic thunder wasn’t only from what he’d learned, or what it meant. It wasn’t just his conversation with Harland and Samael, or their plans for the morning. It was also seeing the princess reach out for him. She wanted him there. She wanted him.

He wondered if the women could hear the way his treacherous organ skipped and pounded within the cage of his chest. Perhaps if they did, they’d mistake his nerves for being invited to sleep beside her. He’d snuck in a time or two because he enjoyed irritating Dwyn and causing trouble, and Ophir had found him equally charming, which emboldened him. This was his first time entering her bed truly invited. It wouldn’t serve him to act like anything was different, but in that moment, he lost the capacity for thought. He had no idea what he would normally do in this situation. Would he have a smartass remark? Would he antagonize Dwyn? Would he compliment Ophir? Goddess, she’d broken him simply by wanting him there.

Perhaps the reason he couldn’t think of an ordinary reaction was that there was no bar for normal. A beautiful princess inviting you into her bed with a naked, possessive villain at her side was no commonplace occurrence. Maybe he was right to be nervous.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to do the only thing that was asked of him—he couldn’t act like nothing had changed, because it had. He couldn’t keep the smile on his face as he pulled the shirt off over his head. He’d be lying if he said Ophir’s appreciative murmur hadn’t set his world on fire. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the women as he took off his boots. He wasn’t afraid of Dwyn—not in the slightest. He’d been ready to die for a long time, if it meant rejoining his dog in the afterlife. But he was afraid for Ophir and wouldn’t rest peacefully until he’d brought justice upon the men who’d harmed the perfect, happy pup who hadn’t deserved her fate. The princess was no helpless animal. She could handle herself, of course. She was fierce and terrifying or a force of gods and nature alike. But he was afraid because there was no merit in the betrayal happening right in front of her. Nothing in her life warranted having her closest ally be her worst enemy.

They both deserved better.

He couldn’t help Svea. But he would die to ensure Ophir’s fate was better.

Ophir’s intuition must have pricked. Her brown-gold eyebrows met in the middle as she looked at him, searching his face for an explanation. It was dark in the room, but not so dark that he couldn’t see the way her eyes always sparkled, as if she wore the gilded crown around her irises rather than atop her head. Fuck, she was beautiful.

But she was so much more than that.

She was rebellious and independent and funny and brave. She didn’t give a damn about convention or tradition or what was expected of her. She did what she wanted when she wanted, and she did it so damn well. She was a highborn noble who’d traipsed across the desert alone to avenge her sister. She was a true, living goddess.

Their eyes held for a moment too long.

The energy exchanged was too sincere.

His intention reached for her, and hers reached back.

He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he pressed his hand against her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head. He wanted her to know that she was safe, that he was with her, that she wasn’t alone. He wanted to use his body as a physical barrier between Ophir and the witch. He wanted to build a wall composed of flesh, bone, and safety. Her breath caught in her throat. He knew it the same moment that Dwyn saw it, and Ophir realized precisely what was happening. While he could see Dwyn’s dark eyes widen in horror from his peripheral vision, it was the way Ophir’s began to flutter closed, the way she leaned into his hand, the way her lips parted ever so slightly that sealed his fate.

He was going to kiss her.

It was less like an urge and more like an inevitability. He knew he would find her skin. He knew the current that ran between them would be like a mountain river. His pulse thrummed in his chest, behind his eyes, his fingertips, to the consistent, desperate throb deep within him. His ears rang, lightheaded as every drop of blood in his body found a new, singular purpose. He wouldn’t have said no to this moment even if he’d had a choice—but he didn’t. It was fated, as if it had already happened, as if it would happen again.

If he couldn’t kill Dwyn, if he couldn’t remove Ophir safely from the room, then he could create a world where Dwyn didn’t exist. That part of him didn’t care that Dwyn was there—she was nothing to him, nothing to Ophir. He could have been in front of an audience. This may as well have been on the platform outside of the palace before the citizens of Midnah. It didn’t matter. The moment was theirs.

Pure sunlight dripped from her tongue. He drank deeply the moment their lips connected. The hand not tangled in her hair found her back, pulling her as close to him as she could be. It took three seconds, two hands, one shared heartbeat to let him know that she wanted it as badly as he did. He drank her in, kissing her so deeply that he nearly lost her breath, feeling the moment she struggled to catch hers. He could feel every inch of her skin through the barely there gauze of fabric that separated his bare chest from the soft pillows of her breasts. When she knotted a hand in his hair, he knew it was over.

He had to be stronger.

“Ophir. I don’t think—”

“I want this,” she said.

He swallowed, desperate to pull her closer, to yank her away from Dwyn. “Firi, it’s not—”

Ophir rested a finger against his lips, silencing him. She inclined her chin toward the third party in their room. Never to be outdone, Dwyn rose to the occasion. She kissed Ophir’s temple, then her jaw. Then Ophir twisted out of his arms just enough to offer her mouth.

He tightened his hand where it remained in Ophir’s hair, as if securing the physical barrier between Ophir and Dwyn. If he couldn’t keep his emotions off his face, he might have to slip into the place between things. For now, all he wanted was for Ophir to know he was here with her— for her.

He should stop this.

“But Dwyn—”

“Is a witch,” Ophir completed, hands abandoning him completely as they ran over the bare shoulders of Dwyn’s skin. She shot a wry look to Dwyn, who winked at their acknowledgement but didn’t bother breaking her contact. “I know.”

It took everything in him not to shove Dwyn off her. “You know she’s a sociopath,” Tyr muttered through gritted teeth against her throat as he continued moving along her skin. He’d just as soon stab Dwyn through the heart as share a bed with her. Maybe that was Ophir’s one fault. She had terrible taste in women.

Everyone was allowed at least one flaw.

Dwyn had no power here. This moment wasn’t about her. It belonged to Ophir.

***

Weightless was never something Ophir had been afforded.

Joy and lust and want and need were the sort of escapes she chased, always slipping between her fingers like sand. Then sometimes, if only for a moment, she caught them. Instead of sand, the silken strands of Dwyn’s hair balled in her fists. Ophir pulled her close, loving the petal-soft feel of her lips, the way her breasts pressed into her own, the way they peaked with desire and her skin flushed red and hot and chilled with goose flesh all at once.

Dwyn is a sociopath, Tyr had said. Sure, sure. But didn’t they all have their shortcomings?

“A sociopath who’s great in bed,” Ophir responded through her kiss, still facing away from Tyr. She was so glad he was here, and she didn’t care what it meant. She’d missed them. She’d wanted them. She’d known it from the moment she’d entered the desert and wished they’d been by her side.

“The crazy ones are the best lays,” Dwyn agreed with wicked ease.

Dwyn smiled against her cheeky remark as the siren soaked in each word that came out of her mouth. She tasted the mint, possession, and greed on Dwyn’s lips. Ophir turned the fullness of her body toward the young woman to her right, which Dwyn took as a victory. She didn’t want the night to end. She didn’t want the moment to break.

Tyr could have refused to participate. He could have left her, abandoning them to their passions.

He didn’t.

Sitting upright had been a luxury afforded to her before she was drunk on the moment. It rushed through her veins stronger than wine, its dizzying, overpowering sensation knocking her to her side. When she let her head hit the pillow to absorb each kiss, each touch, each soft fingertip, each tug of the hair, each brush and movement, his strong arm pinned her to his chest. She arched her back, hips seeking him. He pressed into her and she knew there was no turning back. She wanted him. She’d wanted this for a long time.

Ophir’s mouth broke away from Dwyn as she looked over her shoulder to where Tyr continued to hold her, to kiss her. He squeezed her tighter. His unwillingness to release her set her body on fire. He clung to her like she was a lifeline. Her back arched again, but her chest moved forward, rolling toward Dwyn.

Dwyn tugged the gauzy dress down over her shoulders, allowing the fabric to pool around her navel. She felt the wet, cool sensation of a tongue on the most sensitive parts of her breasts. She gasped, savoring the tingle that ran from her nipples to her toes at the gentle, luxurious sucking. Dwyn, to her credit, didn’t seem to brim with the same hate that generally possessed her. Perhaps sex was her break from fury—her escape from the misery that consumed her. This was about fun. From the electric tip of every nerve and the quiver of her heart to the pulse of water between her legs. This was ecstasy.

Tyr’s fingertips pressed into her jaw, urging her to turn away from Dwyn. Her mouth found his, lost in how he consumed her. Soft fingers slipped down to help him out of his pants. His eyes rolled back the moment her fingers grazed his hardened, throbbing place. Their kiss broke against his savoring noises, but her focus was stolen away from him in a fraction of a second. Ophir gasped, the sharp, high sound one of both pleasure and surprise, as Dwyn had not waited. She’d continued licking and kissing her way down the middle of Ophir’s body, pushing the gauzy dress up to uncover her knees, her thighs, her hips, every part of her, laying claim to the princess the moment her mouth made contact with where her thighs met, connecting at her very center.

The explosion of stars before her eyes was the birth of the universe, the moon, the night, the world around her swirling. Each slow, claiming circle of Dwyn’s tongue, each arch of her hips against Tyr, each wet, sensual lick resulted in a new rush of water.

Ophir’s fingers tightened where they’d stayed in contact with Tyr’s shaft. He kissed her neck as she rolled from the pleasure. She knew Dwyn wasn’t good at sharing, but tonight their bed was meant for more than two.

The moan she made was one she’d never heard escape from her throat before, but then again, this was something she’d never done before. These sensations were utterly new. This was a fullness, a worship, an excitement, a pleasure too delicious for the disrespect of silence. This was not making love. This was not sex. This was glorious, beautiful, toe-curling, luxurious, debaucherous fucking.

More hands. More mouths. More breath and oxytocin and sensation and pure, unadulterated indulgence. More electric than the static in the air before a lightning storm. More intense than the sharp, breathtaking pain of falling to your back so hard that the wind was knocked from your lungs. More beautiful than a field of spring blossoms or scrolls of poetry or secret smiles between loves. More depraved than theft or violence or murder.

More, more, more.

Dwyn lifted the front of her dress, and Tyr gathered the back of the material, bunching it higher until her ass pressed against his hips.

She guided him in like a hot knife through butter, melting at the low growl of pleasure that reverberated through him as he entered her. She couldn’t help the way her body arched, the way her hips moved, the sounds she made, the pleasure she felt as he finished pulling the crumbled material of her dress up and over her head from where it had collected.

The way Tyr held her, so firmly, so unrelentingly as he moved within her made her both completely safe and utterly surrendered all at once. Dwyn was another creature entirely, one composed of chaos and decadence, one created for anarchy, thrill, and satisfaction. It was an orchestra of sensation, the harmonies and melodies ranging from high strings to deep basses as the music swelled.

Tyr kept her pinned with one arm, but his hand crept up until his calloused hands held her throat. She threw her head back as his forehead bent forward, nestling into the curve of her neck. His speed increased to match the throbbing musical tempo. She was a symphony of passion. In that moment, the world was hers.

She didn’t care how loud she was. She didn’t care if the palace listened, if Harland could hear her scream, if the queen or Tarkhany herself stirred from her bed as Ophir came up against the cliff of pleasure just as she had stood on the edge of the seaside cliffs so many months ago. This time when she was pushed over, she didn’t go alone. Tyr snapped behind her, his jolt of pleasure echoing her own. Strong arms caught her as she fell, tumbling down the edge of the cliff and into the sea. A mouth continued to move on her, as relentless as the breaking waves on the rocky beaches outside of Aubade. Her cries raked through her, body shivering as she was carried under. It was like drowning, like being born, like the first taste of chocolate, falling in love, the sing of a blade, and the spinning buzz of trying the opium in poppy dens all at once.

She didn’t know the meaning of life.

She didn’t know why she’d been put on the earth, why she existed, or why anything meant anything.

But she did know those few moments of euphoria made it all worth it.

The ecstasy achieved in the few, gloriously high moments after orgasm were some of the only true seconds of bliss this world had to offer. Dwyn’s mouth stopped, but she kissed her way up slowly, gently, almost lovingly until she rested her forehead against Ophir’s. She returned the kiss, tasting her own wet sunshine on the siren’s lips. Tyr held her more tightly, staying inside her after the moment had passed. He held her close, pressing her into him as if she were adrift in the sea, at risk of floating away.

The sweat and silk and warmth of the night were everything she could have wanted. Dwyn’s forehead touching her own, the stunning woman’s hands in her hair, and Tyr’s arm wrapped around her, still deeply inside of her, the three fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.