Malachi stilled and the power shifted. When he looked at me, his pupils were blown, ringed in a thin, luminous silver. “If I start,” he said, fingers tightening at my hip, “I won’t go halfway.”
“Then don’t.”
The corner of his mouth kicked, wicked and resigned. “You beg for your damnation so sweetly.”
He slid his palm along my ribs—slow, testing—until the barest graze made my breath catch. He noticed; of course he did. His expression darkened with satisfaction and something softer. “There,” he said, like a secret. He trailed that slow path again, patient, exacting, until my back arched of its own accord and my hands found his shoulders of their own need.
The lights dimmed to a hush. A thread of shadow wound around my wrist and then faded. “You’re doing that,” I said, not sure if I meant
