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Summary
“Leather. And Plum.” His words kissed between her shoulder blades. She threw her head back while he tasted her, first the ridges of her spine, then the pattern of scars twisting over it. His touch halted at her hips.
Phyrra jerked her head over her shoulder. “What– don’t stop.”
Spite’s lip was pressed to the darkest patch of scarring, one that tore the neck of her dragon tattoo clean in half. It was an ugly reminder of an early skirmish in the Crossroads. Venatori? Antaam? She couldn’t quite remember. Ink was smudged over the memory, the only clear image the bright sky and blood staining her gloves. She hadn’t realised it was her own before stumbling into someone’s arms.
The point of his gaze softened slightly. “Rook.”
She could see the words curling on his tongue, ones he couldn’t say, ones he perhaps didn’t have the language to say. Another night she’d let him try. Tonight, it was the last thing she needed.
Some gratuitous Rook/Spite/Lucanis action