Rebirth (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 18

H is eyes are still on me, a playful smile on his lips as he takes off his suit jacket. It reveals a dagger strapped to his side just under his left arm.

“Do you always carry that around with you?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Only when I think I might need it.” He puts the jacket on the table, then removes the dagger and places it next to it.

“And you need it now because…” My voice trails off while I take the dagger in—the curved, serrated blade and the handle wrapped in black leather.

“Because using my nails to tear into my own skin isn’t something that I particularly enjoy doing,” he says, sounding amused. “I’m not that much of a monster.”

No, just possibly something else entirely.

He looks at me and, for a single heartbeat, I think he picked up on that thought. His eyes linger for a moment longer, then he returns his attention to the task at hand. His fingers work to unbutton his waistcoat, followed by his shirt. He carefully removes the pieces of clothing, baring his chest.

I gulp at the sight of him, at seeing his lean physique, the defined muscles. Even more so than what’s visible through the suits he always wears. I can’t help but ogle, which in turn earns me a chuckle.

He picks up the dagger and presses the tip of the blade against the skin under his left pectoral.

“What—” Before I finish my sentence, he plunges the blade into his skin, and my lips curl in disgust.

Not a single sound escapes him as he proceeds to make a wide, deep cut. The metal cuts through skin and muscle like butter. The cut is clean yet deep, the flesh pulling away at the edges. Blood starts to flow, coating his chest, streaming down his slacks, and pooling on the floor.

He cleans the blade on the fabric of his slacks and places the weapon back on the desk next to his clothes. He then spreads the gaping, bleeding wound open with his left hand. His mouth twists when he puts his hand knuckle-deep inside the wound, his lips forming a thin line while he digs around.

His red skin turns slightly pale as he loses more and more blood. Something cracks, the sound makes me shudder, and he pulls his fingers back out. They’re coated in dripping blood. He holds something that I’m unable to distinguish through all of the red. He puts it in my hands, and feeling it makes me realize it’s bone. A piece of one of his ribs. It’s rough at the end where he snapped it off, but otherwise is smooth and warm to the touch.

Leaning against the desk, he mumbles a spell, healing the wound under his pectoral. Despite the spell, I notice that a scar remains, a reminder of the piece of rib that he stole from his own body. He looks slightly flustered, catching his breath as he recovers from the self-inflicted injury. He looks at the blood on his chest, his slacks, and the floor, then grins. He moves his attention to me, catching me staring. His eyes grow dark as he notices that the blood doesn’t affect me.

He’s in front of me with a single step, taking the piece of rib from me and holding the dagger out to me instead. “Your turn.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I blink at him, not sure that I heard him correctly.

“You heard me.”

“I did, and no.”

“I can’t do it for you.”

“Don’t want you to, anyway.”

He gives me such a vicious glare that I snatch the dagger from his hand with a scowl on my face. I know very well that he’s capable of forcing me, and he will if I don’t do as he says of my own accord. If I have no choice in the matter, I will at least have control.

Though looking at the dagger, I find my resolve rapidly fading, the weapon cold and heavy in my hand. The black leather around the hilt is soft against my fingers, a stark contrast with the rest of it. The metal of the blade is beautiful, gleaming ominously as it reflects the light from the fireplace.

He takes a step back while I study the dagger, looking at me with impatience in his eyes. He flexes his fingers as if contemplating taking back the dagger and plunging it inside my flesh if I don’t do so myself sometime soon.

I click my tongue, and my eyes wander from him back to the blade in my hands. When I run my finger over the cold, sharp edge, my hands don’t shake—surprisingly enough. Reluctantly, I remove my corset and put it next to his jacket. Refusing to take off my dress, I place the dagger under my right breast. I take a deep breath, then jab it into my chest through the fabric.

Pain surges through me, and I grit my teeth against it; this is only a scratch compared to the cut that I need to make. I stretch my fingers around the leather-bound handle, the sting of pain making me hesitate. Blood wells up and, for a moment, I’m back in that room, in that corner. Though the placement is different, though the pain is worse, the blood is still the same, the feeling the same.

Before I’m able to lose my resolve completely, I place my left hand on top of my right and tighten my grip. A scream lingers on my lips when I push against the dagger. I cut my skin, long and deep enough for the second part of this self-mutilation. When I pull the dagger free, a hiss escapes me. As soon as I throw it on the floor and my hands are free, I instinctively press them against the gaping wound.

It does nothing to stop the bleeding that’s quickly coating my fingers red. The blood oozes through, dripping down my hands, my arms, and all over my dress. The tangy smell of it fills my nose, and I collapse when my legs give out. My hands remain clutched over the wound and tears sting in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I bare my teeth, desperately trying to hold everything in.

A curse escapes me under my breath, yet I still manage to give him my most aggravated look. He kneels in front of me as my eyes start to waver. He tips my chin up with a single finger, making our eyes meet.

“The longer you wait, the greater the chance that you’ll bleed out.”

I groan and cough up blood, which possibly indicates that I cut something I shouldn’t have. “Thanks for the words of comfort,” I bite.

He gives me a soft kiss, licking my blood from his lips as he steps back.

Taking another breath, I spread the cut like he did. Carefully, I push my fingers inside and search for my ribs. Blinding pain shoots through me, and my head falls back in agony. I see stars as I dig around, getting more lightheaded with every passing second. More blood drips from both the wound and my mouth, and panic claws at me.

The pain quickly pushes me toward fainting. It momentarily makes me doubt whether or not I should even be doing this. But he’s right; at this pace, I’m going to bleed out. Though he probably isn’t going to let me die, I’m not willing to take the chance. Of all the ways that I could possibly die—probably should have died by now—having my fingers knuckle-deep in my chest is not how I want to go. Finally, my fingers find a rib. I wrap my free arm around my face and bite down on my skin to divert the pain. Next, I close my eyes and count to three as I gather all of my strength, but mostly my courage. Before I have the chance to overthink, I break off a fragment of the bone. My scream is muffled by my arm. For a second, I’m certain that I’ll faint with my fingers still buried deep inside my chest.

Somehow, though very much blinded by pain, I don’t. My fingers emerge, firmly holding on to the piece of bone.

That’s when the last of my strength leaves me. He catches me before I smack my head against the floor and gently guides me into a lying position. He grabs his jacket and folds it, then places it under my head. Once I’m settled, he proceeds to take the bone from me and heals my wound. There’s no doubt in my mind that it will leave a scar just like his.

He allows me a minute to recover and sits beside me while I do. It isn’t much, but I appreciate the gesture. While I take the moment to catch my breath, he continues sitting there, watching over me. I must lose consciousness at some point, because when I refocus on him, his shirt is back on, though still unbuttoned and showing the hard muscles underneath. His waistcoat lies next to him with the pieces of our bones on top of it, the blood coating the bones staining the delicate fabric.

My fingers gently touch the wound and the scar tissue there, telling me that the wound has healed nicely. I’m pleasantly surprised to notice that the pain is mostly gone as well. As is the blood, meaning that he took the time and effort to clean me up. Why is that weirdly comforting?

“So, can I know why I had to cut myself open like that?” I ask while I gently hoist myself into a sitting position, my voice still weak. A grunt escapes me at the effort.

He silently looks at me for a few seconds, as if he’s considering whether or not my question is worth answering. “The bone is for the rings.” He speaks without blinking, and I stare at him in response, equally unblinking.

“I… didn’t see you as the ring type.”

“I’m not,” he says, unsurprisingly. “It’s the easiest way to bind us together.”

“Why bone, though?”

“The binding spell works best when both parties permanently exchange a piece of their bodies.”

It almost sounds romantic, if not for the fact that my chest still stings from literally having a piece ripped out.

Using his already-stained waistcoat, he cleans the blood off the pieces of bone. Mine is slightly more beige, with a pinkish undertone. His leans more toward a light gray, a clearly different color from the dark-gray bones from his wings.

After cleaning them, he places the pieces on the floor between us. He casts a spell, of which I don’t understand nor recognize the words. The pieces start to float and spin around so fast that they become a blur. After a few minutes of intense spinning, the spell abruptly comes to an end and two rings clatter to the floor.

The bone has been cut and polished into rings that look like they’re made from silver. They reflect the light as much as the hilt of the dagger did, the color as cold and smooth as metal. It’s honestly impossible to tell the difference if you don’t know.

He doesn’t stop me when I reach for the rings. It’s upon having them in the palm of my hand that I actually feel the difference. They’re lighter and warmer to the touch than silver or any other kind of metal. I turn one of them to see the inside. It’s engraved with a different, yet equally magically charged language as Elomadh .

“What does it say?” I ask with a frown.

“Ommahc e ol ozien od irdoz lsi.

“Bound to me and I to you,” he tells me.

Till death do us part. I gulp, a sliver of doubt burrowing itself inside my mind.

He gets up and offers me his hand, which I hesitantly accept. Pulling me to my feet, he eyes the hand that clutches the rings. “I’m going to need you to bleed for me.” He reaches for the dagger that still lies where I had thrown it on the floor.

“Again?” I sigh, and he glares at me.

“The spell utilizes the most powerful kind of blood magic. So, yes, again. Be glad that you don’t need to actually bleed out for it.”

It hits me what he means by that, and I lose my composure for a split second. “We’re doing this now? Like this?”

“Were you expecting a dress and a cake?” he snaps.

His words make anger boil inside me once more, and I have to bite my tongue to hold back a snarky retort.

“Get rid of these feeble human expectations and cut yourself.”

Seething with anger, I take the dagger from him and make a deep cut in my wrist. Blood wells up, so familiar, too familiar. A shudder goes through me, and I know that I’ll never get used to this.

This time, when I hand the weapon back to him, my hand does shake. He undoubtedly notices but makes no remark on it. He just takes it from me and hands me a metal bowl in return. He watches me bleed into it while swaying on my feet as the blood loss starts to catch up with me.

I’m almost slipping away again by the time that he takes the bowl from me. He places it on the desk and quickly heals my cut for me. His fingers stroke my wrist softly, and the gentle touch calms me down.

He pulls his hand away, the dagger already at the ready. Without even flinching, he cuts himself and mixes his blood with mine in the bowl.

He speaks a few words in that language I don’t understand, and a magical aura envelops the bowl, a black shimmer inside of it. He touches the blood with a single finger and, when he pulls away, it follows his movement, floating in the air. Sparks of black magic sizzle through it, lighting it up to the point where it looks like something else altogether. He crouches on the floor and starts to draw, using the enchanted blood to create the most intricate circle on the hardwood floor.

The circle is enormous, and I’m astonished that he even has enough blood for all of it. He keeps adding layers and details until it’s a good sixteen feet in diameter. The signs and symbols that fill the circle flow into each other, becoming one.

Seeing him work is mesmerizing, and minutes—hours? I have no idea of how much time—go by. All that I know is that when he’s done, I’m hot and bothered from watching his fingers trace all of that blood. He looks up at me, noticing the way that I’m biting my lower lip. He smiles a mischievous little smile while putting the empty bowl aside.

Standing in the middle of the circle, he gestures for me to join him. I tighten my grip around the rings and do as I’m told. He holds the dagger in his hand again, and I roll my eyes. At the rate that this is going, I really am going to bleed out well before a ring ever makes it around my finger.

Without saying a word, he takes the rings from me and cuts both my palms. He then places the rings on the cuts, one on each. Cutting his own palms, he puts them on top of mine. Our blood soaks the rings, becoming one between us.

“Repeat after me,” he says, locking his eyes on mine.

He starts to speak words that sound familiar, even though I don’t know or recognize them. With every single one that I repeat, it’s almost as if I can feel them in my soul. “Voohc lotgrot laal sro oafstn gabeih icselc. ”

Potent magical energy fills the air around and between us, weighing heavy on my shoulders. My blood starts to tingle in my veins and heats up between our palms. There is a scent to it, something more than the metallic of the blood. I don’t know what it is, but it reminds me of flowers, of a promised freedom, of a star-kissed night. It fills me with both joy and dread, tearing at me for domination, for control.

I want to pull away, but he moves his hands slightly, clutching my wrists so that I’m unable to pull back. Looking at him, I know that there is no going back, no way out of this. Whatever this is setting in motion, it’s permanent. More permanent than until death .

The sneer on his lips tells me as much. It tells me that I chose this, that I willingly agreed, even though I barely knew what I was signing up for.

“Nicrix bafnaonolnihs ests I laral izpoz sd aood osarb nolhod arapelcad.”

The magic circle starts to glow both black and blue, a combination of both of our magics. The power that it holds pulls at me, calls to me. It’s painful and fills me with feelings of despair and foreboding until the spell draws to a close.

The blood between our hands is absorbed by the rings. The cuts heal with a sizzle, as if the wounds are being cauterized.

“Ialda sacranal apviha daimanda sro ilbdra mocham rdxi afnef otrim ipniz ablabno.” The final part of the spell leaves my lips as barely more than a whisper. Our voices grow silent, but the words and their power linger.

He removes his hands from mine, then takes the ring that’s made from his bone. I notice that the inside of the ring has turned bloodred. He places my right hand in his and smiles. He speaks the words that are engraved inside of the ring and places it around my ring finger. From the moment that he lets go, it’s as if the ring grabs hold of me and my skin as its magic burrows deep inside me. A flash of sharp, blinding pain spreads from my finger through my body, and I gasp for air.

It takes a moment for the ring and its magic to settle in, for the pain to fade away until only a slight sting remains. Then it’s my turn. The ring fashioned from my bone lies eerily in the palm of my hand. I pick it up, speaking the words and putting the ring around the ring finger of his left hand. He flinches as it settles itself on his flesh.

Seeing the ring on his left ring finger makes me realize these have nothing to do with a marriage of any kind, and instead are associated with magic. I hadn’t really been paying much attention to it before, but now the detail of how he predominantly casts spells with his left hand clicks.

He’s left-handed, so the ring goes on that hand, which is why mine goes on the right, since I’m right-handed. It’s to be closer connected to our magic and make it easier to bind us together, like he said.

He only needs a second to recover, after which he takes my hands in his and pulls me flush against him. “Now you’re mine. Forever.” The way he emphasizes that last word is unsettling, yet makes me blush at the same time. Something deep within me cautions that he takes this vow very seriously—that I’m now truly his. But it also means that he’s mine . The sight of the wedding band made from my bone on him sends an undeniable rush of heat through me.

He burrows his fingers in my hair, and the pure possessiveness that radiates from the touch is enough to make my breath catch. It makes me forget about anything else, makes it so that right now, I simply don’t care anymore. I don’t care that I should be fearing him, hating him.

“And with this,” he whispers, his breath fanning my skin, “you will know me.”

He kisses me, soft and gentle, and a word forms in my mind. When he breaks the kiss, I indeed know. I open my mouth and start to speak his name, but he places a finger on my lips to silence me. He smiles, slightly flustered, as if unaccustomed to the sound of his own name. He leans in and kisses me once more, like he wants to make me forget again. And I let him, because I’m weak for his touch. I’m weak for his kiss, his embrace, his heat, as he pulls me down into the bloody afterglow of the circle.

I’m weak for him .

He places hot kisses all over me while his hands push me back against the hardwood floor. One of them slithers under my skirt, and his fingers gently caress my backside. They run up and down my thighs, the touch enough to make me shiver with need.

He groans when his fingers touch my sensitive flesh, finding me already soaked. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, “despite all I put you through.”

He pushes a finger inside me, and I flinch. It elicits a possessive snarl from him, and he pulls me closer against him, against his chest. He moves his finger in and out of me, chuckling against my skin when I grab at his shirt. I bury my face in his chest to hide my reddening cheeks and suppress my moans.

A moan does escape me when he adds a second finger, scissoring both of them deep inside me. He bites, licks, and nibbles my earlobe while picking up speed. His fingers continue to ravage me, going faster, harder. Quickly driving me insane as heady moans spill from my lips. My fragile grasp on my composure slips more by the second. The palms of my hands are splayed against his hard chest, my embarrassment making way for something else entirely.

My fingers fist his shirt as my release starts to build. Pleasure overtakes me and stars dance in the corners of my eyes as my whole body tenses under his ministrations. My heavy breathing pushes my breasts against his chest, my nipples pebbling under the fabric of my ruined dress. With how closely we are pressed against each other, I can feel the proof of his own arousal straining against the fabric of his slacks, brushing my stomach. Knowing that I don’t leave him unaffected only helps heighten my own desire.

My desire for him—my need for him—is raw and pure and all consuming.

Then the pad of his thumb is on my clit, and it’s enough to make me come undone. My nails dig through his shirt and into the hard muscles of his chest. Tipping my face up with his other hand, he catches my moans with his mouth. His fingers gently guide me through the orgasm, his lips nibbling as I tremble against him.

After a few moments, he pulls away from me. Raising himself up, he licks his fingers clean. His eyes gleam with satisfaction when he looks down at my crumpled form. My chest heaves, there’s a blush on my face, my hair is tangled, and my skirt is bunched up around my waist.

Without taking his eyes off me, he slowly starts to remove his shirt. It makes me even more aware of how badly I want him, despite everything that he has indeed put me through. Despite that I shouldn’t.

I definitely shouldn’t want him as much as I do.

His eyes remain on me, his gaze searing. Once his shirt is fully off, I can see the left side of his chest still covered in blood, the scar under his pectoral visible underneath. The sight of that scar makes me realize that I carry the reason for it around my finger. Mine.

He bends until he’s looming over me. He places his hands next to my face, caging me in. “Yours indeed,” he whispers.

He runs his tongue over my lips, and my mouth opens for him. He hums and kisses behind my ear as my eyes flutter shut. The soft kisses turn into hard bites, and I yelp while arching into his ministrations all the same.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice sounding as desperate as I feel .

“Please what, love?”

Part of me wonders again how it’s possible that I went from being disgusted by him to needing him. Am I that desperate to feel truly wanted by someone? I don’t even know if he’s that someone. That I want to be that someone for him in return. But the way he has looked at me since the first day feels more meaningful than I can possibly put into words.

I don’t know what it means to give in to him, to give myself to him freely. It will change my plan to get out of here and away from him. But right now, with the way his yellow eyes look me up and down, I’m unable to bring myself to think about the possible consequences of my actions.

I open my eyes again and find him unbuckling his belt. He drops it to the floor, then pops open the button of his pants, smiling wickedly. He knows exactly what he does to me. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and proceeds to pull down his slacks. Warmth pools in my core as he pulls them lower and lower. I barely manage to hold back a moan when his big, hard cock springs free.

He’s back down on the floor with me in an instant. His arms pull me in his lap before I can protest, and he locks my legs around his waist. The palms of my hands are once more splayed against his naked, muscular chest. Our faces almost touch when I swallow and look up at him.

He grins down at me, and one of his hands brushes my hair behind my ear. The small gesture is soft and caring, so at war with how he otherwise treats me. Something blossoms deep inside me, something that I quickly push down. Deep down.

His other hand is on the small of my back, pushing me against his cock. His fingers then run up my dress and start to undo the lacing. The hand in my hair trails down to my chest, the pad of his thumb caressing my new scar .

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.

Waiting for me to speak, he pulls my dress over my head and tosses it aside. My arms instinctively start to move to cover myself up, shame makes my breath hitch and my cheeks burn.

He snarls and pulls my arms away, locking them behind me. It forces me to arch my back, completely exposing my breasts to him. He looks down at me, and heat fills his eyes. My nipples harden under his gaze and, despite my initial shame, I ache for his touch. He lowers his head, gracing my jaw with his nose.

“You’re beautiful, love. Perfect. And all mine.”

The truth of his words is reflected in how his hard cock throbs between us, in how my wetness drips on his thighs. It drives me crazy that he’s not touching me the way I want him to. That his hands remain locked around my wrists. The contrast is great with the soft and teasing movement of his nose against my skin. I grind my hips against his hardness, needing the friction. Needing more, despite my initial embarrassment.

That’s when his demeanor changes. “For the last time, tell me”—he bares his teeth in a snarl—“or I’ll have you bleed for me as I take you. For you do bleed so prettily.”

His threat makes something stir inside of me, and I finally speak. “Please.” My voice drops to a soft yet unwavering whisper as I say, “Make me yours.” I look up at him, determined. “Take me. Make me bleed for you.”

His eyes widen for a moment. Then they darken with a promise that I desperately want to collect. “As you wish,” he purrs.

He grips me by my neck and pulls me slightly upward. I gasp, the sound strained through his hold on me. My skin burns where his nails dig into my neck. My legs are still wrapped around his waist, anchoring me against him.

His other hand snakes between us to the apex of my thighs, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction while he dips a single finger inside of me once more. My breathing is already straining, my vision getting blurrier with every passing second. He squeezes my neck harder, completely cutting off my air supply and I clamp down on his finger in response.

He chuckles, the sound so thick with lust that I almost can’t believe I’m the reason for it. He removes his finger and replaces it with the head of his cock. “Scream for me, love.”

He lets go of my throat and effectively drops me onto his hard length, thrusting his hips in an upward motion at the same time. It has him entering me with a single, brutal movement that leaves me with no choice but to obey his command. I scream for him. My voice breaks as air fills my lungs, yet my breath is immediately taken away again by the force of his grinding hips. Both of his hands are around my throat once more. He lifts me up again, just enough to allow for him to pull out of me and thrust back in.

My hands grab his shoulders in an attempt to ground myself. Every thrust of his hips has me gasping for air, trying to steal the breath that he’s not allowing me to take. My nails dig into his flesh, breaking skin and drawing blood. He snarls when he notices that I’m the one making him bleed. So, he moves his hands to my waist, drops me on him again, and then stills inside of me.

His grip around me tightens, and he guides us down until my back is flat against the hardwood floor. Pulling out of me, he unhooks my legs from his waist and places them on his shoulders. He lines up once more and slams inside, immediately picking up his pace. His hands remain clutching my hips, his fingers bruising my skin in a painfully delicious way.

My breasts sway with the movement of his thrusts, and he looks at them hungrily. Licking his lips, his hands let go of my waist and go for my breasts instead. He fondles them brutally, pinching my nipples to the point of pain. Then he leans over, angling himself so that his cock hits even deeper inside me. My eyes roll to the back of my head and, for a moment, I forget how to breathe altogether.

He sucks my nipple into his mouth and my breath returns to me, slipping out of me in a moan. He bites down, his teeth pulling at the sensitive skin, and I yelp. Despite his ruthlessness, my breathing gets heavy as pleasure starts to cloud my mind. I grind my hips, meeting his thrusts, and he groans in response. My nipple pops out of his mouth, his teeth leaving marks on my skin. Blood faintly wells up from the small puncture wounds and slides down my breast. The sight of it mesmerizes me as I tighten around him in response.

He’s quick to see this for what it is. His magic runs over me in response, leaving cuts wherever it touches my skin, small but deep enough to bleed. I whimper, the sting of it painful, yet strangely arousing at the same time. His hands proceed to smear the blood over my pale flesh, his touch soothing and sending another jolt of desire through me. A jolt that leaves me panting and so very needy for more.

His hands are coated in my blood when he tracks them down my body between the valley of my breasts, down to my belly button, then farther until his fingers find my clit. He teases the sensitive nub, and a loud, heady moan escapes me. My pussy flutters around his cock as he continues to pump in and out of me, his fingers keeping up their pace until I’m right there at the edge.

And then they keep me there.

I whimper. “Please,” I breathe, my voice so drunk with lust that I’m barely able to say the words. “Please, let me come.”

“Then come,” he snarls, even more of that possessiveness leaking through his words.

He presses his thumb down on my clit, and that’s all it takes to push me over. My orgasm explodes from deep inside of me, and wave after wave of pleasure flows through my body. It steals my breath away as my mouth falls open on a silent scream.

He curses as my pussy clamps down on him like a vise, pushing him closer to his own release. Relentlessly, he continues to thrust into me, his face twisted in a possessive sneer. Every snap of his hips sends another wave of pleasure coursing through me, prolonging the orgasm until I almost can’t take it anymore. He bites on his bottom lip while he thrusts once, twice more, then follows after me with a groan, filling me with his seed.

We remain like that for a few moments—both of us panting, his body hard and hot against mine. Then he pulls out of me and lies down next to me. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest, the gesture almost loving. Our breathing slowly starts to even out, and I snuggle into his embrace.

His scent surrounds me, fire and brimstone and something warm and woody. His magic runs over my skin, and the suddenness of it makes me yelp and jump closer into his arms. He laughs at this, the sound warm and honest. It makes my heart flutter in my chest and, for a moment, I consider that perhaps I made the right choice.

I crane my neck to look at him, and my heart skips a beat. As he looks at me, I see the same honesty from his laughter reflected back at me through his yellow eyes. The light of the fire makes them shimmer so beautifully, stealing my breath away.

They almost look like gold.