Forbidden Craving: The Nymph King / The Beautiful Ashes

“I’ll be silent for the rest of the night...if you give me a compliment. A real one.”

Dangerous territory. She would have to consider all the wonderful things about him and most assuredly, she’d begin to melt. Diabolical man.

If she were home, she would be alone right now. And lonely, her mind piped up.

Lonely was safe. Lonely was familiar.

A hot ache squeezed at her chest.

“Why are you doing this to me, Valerian? You could have any of the other women. Someone who would eagerly come to you...who would do anything you asked of them.”

“They aren’t you.”

A simple sentence, yes, but it rocked her to the core. “What’s so special about me? I defy you to name one thing.”

Silence stretched between them, and it both elated and defeated her.

How stupid could I be? She’d actually craved praise from him. “You seriously need this much time to think about it?”

“You asked for one thing. I’m having trouble deciding which one to mention.”

Her anger deflated. This man...oh, this man.

“How about I tell you three things?” he asked.

“Sure,” she managed to croak.

“Your scent is so incredibly sweet, I could pick you out of a crowd of thousands, even if I were blindfolded. You remind me of a rose—there are thorns, but beneath them, your soul is as soft as silk. You fascinate me. You are brave, but vulnerable. Kind but selective. Jaded yet hopeful.”

She reeled. No one—not her mother, father, stepbrothers or stepsisters, or an endless string of nannies—had ever made her feel so important, so necessary, with only a few softly spoken words.

She barely knew Valerian. In their short time together, she’d railed at him, desired him, cursed him and attacked him. Now she wanted to storm out of the bedroom and throw herself into his arms. To be the brave girl he considered her to be, to destroy every wall she’d ever built and melt every piece of ice surrounding her heart.

This. This was the danger of the nymph, she realized. Not the beauty or the physical strength. Not even the pheromone Valerian had mentioned.

This. The belief that you were special. That you would be different from every other woman seduced and discarded. That a happily-ever-after wasn’t just possible but imminent.

How was she supposed to resist him?

CHAPTER NINE (#udb12d2a9-2539-576b-8fe3-d38b058f3809)

VALERIAN SPENT THE entire night posted in front of Shaye’s door, hyperaware of every move and sound she made. Only a few minutes ago, she’d drifted to sleep with a heavy sigh. A quick peek inside the room had confirmed his suspicions, her lithe form sprawled across the bed, her hair spilling around her like a snowy curtain sprinkled with starlight.

She was a winter goddess. A snow nymph. His greatest satisfaction and most decadent pleasure.

Ripe for the taking...

Her eyelashes were light, only a shade darker than her hair. Her lips, those soft, lush, all-your-dreams-come-true lips were parted, begging to be kissed.

He wanted so badly to touch her.

“I’ll have you yet,” he told her. “Say nothing if you agree with me.”

Silence greeted him, and he grinned.

“Dream of me, Moon. I’ll dream of you, I have no doubt.” If he slept at all.

The pink tip of her tongue swept over her lips. A wave of desire swept through him as he imagined meeting her tongue with his own. The two twining, dueling, tasting.

Devouring.

His stomach clenched, and every muscle in his body turned to stone. He needed to leave...at the very least, to look away from her. Already he clung precariously to a sense of honor he wasn’t sure he possessed anymore. The longer he stood there, the worse it would be for him.

How he longed for the night she would breathe her sighs in his ears, or across his chest—or lower still. And how dare Joachim attempt to lay claim to her!

Valerian scowled. Shaye was meant for him, and only him, and those who thought otherwise deserved a painful death.

He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted her, and not being able to have her immediately was...hard. Very, very hard.

I have to win her. I cannot let another have her.

Perhaps his cousin would become so enamored of his current lover he would forgot all about Shaye. If not...well, Valerian would just have to think of something Joachim would find irresistible. Something he would place above the importance of a bedmate.

Joachim was a good man—at times—and a strong warrior with a—slightly—loyal heart. What were the man’s weaknesses? Women? Beyond a doubt. Women were the weakness of all nymphs. Power? Definitely. Weapons? Most surely. Joachim collected them, taking them from every warrior he’d ever killed or bested and hanging them on his bedchamber wall.

Valerian considered his own blade, resting against his back. The Skull. Large, sharp and lethal. One of the finest swords ever made. No, the finest ever made. Crafted by Hephaesteus himself, the blacksmith of the Greeks. The weapon had slayed many of his enemies, rending them with injuries that could not be mended. The sword was the only one of its kind, with a twisted frame and elongated skull tip that were envied by every soldier who spied it.

He would hate to give it up, but his mate held so much more importance to him. Even a mate who wanted nothing to do with him.

Would Joachim accept the Skull?

Valerian released a sigh of his own, the answer remaining a mystery—as much a mystery as the best way to win Shaye’s well-guarded heart.

She’d scoffed at money and jewels. She’d shown no interest in his crown.

Did she have enemies in need of slaying? If so, he would gladly gift her with their severed heads.

He pushed a hand through his hair. Uncertainty was foreign to him. And horrible and challenging but also exciting.

Winning her—appeasing Joachim and overcoming Shaye’s own resistance—had awakened his deepest warrior instincts.

“You will be mine,” he told her. “Somehow.”

“Majesty?”

He closed the door with a quiet snick and focused on the warrior who’d returned at last, bearing the supplies Valerian had requested. A canvas, an easel and three colors of paint. Black, white and red.

He dismissed the warrior and carefully placed the canvas on the easel. He spent hours painting, losing himself in the joy of creating. The subject of his art had never appealed to him more. Had never mattered to him more.