His lips were warm, moist, firm. She blew her breath into him, poured herself into him. The world spun.
She was the air fil ing his mouth, dilating his throat, swel ing his lungs. He tasted like salt and sweat and freedom, dark, rich, forbidden flavors.
Inside her, something fluttered and erupted, a thousand beating wings fighting the sky. Roaring fil ed her head, a rush like wind or the sea. Power thrummed and thundered along her veins, wel ed and spil ed from her eyes, her mouth, her hands. It lifted her up, she was rising, fal ing, flying . . .
No, that was his chest, she realized, dazed.
Justin’s chest, rising, his lungs expanding with air.
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V i r g i n i a K a n t r a
His arms closed around her. She gasped and released him. They both shuddered.
She pushed herself up, one hand on his hard, lean torso, one hand on the cold ground. Dizzy, she looked down at him. “Are you al right?”
His eyes met hers, black as night with a thin edge of gold like the sickle moon. “What . . . was that?”
She rocked back on her heels, pressing her lips together, holding the taste of him inside. What was she doing? What had she done?
“First aid,” she said.
Wicked laughter lit his eyes.
It was more than first aid, and they both knew it.
More than a kiss. Did he realize?
She was no magic handler. Al nephilim were taught what they were and what they once could do. Most learned to shield and make a little light, to bend air and set wards. But most gifts remained latent. This went beyond anything Lara had done—or felt—before.
She rubbed her arms, holding herself together. “We have to get you back.”
The animation drained from his face. He was stil very pale, she noted with a thrum of anxiety. “Can’t.”
She felt another flutter. Panic, this time. “I can’t hide an attempted escape. But if I return you—if you return of your own volition—the governors wil be more lenient on us both.”
“Can’t . . .” Another slow, rasping breath. “Walk.”
“Oh.”
His eyes drifted shut again as if the effort of speaking had exhausted his strength. His lashes looked very long and dark against the sharp white angles of his face.
Her angel’s breath had revived him. But for how long?
F o r g o t t e n s e a 59
Lara hugged her elbows as she considered her options.
She couldn’t move him. She couldn’t walk away.
She glanced up at the dark windows of the house, fighting the hol ow in the pit of her stomach, knowing what she had to do.
Her hand trailed from his chest. She climbed to her feet.
“I’l be right back.”
His lean hand curled, warm and possessive, around her ankle. “Don’t leave.”
Her heart lurched. “I’l be right back,” she repeated and ran.
*
*
*
Lara peered through the leaded glass insets at the side of the door. Even through the swirled and textured glass, she could see the hal was empty. The doorbel ’s echo faded away.
Simon didn’t come.
Her heart hammered. Why didn’t he come?
She tried knocking and heard—final y!—the headmaster’s deliberate tread descending the stairs. The foyer light switched on, making the colors in the window bloom.
Simon opened the door. Just for a moment, something flashed in his eyes. She felt hot and awkward, as if she’d been caught running in the hal . Or kissing a bleeding stranger in his back garden . . .
She fought the temptation to smooth her skirt, to check her buttons.
She must have roused him from bed. He was stil wearing the long, loose pants and shirt most nephilim favored for training and sleeping. The wide-sleeved shirt hung open over his naked chest. His long, narrow feet were bare.
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