“What the hell?!” I cried, watching the High Clifter pitch toward the ground, clutching the knife in his throat.
That he’d gotten from protecting me.
Veering my incredulous gaze toward Melaina, I roared, “You just said murder was bad!”
She waved a bored, dismissive hand. “Yes, I vaguely recall waxing on incessantly about the topic, but, sweets, I needed to prove a point, which I think I did rather well.” Motioning toward the man, she added, “See. He’s lying there, bleeding to death, all to protect little old you. So, voilà…” She gave a brilliant smile. “Useful!”
Then she strode forward so she could lean over him and retrieve her dagger from his neck with a savage yank. He gurgled and gasped, moaning out his agony as he curled onto his side, clutching the gushing wound.
“And besides,” she went on, wiping the blood from the blade off onto the skirt of her dress. “It won’t be murder if he doesn’t die. Which he shouldn’t because you can fix him back to rights—as good as new—with a single kiss.” She beckoned me forward with a curl of her finger. “Only you have the means to keep it from becoming murder, darling.”
I immediately backed away from both her and the dying man on the ground, shaking my head insistently. “But I don’t want to kiss him.” Was she insane? “We’ll start sharing dreams together if I do.”
“Oh, pish.” Melaina swiped that idea away with a flutter of her wrist. “That only happens if you bring him back from the dead, and since he’s still breathing, there’s no worry about that. Though…” She frowned down at the panting man. “I would hurry if you want to avoid that, because he looks as if he might expire at any moment.”
He really did too. He’d probably be dead in seconds if I did nothing. And his death would be just as much my fault as it was Melaina’s. Because I wouldn’t have delivered true love’s kiss.
But I didn’t want to kiss him.
What if I liked it? What if I started thinking positive things about him? I didn’t want to think positively about this man. He was a High Cliff enemy, and he needed to stay that way.
Damn my evil aunt for putting me through this.
“Tick-tock, darling,” she sang in her irritatingly taunting voice. “Do you want to save him or not?”
No. When she put it that way, I didn’t want to save him. I would love nothing more than to have all this true love bullshit just be over and done with already. But I’d never killed anyone before, and I couldn’t so willfully just stand there and let him die.
Sensing my decision, Melaina laughed. “You know what to do.”
“I really hate you.” I seethed, glaring at her as I slowly approached the High Clifter.
“Yes, I know, dear,” she cooed in a loving tone. “I hate you too. Now, chop-chop. Get to it and pucker up.”
Wincing as I knelt beside him, I swallowed down the sickened churn in my stomach. “You made a really gross mess of him, you know that?”
Eyes wild and hands clutching his throat, the man looked up at me and opened his mouth as if to speak.
No words came.
“I swear,” I warned him, uneasily bending closer. “If you try anything funny—”
Melaina snorted. “What exactly do you think he’s going to try? The boy is a hot second from death. He couldn’t manage anything amorous right now if his life depended on it.”
“Well, his life depends on him not managing it, so...” I lifted my eyebrows threateningly at him. “Behave or die. Are we clear?”
He didn’t answer. Not that he could; he was a bit too busy dying to form actual words.
Melaina stepped up beside me and gazed down at him as well. “He’s turning quite a remarkable shade of blue, don’t you think? I must’ve caught him right in the windpipe.” Brightening, she grinned over at me. “My aim is obviously improving.”
“Except you were aiming at me,” I reminded her.
A little detail I planned to fully address later.
Her shoulders fell as her smile flattened. “True,” she admitted only to shrug and return her attention to the dying High Clifter with a fresh grin. “Well, I’ll take a happy accident too.” Placing her hand on the back of my head, she nudged me closer to his face, which I naturally resisted. Shaking free from her grip, I growled and glared up at her. “What the hell? Stop!”
She rolled her eyes and waved a hand. “Well, what’re you waiting for? He’s not going to heal himself. Not from this.”
I groaned, made a face, and turned back to him. She was right, the bitch. “Close your mouth,” I instructed.
He looked like a dying fish, gaping it open like he was, and it wasn’t helping anything, anyway. There was obviously no air reaching his lungs any longer.
When he actually followed my directive, I lifted my eyebrows, frankly surprised he was even capable of still working his jaw.
A wave of sympathy flooded me. He had to be in significant pain, and all I’d done is worry about the fact that I was going to have to place my mouth against his for a few seconds.
But the idea of our lips merging caused panic to swarm. Irrational fear flooded my veins.
God, this was stupid. There was nothing to be afraid of. A kiss wasn’t going to kill me; it probably wouldn’t even hurt. And he needed it, or he was going to die. Why the hell was I dawdling?
Surging forward because it felt like I needed speed right now—the type that was required to rip off a bandage and beat back the dread and terror of possible pain—I slammed my mouth to his, causing him to grunt in surprise. My own teeth bumped into the inside of my mouth from the force of the kiss. But other than the jostling crush of lips against lips, nothing hurt.
Except maybe this little spot deep in my chest that throbbed with a fresh and crisp ache. It was need and hope and wishes, I realized. Things that had no place existing in my world.
I’d planned on pulling away as soon as my mouth clashed with his.
But that’s not exactly what happened.
As soon as I broke free, I pressed back, my lips sinking against the pillow of his once more, and I found myself closing my eyes, then breathing in his essence as I kissed him again, going softer and longer this time. A hint of coffee and cinnamon filled my nostrils. Warmth heated my chest, and my fingers curled around the front of his tunic.
A groan rumbled from his throat. He lifted his head from the ground to kiss me back, brushing his mouth past mine with the whisper of heat and need.
My stomach fluttered, my limbs quivered, my head went light. I clutched his shirt a little tighter. His lips cracked apart, and for some reason, I let mine open as well. Our tongues touched. He tasted like cinnamon too. I craved more, so I sucked on the sweet spiciness of it.
His breath caught, and his tongue sank deeper. I shivered, feeling the move between my legs, where things swelled and tightened. I curled my tongue against his and trembled at the resounding response that trembled through him. A hand gripped my arm, and his mouth turned urgent and assertive, giving and seeking with a hungry vivacity.
Tumbling through sensations, I drank deeply and clung to him, reveling in the discovery that kisses were freaking amazing.
Knowing he was just as ravenous and eager as I was made the moment even more intoxicating. I plundered again, wishing life could always be like this: thrilling and—