The quiet aftermath shattered as a new, deeper hunger seized him. It wasn’t the frantic claiming of before, but something slow, deliberate, and primal. His mouth left her lips and found the hollow of her throat. He didn’t bite. He tasted. His tongue was cold, a shocking contrast to the heat of her skin, and it traced the frantic pulse there with the reverence of a man at a shrine.
Isabella gasped. Her hands, which had been resting against his chest, slid up to clutch his shoulders. He moved lower, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder, his tongue lapping at the salt of her exertion. It was languid. Intimate. Each pass of his mouth was a study, a committed memorization of texture and temperature. In that endless, exploring minute, she felt the truth. This wasn’t just about possession. It was about consumption. He was drinking in every proof of her mortality—the sweat, the warmth, the living scent of jasmine and spent desire—to sear it into his ageless soul.
“Viktor,” she breathed, the name a fractured thing.
He made a sound against her skin—a low, wounded hum of acknowledgment. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs sweeping her cheekbones, but his mouth didn’t stop its pilgrimage. It moved to the delicate shell of her ear, then down the column of her neck, pausing at the twin, healed punctures he had left in the archives. He kissed them. A soft, closed-mouth press that was both apology and claim. She shuddered, her body arching into his of its own volition, her nipples tightening into aching points against the silk of her blouse.
He felt it. His glacial eyes, half-lidded and dark, flicked up to hers. The control was back, but it was a different kind. It was the terrifying, focused control of a dam holding back an ocean. “Tell me,” he whispered, his voice rough as stone. “Tell me you’re real.”
Isabella reached for his hand, the one with the faint scar across the palm. She brought it to her chest, pressing his cool fingers flat over the frantic, living drum of her heart. She held it there, her stormy sea eyes locked on his. “Again,” was all she said.
His hand was still pressed to her pounding heart when he kissed her. It was not the violent, devouring kiss from the archives. This was a slow, consuming seal, a confirmation written in the cold, deliberate pressure of his mouth. He tasted of her—the salt of her skin, the ghost of jasmine—and of centuries of starved silence. He kissed her as if he were drinking the truth of her from her lips, sip by endless sip, until her reality became his.
Isabella’s fingers tightened on his shoulders, her body arching into the glacial chill of his. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of analysis, was still. There was only the feel of his mouth moving against hers, the controlled slide of his tongue, the way his free hand came to cradle the base of her skull, holding her in place for his worship. She made a sound into his mouth—a soft, broken exhale that was more surrender than protest. Her heart hammered against his palm, a frantic, living drumbeat answering the profound stillness of his own chest.
He finally broke the kiss, but only by a breath. His glacial eyes were open, watching her, his lips hovering over hers. “Again,” he echoed, the word a rough, haunted thing. It wasn’t a question. It was a vow. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a gesture of terrifying tenderness. “Your heart. Your breath. This heat.” He leaned in, his mouth brushing the corner of her lips, then her jaw. “It is a prayer I thought I would never hear again.”
His mouth returned to her throat, to the pulse still racing from his kiss. This time, his lips parted. She felt the cool, flat press of his teeth against her skin—not breaking, not biting, just resting there against the vulnerable beat. A shudder wracked her, a wave of heat pooling low in her belly. Her blouse felt too tight, the silk abrading her sensitized nipples. She was wet, aching, her body a chorus of yeses she didn’t understand.
“Viktor,” she gasped, her head falling back.
He hummed against her throat, the vibration skating down her spine. “Say it,” he murmured, his tongue soothing the place his teeth had pressed. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel…” Her voice was a thread. She swallowed, forcing the honesty he demanded. “I feel you memorizing me.”
He went utterly still. Then, a tremor went through him—the first crack in the dam. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes wide and shattered. In them, she saw the ghost of the scaffold, the memory of the rope, the centuries of guilt. And beneath it, a hunger so ancient it stole her breath.
He lowered his mouth to her shoulder. His lips parted. His tongue, cold and deliberate, traced the curve of bone and skin. He didn’t bite. He tasted. He lapped at the salt gathered there, a slow, thorough stroke that made her knees buckle.
Isabella’s breath hitched. Her fingers dug into the fine wool of his suit jacket. He hummed, the sound vibrating into her flesh, and his hands slid down her back to anchor her against him. He turned his head, nuzzling into the junction of her neck and shoulder, his nose cool against her feverish skin. He inhaled, a long, deep draught, as if drinking the very scent of her living heat—jasmine, yes, but beneath it, the musk of her arousal, the clean salt of exertion, the undeniable perfume of a mortal body in the throes of feeling.
“This,” he murmured against her damp skin, his voice frayed at the edges. “This warmth. This scent. It is the only altar I have left.” His mouth moved lower, following the line of her collarbone. The silk of her blouse was a barrier. With a patience that felt like torment, he used his teeth to catch the first button. He didn’t rip. He worked it free with a gentle, precise tug. The cool air of the study kissed the newly exposed skin, and his mouth followed, sealing over the hollow at the base of her throat.
He was mapping her. Claiming not with violence, but with a scholar’s devotion. Each inch of skin received the same reverent attention—the cold, wet stroke of his tongue, the press of lips that could bruise but chose to soothe, the scrape of teeth that promised but did not pierce. Her blouse fell open another button, and then another, his progress slow and inevitable. His hand slipped inside, his cool palm flattening over the frantic beat of her heart, then sliding lower to cup the swell of her breast through her lace bra.
Isabella moaned, her head tipping back. Her nipple was a tight, aching peak against his palm. He brushed his thumb over it, once, twice, through the lace, and a shock of pure need tightened low in her belly. She was so wet the fabric of her trousers felt damp. “Viktor.”
He lifted his head. His eyes were pools of midnight blue, the glacial ice melted into something hot and desperate. A single drop of moisture—her sweat, or perhaps a tear—gleamed on his lower lip. He looked from her eyes to her parted lips, to the flushed skin he had just worshipped. His thumb stilled on her nipple. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, the old plea now a raw, shattered thing. “Give me the word, and I will build a wall of centuries between us.”