For the latter, he lowered his mental shield, letting her hear his musings loud and clear.

He replayed her wet heat kissing the head of his shaft . . . the pressure of her sex beginning to squeeze the crown as he inched inside . . . her pulse racing because she’d needed him too . . .

“It wasn’t real!” she insisted.

“It feels bloody real!” No one got his wings up like she did! “Damn it, I know your taste. I know your moans. Why are you so eager to deny what we felt?”

It was as if she considered herself weak because she’d surrendered to it. And all I feel is strong.

“Because it never happened!” Brows raised in challenge, she said, “If that hallucination truly took place, then shouldn’t Nïx’s lock of hair be in my pocket?” She dug into the waterlogged leather strip, one of the last remaining.

She pulled out a lock of Valkyrie hair.

He gaped. Could Feveris have been real?

Melanthe pinched her brow with confusion. “No, no. Nïx must’ve planted this on me when she attacked me on the island. She could’ve slipped this in when I was unconscious. Or maybe she was in the beast herself?” Melanthe shoved it back in her pocket. “Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like I made you scream with pleasure?” He closed in on her. “Face it, sorceress, I nearly claimed you as mine—and you loved it.” They were toe to toe. “You wanted me inside you. You wanted more. Nothing can ever take that away.”

“That would’ve been disastrous!” She looked half enraged, half wary.

He reached forward to brush his thumb over her bottom lip. “I want to get us back to where we were before we got interrupted.”

“A male wanting sex from me.” She jerked away from him. “How novel.”

“You know I want more than just sex.” He grabbed her upper arm, drawing her close once more. “I want everything from you.”

Her lips parted, but then she seemed to collect herself. “Just because Sorceri don’t dwell on regrets doesn’t mean we set ourselves up for them either. What you want to happen between us just . . . can’t. We’re too different. Our families and factions would never accept this.”

“Maybe a relationship between another sorceress and a Vrekener would prove impossible. But we’ve been through too much. We’ve earned each other. You can’t deny that. If you took away all the strife surrounding us, could you accept me?”

She didn’t reply, wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Look at me, Melanthe.”

When she eventually faced him, he stared into her eyes, seeing that same vulnerability he’d beheld when he’d been about to claim her.

He thought he was beginning to understand it. . . .

In Pandemonia, he’d discovered his mate yearned for love. She’d never found it with another—and she clearly wouldn’t settle for anything less. She’d told him she would give her heart only to the right male.

I’m that male.

Looking at her now, he comprehended that she felt vulnerable—because her heart was already in play. He believed he could make Melanthe fall in love with him, claiming something from her all his own.

“Let me go, Thronos.”

“And if I say never?” In that moment, he realized exactly how he should handle her sorcery in the Skye. The solution was so blindingly obvious, he almost slapped his forehead.

With a groan of frustration, she kicked his shin; he cupped her nape, pulling her close for an overdue kiss—

A metal net descended over them.

He yelled, splaying his wings, snaring himself in the weighted lines.

“Oh, gods, it’s like the tentacles!” She dropped to the ground, cringing away from the mesh. “Get it off, get it off!”

“Trying!” When he clawed the metal, sparks erupted. Mystically protected.

Just as he scented foreign creatures over the sparks, Melanthe cried, “Stheno sentries!”

Before he could reach her, she’d been snatched out from under the net. He lunged for her, thrashing to get free, until one of the towering creatures propped Melanthe up like a doll to hold a trident at her neck.

They were surrounded by a dozen vicious Sthenos, nine-foot-tall gorgons with crimson sea snakes for hair. Each sentry carried a trident.

“Release us,” Melanthe commanded, blue light emanating from her eyes and hands. Nothing. “Release us now!”

The largest Stheno, and obvious leader, said, “Your powers will not work on us, sorceress. We have been divinely shielded.”

Time to fight, then. His gaze flicked as he calculated his next several moves—until the Stheno holding his mate threatened her with more than a trident.

Sea snakes coiled down to drape over one of her graceful shoulders, their fangs bared, forked tongues twitching.

Melanthe swallowed. “Their poison . . . I might not recover from it.”

He froze, holding up his hands.

The leader said, “You’ve erred by trespassing in Sargasoe, kingdom of Nereus.”

“The sea god?” Melanthe asked.

“The deity Nereus, our lord and master. You will attend him in his keep, where he holds feasts of celebration. Depending on His Highness’s mood, you will either be guests—or the entertainment.”

FORTY-ONE

The Sthenos had bound and blindfolded their captives, making the descent from towering cliff to sea level even more perilous for Lanthe. She wanted to tell them that she could never, ever find her way back to Nereus’s keep. But they hadn’t exactly been chatty.