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"I'm going to seal this closed, okay?"

She nodded, and he dipped his head. As he delicately ran his tongue over the holes, he closed his eyes and got lost nuzzling her. Next time he wanted to go between her legs and tap into the vein that ran down the juncture of her hips, tap into it so he could alternate between sucking at her blood and licking at her sex.

He leaned to the side and turned the shower on, then stripped off the button-down shirt she wore. Her breasts were covered in white lace, the pink tips visible through the lovely pattern. Bending down, he suckled one of her nipples through the fine weave and was rewarded with her hand easing into his hair and a moan bubbling up her throat.

He growled and slipped his palm between her legs.

What he'd left behind was on the inside of her thighs, and though it made him a crass bastard, he wanted it to stay there. He wanted to leave that stuff where it was and put more inside of her.

Ah, yes, the instincts of the bonded male. He wanted her to wear him like she did her own skin: all over.

He took her bra off her and eased her into the shower, holding her by the shoulders, getting her under the spray. He stepped in, his pajama bottoms getting wet, his feet feeling the smooth marble floor. Sweeping his hands over her hair and taking the short blond waves back from her face, he looked into her eyes.

Mine.

"I haven't kissed you yet," he said.

She arched against him and used his chest for balance, just as he wanted her to. "Not on the mouth, no."

"May I?"

"Please."

Shit, he was nervous as he looked at her lips. Which was so strange. He'd had so much sex over the course of his life, all different kinds and combinations, but the prospect of kissing her properly wiped all of that away: He was the virgin he'd never been, clueless and weak-kneed.

"So are you going to?" she asked as he stalled out.

Oh... shit.

With a smile like the Mona Lisa's, she put her hands to his face. "Come here."

She pulled him down to her, tilted his head, and brushed her lips against his. Vishous's body shuddered. He had felt power before-his own in his muscles, his godforsaken mother's in his destiny, his king's in his life, his brothers' in his job-but he'd never let any of it overcome him.

Jane overcame him now. Held total sway as she cradled his face in her palms.

He gathered her close and pressed his lips tighter on hers, the communion a sweetness he never would have believed he'd want, much less revere. When they broke apart, he soaped up her sleek curves and rinsed her off. Shampooed her hair. Cleaned between her legs.

Handling her with care was like breathing… an automatic function of his body and brain that he didn't have to think about.

He shut off the water, toweled her dry, then picked her up and carried her back to the bed. She sprawled out on his black duvet, arms over her head, legs slightly parted, nothing but flushed female skin and muscle.

She stared at him from underneath lowered lids. "Your pajamas are wet."

"Yeah."

"You're hard."

"I am."

She arched on the bed, the undulation riding up her torso from her hips to her breasts. "You going to do anything about it?"

He bared his fangs and hissed. "If you'll let me."

She moved one of her legs to the side, and his corneas nearly started bleeding. She was glistening at her core, and not from the shower.

"Does this look like a no to you?" she said.

He ripped off his bottoms and was on her in a heartbeat, kissing her deep and long, lifting his hips, positioning himself, sinking in. She was so much better like this, in reality, not a dream state. As she came for him once, twice… more… his heart broke.

For the first time he was having sex with someone he loved.

He felt a momentary blind panic at his exposure. How the fuck had this happened?

But, then, this was his last-well, only-shot at the love thing, wasn't it. And she wasn't going to remember a thing, so it was safe: Her heart wasn't going to be broken at the end.

Plus… well, her lack of memory made it safe for him, too, didn't it. Kind of like that night he and Wrath had gotten shit-faced and V had talked about his mother.

The less people knew about him, the better.

Except damn, why the hell did the thought of cleaning out Jane's mind make his chest hurt?

God, she was going so soon.

Chapter Twenty-five

On the Other Side, Cormia stepped out of the Primale's temple and waited as the Directrix shut the enormous gold doors. The temple was on top of a raised knoll, a gilded crown on the head of a small hill, and from here the whole of the Chosen's compound was visible: the white buildings and the temples, the amphitheater, the covered walkways. The stretches between landmarks were carpeted with cropped white grass that never grew, never changed, and as always, the vista offered little in the way of horizon, just a diffused blurring of the distant white forest boundary. The only color to the composition was the pale blue of the sky, and even that faded at the edges.

"Thus ends your lesson," the Directrix said as she divested her neck of her graceful chain of keys and locked the doors. "In accordance with tradition you shall present yourself for the first of the cleansing rituals when we come for you. Until then you shall ponder the grace you have been given and the service you will provide for the benefit of us all."

The words were spoken in the same hard tone the Directrix had used to describe what the Primale would do to Cormia's body. Over and over again. Anytime he wished.

The Directrix's eyes held a calculating light as she put her necklace back on, a chiming sound rising up as the keys settled between her breasts. "Fare thee well, sister."

As the Directrix walked down off the hill, her white robe was indistinguishable from both ground and buildings, another splash of white differentiated solely because it was in motion.

Cormia put her hands to her face. The Directrix had told her-no, vowed to her-that what would transpire beneath the Primale would be painful, and Cormia believed it. The graphic details had been shocking, and she feared there was no way she could get through the mating ceremony without breaking down-to the disgrace of the whole of the Chosen. As the representative of them all, Cormia had to perform as expected and with dignity, or she would tarnish the venerable tradition she was in service to, contaminating it in its entirety.

She glanced over her shoulder at the temple and put her hand on her lower belly. She was fertile, as all Chosen were at all times on this side. She could beget a young of the Primale from her very first time with him.

Dear Virgin in the Fade, why had she been chosen?

When she turned back around, the Directrix was down at the bottom of the hill, so small in comparison to the towering buildings, so tremendous in practicality. More than anyone or anything else, she defined the landscape: The Scribe Virgin was whom they all served, but it was the Directrix who ran their lives. At least until the Primale arrived.

The Directrix did not want that male in her world, Cormia thought.

And that was why Cormia had been the one nominated to the Scribe Virgin for choosing. Of all the females who might have been picked and would have been thrilled, she was the least welcoming, the least accommodating. A passive-aggressive declaration against the change in supremacy.

Cormia started down the knoll, the white grass texture without temperature under her bare feet. Nothing save food and drink possessed heat or coldness.

For a moment she thought of escaping. Better to be gone from all she knew than to endure the picture the Directrix had painted. Except she had no knowledge of how to get to the far side. She knew you had to pass through into the Scribe Virgin's private space, but what then? And what if she were caught by Her Holiness?

Unthinkable. More frightening than being with the Primale.