BUZZZZZZZZZZ

Even with his wings shielding them, the sound was deafening.

“Thronos, I-I can’t! It’s too loud. My head!”

BUZZZZZZZZZZ

He wrapped his arms around her trembling body. “Shh, shh, I know . . .” How the hell was he going to get her away? When he could barely think past that sound?

Yet then it . . . dimmed.

Were they no longer swarmed? He poked his head up to glance out.

The towering black mass had stopped before those stones, hovering in the air—as if there was an imaginary line that couldn’t be crossed.

Then they began dissipating, their buzz receding.

He squinted at the stones. On this side, both read:

The pest that IS . . .

He rose above her. “Melanthe? Are you okay?”

Between breaths, she said, “My head still feels like a jackhammer was in it.”

He levered himself to his feet, helping her stand. “Were you stung?” As he looked her over, he rasped his palms over his skin, scraping stingers away.

“Only a few times before you covered me.” She plucked stingers from her arms, leaving angry red welts. “Why’d they stop?”

“I think you were right about there being traps all over this realm. I’m beginning to believe there’s a patchwork of danger zones, and we reached the edge of one.” What he wouldn’t give for a map!

“What do those markers say?”

“On the other side, they read: The pest that was. On this side: The pest that is.”

She brushed hair from her eyes. “They sound like demonic road signs. Like if we were heading back into the swarm zone, the signs would be saying: Entering hazardous area.”

“Does The pest that was mean we left the hazardous area?”

“Only to enter another one?” she asked, her face wan.

He noticed she wasn’t sweating. In this heat? Not good. Wasn’t that a symptom of heat stroke?

He scented water, but it was far in the distance, several leagues away. Though most immortals could go without water for days, she wasn’t like most immortals. Reminded of how fragile a creature she was, he reached for her. “Come here, Melanthe.”

“I’m fine.”

Ignoring her protests, he took her in his arms and cradled her slight weight. He started along the trail, working to minimize the jostle of his limp. With each step, she relaxed a degree more in his arms. Every now and then, she’d grumble about walking on her own.

“Why don’t you rest? We’ve got a long way between us and water.” Maybe there’d even be fruit growing nearby that the little sorceress would actually eat. She’d thrown up her last meal.

Had that been two nights ago?

In that short time, she’d gotten to him—until his thoughts and emotions were in chaos. “Try to sleep, Melanthe.”

“While you carry me? When we’re in a place chock-full of swamp serpents, demons, dragons, and pests?”

“I’ll watch over you.”

“Ha. Never’ll happen . . .”

Ten minutes later, she was out, her head turned toward his chest, her hands curled against him. She’d fallen asleep in his arms—and it felt like one of his greatest accomplishments.

Surely this meant she trusted him? He squared his shoulders. She believed he would keep her safe against all the dangers they kept encountering.

He frowned. Or else she had heat exhaustion.

Inwardly waving away that thought, he regarded her relaxed face, her lips parted in slumber. This wasn’t the first time he’d held her sleeping. When they’d been young, they would lie in the meadow together, peering up at clouds to identify shapes. Sometimes, she would doze in his arms as he lifted her raven locks to the sun, just to watch them shine.

Their cloud pastime always made him grin because she thought every single one resembled some small befurred creature or another. “That one looks like a tree,” he’d say. She’d answer, “Or a squirrel on its hind legs with a mouthful of acorns.” He’d offer, “That one’s like a cottage with a chimney.” She’d sigh, “Or a very fat rabbit. With short ears.”

One time she’d woken from a nap, lifting her head from his chest to sleepily ask him, “When we’re apart, do you ever gaze down at clouds as I gaze up? Do you ever miss me as I miss you?”

More, Melanthe. So much more.

And that left him conflicted. Thronos had heard of the mate effect, that the mere presence of one’s mate would be a balm on all woes. His mate was as soothing as a cyclone.

After Inferno, his customary sexual frustration had been ratcheted up to a painful degree. But he was also experiencing this new . . . fascination for the female in his arms. She was a woman with her own desires. He wanted to learn them—so he could tease her and make her crazed for him.

He’d been committing offendments left and right, but he couldn’t muster much regret. Holding her hand like that had been the most sensual act he’d ever enjoyed.

He still burned for the kiss he’d almost taken. At the time, he’d thought she’d wanted it just as dearly.

And after that kiss? Even more delights awaited him! If you ever looked at me like he looks at her, I’d consider it.

Thronos had predicted a bleak future for them. But what if they could share pleasure, building on that?

Melanthe is misery. Had he really thought that only yesterday? Now he realized, Melanthe is doubt.

She’d always made him doubt his beliefs. He remembered a time when he’d tried to explain what she was to him. She’d been only nine, yet she’d questioned something he’d thought was absolute.