House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“It jeopardizes everything. For all I know, you could be baiting me for the Asteri—”

“Look at me and tell me you think that’s true.”

She did. Ruhn came close enough that the heat of her flame warmed his body.

And, deciding to Hel with it, he reached for her hand. The flame warmed his night-skin, but did not burn. The hand beneath the fire was slender. Delicate.

Her fingers contracted against his own, but he held firm. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“And if I’m not what you expect?”

“What do you think I’m expecting?”

Again, her fingers twitched, like she’d yank away. “I don’t know.”

He tugged on her arm, pulling her a little closer. When was the last time he’d had to work for a female’s attention like this? Fuck, he was working for it, wasn’t he? He wanted to see her face. Know who was bold and brave enough to risk her life again and again to defy the Asteri.

Ruhn stared down at the veil of flame between him and Day. “I want to smell your scent. See you. Even for a moment.”

“That ball will be swarming with our enemies.”

“Then we won’t stay long. But … just meet me, all right?”

She was silent, as if she were trying to pierce the blanket of stars he wore. “Why?”

His voice dropped. “You know why.”

She hesitated. Then she said softly, “Yes.”

Her flames seemed to reach for his stars and shadows. “Midnight.”

She faded into embers on the wind. “Midnight,” she promised.





58

Two weeks later, Hunt scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He tugged at the white bow tie of his tux, already feeling strangled by the stupid thing.

He’d wanted to wear his battle-suit to the party, but Bryce had staged an intervention last week and demanded he wear something “halfway normal.” Then you can go back to being the predator-in-the-night we all love so much, she’d said.

Hunt growled, giving himself a final once-over before calling across the apartment, “I’m as good as I’m going to get, so let’s leave. The van’s downstairs.”

He sure as fuck couldn’t cram his wings into the usual black sedan the Autumn King would have sent for Bryce. But at least the asshole had sent a van instead. Cormac was her official escort to the party, and was no doubt waiting in the vehicle. It had likely been Cormac who’d convinced the Autumn King to switch to a van so Bryce’s “plus-one” could join them.

Bryce had bristled at every new order that had come from the Autumn King: the jewelry she was expected to wear, the clothes, the height of her heels, the length of her nails, the type of car they’d take, who would exit the car first, how she would exit the car—apparently, her ankles and knees were to be forever glued together in public—and lastly, most outrageously, what and how she was allowed to eat.

Nothing. That was the short answer. A Fae Princess did not eat in public, was the long answer. Maybe a sip of soup or one solitary, small bite to be polite. And one glass of wine. No hard liquor.

Bryce had read the list of commandments one night after they’d fucked in the shower, and had been so wound up that Hunt had gone down on her to take the edge off. He’d taken his time tasting her, savoring each lick of her delicious, enticing sex.

Even fucking her at night and before work, he couldn’t get enough. Would find himself in the middle of the day aching for her. They’d already fucked twice in her office, right on her desk, her dress bunched at her waist, his pants barely unbuckled as he pounded into her.

They hadn’t been caught, thank the gods. Not just by her coworkers, but by anyone who’d report it to Cormac, to the Autumn King. She’d already had one battle with her father over Hunt still living here with her. But after tonight …

He scooped up the golden mask from where he’d left it on the dresser—so fucking ridiculous and dramatic—and stepped into the great room, toes wriggling in his patent leather shoes. When was the last time he’d worn anything but his boots or sneakers? Never. He’d literally never worn shoes like this. When he was young, it had been lace-up sandals or boots—and then it had been boots for centuries.

What would his mother make of this male in the mirror? He strained to recall her smile, to imagine how her eyes might have sparkled. He wished she were here. Not only to see him, but to know that all she’d struggled to provide had paid off. To know that he could take care of her now.

Bryce let out a whistle from the other side of the great room, and Hunt looked up, tucking away the old ache in his chest.

All the breath left his chest. “Holy shit.”

She was …

“Holy shit,” he said again, and she laughed. He swallowed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

She blushed, and his head began roaring, cock aching. He wanted to lick that blush, wanted to kiss every inch of her smile.

“I couldn’t bring myself to wear the tiara,” Bryce said, lifting a wrist and twirling the crown around it with typical irreverence.

“You don’t need it.”

She really didn’t. The sparkling black dress hugged every luscious curve before loosening around the knee, spilling into a train of solid night. The plunging neckline stopped below her breasts, framing the star between them, drawing the eye to the remarkable scar.