Free The Black Prince: Part I by P. J. Fox

black to green. “I can think of no more wonderful thing,” he told her. His voice was quiet. The merest rustling of leaves. And then, through the bond,
you are mine.
    Those lips, with their perfect bow. Their almost-femininity emphasizing just how masculine he was. That chiseled jaw. That stare. Piercing. So cold. And yet with a heat she could neither define nor explain. A heat that intimidated men and captivated women.
    That captivated her.
    He kissed her, his lips cool. Her mouth opened under his as he eased her back on the bed. His hands, too, were cool. His fingers sure as he explored her. She shivered, half in cold and half in anticipation. She twisted her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. She wanted him. And feeling his lust boiling inside, as though it were her own, fueled her own even more. They were one in that moment, each feeding the other as they fed.
    He dominated her, as he had that first night. As he had since then. She was helpless before him, helpless before the need he’d awakened. She submitted to him willingly, craving his touch. Craving, even more, the confirmation that she
was
his. That he wanted her. Needed her.
    She loved the feel of him. The scent of him: cologne mixed with wood smoke and wool and horse. The weight of him pressing down on her as he kissed the hollow behind her ear, her neck. She’d grown accustomed to their lovemaking, as varied as it was. To sharing such intimate space with another person. To being so vulnerable, and before one so terrifying. Because, even now, he terrified her.
    Her dark prince of ice and snow, with a heart as cold as that of any corpse beneath the frozen ground.
    He slid his hand under her, lifting her, impaling her on him. She gasped, ready but not for the assault. Her fingernails dug into his back. She knew him as well as she knew herself, knew his touch. But he was still so strange, so new. As were the sensations he awoke inside her. The cravings. A need was building deep within her center, radiating out even to her toes as she responded, not to logic but by instinct.
    “Yes,” she whispered.



ELEVEN
    “B reathe.”
    She nodded. She was trying. But these moments still came, when it felt like invisible fingers were crushing her windpipe. Slowly. Inexorably.
    “Part of you still fights the change.” Tristan’s tone was calm. “Breathe.”
    He lay beside her in the bed, the coverlet tossed casually over his lower half. He wasn’t cold. He never was. Beside him, Isla struggled to find the calm he described. The acceptance. These moments, unexpected as they were, struck terror into her heart. Which raced now, beating against the prison of her ribcage like a prisoner against the bars of his cell.
    “In. Then hold the air inside.” He waited. “Then out.”
    She something inside begin to ease.
    He studied her, black gaze inscrutable. “It will come. In time.”
    His very lack of emotion was encouraging. She knew he’d never lead her into the path of harm. Would protect her, as she was part of him now. They shared, as he’d once told her, an aura.
    And if they shared more…no one in the castle commented. Isla’s emerald green eyes had attracted more than a few startled glances, as had her skin. Once freckled, now the depthless pale of skimmed milk. But those who made their lives at Caer Addanc knew better than to question the will of their lord. Or, now, of his lady.
    Although Isla was far from Tristan’s first wife she was, at least according to Greta, the first true mistress of this castle. At least within living memory. She’d been accepted, completely and immediately, as no other consort ever had. Accepted, both because Tristan himself seemed to view her differently and because the people loved her. She was warm, and kind. Interested in their problems: from those of the highest burgher, or visiting lord, to those of the lowest char girl. Isla had time, and compassion, for them all.
    Unnatural though she might be, so was their