Lanthe had never been kissed like that. Like the male would die if she didn’t part her lips and return it.

In another, she’d traced her fingertips over every scar on his naked body, then followed her touches with her lips and tongue. He’d shuddered with sensitivity—but he’d bowed his rugged chest for more. . . .

She exhaled a breath, determined not to think about him like that—or to even acknowledge that her ni**les were stiffening in the sultry air. She arched her back, letting rain patter over her, cooling her br**sts. She wished she could say these were the first sensual dreams she’d had of him. They weren’t, and over the year since their last encounter, these reveries had grown more numerous.

She gazed out into the night. Surely Thronos would return soon. She dressed again, was reaching for her gauntlets—

A sound behind her. She whirled around.

The back wall of the cave was opening, directly where she’d sensed the gold. Thronos strode out, looking bored, while behind him was . . .

Heaven.

His mate had caught sight of the golden temple he’d found, and now looked like her legs were about to buckle. “Did I see correctly?”

Ah, her tongue was working again. Soon he’d be treated to more of her lies. But she wasn’t a master deceiver, not like he’d expected. She had tells, and he was learning them.

In his absence, she’d cleaned herself. Her skin was scrubbed, looking rosier, highlighting the blue of her eyes. Her raven hair was drying into glossy braids and big curls.

He craved threading his fingers through that length.

To see it streaming over his chest as he held her close. . . .

Inward shake. Without those gauntlets, she appeared more delicate. Smaller somehow. He assessed the rest of her “garments” with a disapproving eye. When he got her to the Skye, he’d see to it that she dressed appropriately.

“Thronos, is there gold behind that stone?”

“Yes. A temple of it, built with gold bricks from floor to soaring ceiling. Even I found it wondrous to behold.”

She sounded like she’d muffled a whimper.

When the heavy door began easing closed, she sprinted for it. The stone sealed shut before she could reach it. “Open this again!” Her tone was frantic. “Please!”

He didn’t answer, dismissively striding to the cliff edge of the cave. Behind him, he could hear her digging around for an entry she’d never find.

For once, he would ignore her. He stared out at the horizon, taking in the storms over the swamplands—the slow fade of lightning strikes backlighting purple clouds. So different from his home in the heavens.

The Air Territories were a collection of floating islands, massive monoliths that hovered above the clouds. His realm was crowned forever by seamless skies—unbroken blue or star-filled black.

Skye Hall was the royal seat, but every island had its own city, each laid out with precision. All the buildings were angular and uniform, with sun-bleached walls. His home was a testament to order, an anchor for steadfast Vrekeners.

Unlike this plane.

The scene before Thronos was chaotic. Yet he found it surprisingly . . . arresting. Was there some kind of appeal to this entire domain?

His restlessness increased, that damned expectancy redoubling. He needed to get back to his anchor as soon as possible.

“How did you open this, Thronos?”

He’d read the instructions. Over this interminable night, Thronos had come to a conclusion: not reading the glyphs was cowardly; he was no coward.

This language might not even be demonic in nature. It could be some kind of mystical tongue that only certain Loreans could read. Perhaps only the worthy.

Like himself.

And, he’d reasoned, reading would help him learn about this plane. So he’d started at the outer cave wall, making his way in. Some sections had degraded with age, but he’d been able to glean that this cave was the entry to an ancient temple for dragon worship—and ritual sacrifice.

This hadn’t alarmed him. Dragons weren’t likely to roam war-torn Pandemonia; they’d gone extinct in most dimensions.

Then he’d come upon instructions to enter the temple, and had easily opened the door. He’d found a scene that would prove to be his mate’s most fevered fantasy.

Everyone knew Sorceri loved gold. Thronos had firsthand knowledge of just how much.

He remembered a day when Melanthe hadn’t come to the meadow. She hadn’t felt well the day before, and he’d been worried. He’d flown to her home, stealing across the roof, trying to scent her room amidst the sorcery. He’d scrabbled down the side of the abbey to a window, peeking inside. . . .

A black-haired woman with an immense gold headpiece and crazed blue eyes was rubbing coins against her masked face, murmuring, “Gold is life! It is perfection!” She began to speak to each piece, as if she’d met it at the market to gossip.

Chills raced over him. He’d never seen a madwoman before, and he believed she was Melanthe’s own mother.

Sorcery steeped the room as she chanted about gold: “Band it in armor over thy heart, and never will thy life’s blood part. Gild your hair and face and skin, and no man breathes that you can’t win. Never too much can a sorceress steal, those who defend she duly kills—”

Her eyes suddenly met his. He jolted back, but she cried, “I seeeee you. Come, hawkling. Visit a sorceress in her lair.”

He swallowed, then eased over to crouch on the sill, ready for flight. Behind her were piles of gold coins and bars, more than anyone could spend in a lifetime. Melanthe’s family had wealth; why would they let her go hungry?