From blood and ash

“And here?” he asked, moving his hand so that his thumb swirled around my upper arm, right below my shoulder. “Were you not clawed here?”

My gaze snagged on the pale scar of the old Craven attack, just inside my elbow. I forced my gaze to where his thumb continued to glide in small circles. There were no fresh marks. No gaping wounds. I stared in wonder. “There’s…there’s no new scars.”

“There will be no new scars,” he said. “That is what I promised.”

He had. “Your blood…it’s amazing.”

And it was. My mind sluggishly delved into all that could be accomplished with it. The wounds that could be healed, and the lives that could be saved. Most people would be against drinking blood, but—

Wait.

My gaze snapped back to his. “You made me drink your blood.”

“I did.”

“How?”

“It’s one of those things that occur during maturity. Not all of us can…compel others.”

“Have you done it before? On me?”

“You probably wish you could blame your prior actions on that, but I haven’t, Poppy. I never needed nor wanted to.”

“But you did it now.”

“I did.”

“You don’t even sound remotely ashamed.”

“I’m not,” he replied, and a hint of a teasing grin appeared. “I told you that I would not allow you to die, and you would’ve died, Princess. You were dying. I saved your life. Some would suggest a thank you as the appropriate response.”

“I didn’t ask you to do it.”

“But you’re grateful, aren’t you?”

I snapped my mouth shut because I was.

“Only you would argue with me about this.”

I hadn’t wanted to die, but I also didn’t want to become a Craven. “I won’t turn—”

“No,” he sighed, placing my arm back so it rested across my stomach. “I told you the truth, Poppy. The Atlantians did not make the Craven. The Ascended did.”

My heart skipped a beat as my gaze shifted to the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. We weren’t in the cell. I turned my head, seeing a rustic bed with thick covers, and a small table beside it. “We’re in a bedchamber.”

“We needed privacy.”

I remembered hearing Kieran’s voice, but the room was now empty. “Kieran didn’t want you to save me.”

“Because it’s forbidden.”

It took me a few moments to remember what he’d told me before, and my stomach dropped. “Will I turn into a vampry?”

He laughed.

“What about that is fu

“Nothing.” The other side of his lips now tipped up. “I know you still don’t want to believe the truth, but deep down, you do. That’s why you asked that question.”

He had a point, but I didn’t have the intellectual or emotional capacity to go there. Not right now.

“To turn, you would require far more blood than that.” He returned to resting his head against the wall. “It would also require me to be more of an active participant.”

Muscles low in my body clenched, proving that they were not, in fact, soft. “How…how would you be more of an active participant?”

Hawke’s smile turned to smoke and became just as sinful as his blood. “Would you rather I show you instead of telling you?”

My skin flashed hot. “No.”

“Liar,” he whispered, eyes closing.

The warmth in my skin started to spread as if it were a spark, and I shifted, feeling less…floaty and more…weighted. I tried to ignore it. “Are…Naill and Delano okay?”

“They will be fine, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to know you asked about them.”

I doubted that, but something was happening, changing.

My body didn’t feel like it was mine, not when the heat was seeping into my muscles, flushing my skin, and pooling in my core. I imagined it was him—Hawke’s blood slowly making its way through every part of my body.

He was inside me.

I felt out of control, just like the night in the Blood Forest, and when we were in the room above the tavern.

My chest suddenly ached and became heavy, but it wasn’t from pain, lack of air, or coldness. No. It was like when Hawke had touched me, when he’d stripped me bare and kissed me—kissed me everywhere. I felt loose. My insides tingled, just as my skin hummed. Razor-sharp lust pulsed straight through me, a dark desire that burned.

Hawke’s nostrils flared as he inhaled, and then his chest seemed to stop moving. His features were still hazy, but the longer I stared at him, the hotter I felt.

“Poppy,” he bit out.

“What?” My voice sounded full of honey.

“Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

His chin lowered, and his stare was a caress. “I know.”

Shivering, I shifted my hips, and Hawke’s arm tightened around me. “You don’t know.”

He didn’t respond, and I wondered if he could feel the liquid fire in my veins, and the damp heat of my core.

Biting down on my lip, I tasted his blood and moaned, closing my eyes. “Hawke?”

He made a sound, and maybe he said something, but it was indecipherable.

I stretched, taking quick, shallow breaths. The coarse shirt and breeches scraped my skin and the sensitive, hardened tips of my breasts. “Hawke,” I breathed.

 “Don’t,” he said, stiffening. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.”

There were a lot of things I shouldn’t do or say, but everything in me was focused on the way my entire body burned and throbbed with need. My hand moved, sliding up my stomach, over the ruined, clawed shirt, to my breast. Guided only by instinct and need, I closed my fingers over the shivery flesh, molding it to my palm. An aching shudder worked its way through me.

“Poppy,” Hawke ground out. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, back arching as I stroked myself through the thin, worn shirt. “I’m on fire.”

“It’s just the blood,” he said thickly, and instinct told me he was watching me, and that made me all the hotter. “It’ll pass, but you should…you need to stop doing that.”

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My thumb rolled over the pebbled hardness, and I sucked in air. It reminded me of what Hawke had done, but he’d used more than just his hands. I wanted him to do that again. An intense, pulsing ache between my legs twisted my insides. Hips shifting, I pressed my thighs together, but that didn’t help. The pressure only made it worse. “Hawke?”

“Poppy, for the love of the gods.”

Heart thrumming, I opened my eyes, and I’d been right. His gaze was fixed on me—on my other hand, the one that had a mind of its own and was slipping down my stomach.

“Kiss me?”

Taut lines formed around his mouth. “You don’t want that.”

“I do.” My fingers reached my waist, where the breeches gaped. “I need it.”

“You only think that right now.” His face cleared, and there was no mistaking the way his features had sharpened. “It’s the blood.”

“I don’t care.” The tips of my fingers brushed the bare skin below my navel. “Touch me? Please?”

Hawke made a low sound in the back of his throat. “You think you hate me now? If I do what you’re asking, you’ll want to murder me.” He paused, and his lips curved upward. “Well, you’ll want to murder me more than you already do. You don’t have control of yourself right now.”

What he was saying made sense, but it also didn’t. “No.”

“No?” His brows lifted, but he didn’t look away from my hand.

“I don’t hate you,” I told him, and there was a pained twist of the heart that told me that was the truth. I should be upset by that.

He made that sound again, and when his hand closed over my wrist, I almost wept with joy. He was going to touch me.