Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 83

At her legs, she felt clinging folds of fabric much longer than her tattered pink party dress. She looked down to see that she now wore an off-the-shoulder gown the hue of white wine. Small burgundy bows held gathers of the fine material, pinning it around her in elegant drapes.

Touching her brow, her fingertips found a crown of velvet-soft flowers.

In a flash, she remembered the statue she’d found next to Varen in the courtyard and realized he’d transformed her into the living version.

A new wave surged in around them, and as it did, Varen swept her up and out of the water’s path. He swung her in a slow circle as the water rolled and crashed, frothing white.

Isobel’s heart swelled with the sea. She felt weightless in his arms.

Enwrapping his neck, she leaned in close, laughing as the spray of water sprinkled their skin and beaded in his dark hair like minuscule diamonds.

Pastel-yellow rays sliced through the puffy pink-and-blue-bellied clouds that gathered overhead. Straight as arrows, the light shot down to meet the glittering sea.

Perched at the zenith of a high rock, Varen’s castle cut a striking outline.

No longer menacing but regal, the ivory fortress—all turrets and waving green banners—seemed to watch over them, as if awaiting their return to its grand halls.

Isobel clung closer to Varen, holding tight to him and to this moment that felt so much like a fairy tale.

Varen tilted his head toward her, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“‘For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee.’”

Isobel’s smile returned. Finally she got it.

The poem. He’d taken them right into the middle of it—this ballad that felt as if it told the story of a previous life. One they’d shared together, just like this.

“‘And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.’”

As though taking command from his words, the daylight faded and the sky swirled sherbet. The sun sank into the shimmering sea, giving way to a lunar glow that swept the dreamscape in tones of deep blue and shining silver.

Tilting her head back, Isobel watched the sky fill with innumerable stars.

When she looked to Varen again, she was so startled by the sight of the two jade spheres gazing back at her that she nearly let go of him.

“Varen. You—”

“Shut up,” he said, tilting his head as he leaned in, “so I can kiss you.”

32

Dissever

He pressed his lips to hers.

Immediately Isobel’s hands went to his face.

She held him there, too afraid he might try to pull away. Or that she’d wake up somewhere without him.

Gently, as the tide rushed out from under them, Varen set her down. But he did not break the kiss; encircling her waist, he drew her in closer.

Isobel rose onto tiptoes, bare feet sinking into the pliant sand.

With another rolling surge, the warm waves returned, swelling higher this time, past their knees.

Varen’s silver lip ring teased as it caressed, lulling Isobel’s mind as it beckoned the rest of her toward abandon.

Watching him through the lashes of lids that had dropped on their own, Isobel found herself locked in a bittersweet battle, torn between never wanting this moment to end and needing to look into his eyes again. To be certain she hadn’t imagined the return of their polished jade hue.

She pressed her palms to his chest but could not bring herself to push him back. The fever of his kiss, the strength of the arms that held her to him—the power of the spell he’d cast over them both—won out.

Giving in, Isobel permitted her thoughts to float off without her. Her lips matched his painstaking pace, trading brush for brush and stroke for stroke.

Varen lifted both hands, hooking them under her jaw. His thumbs grazed her cheeks as he took his turn to hold her in place.

He kissed her as if doing so was the one thing that could keep him, all of this, from unraveling—again—into pandemonium.

She knew how he felt. Lost and found. Freed and captive. Calm and desperate . . .

She knew, because she felt it too.

So she let the fabricated dream continue, trying to keep the nagging truth at bay for one more moment. Then another, and another . . .

But when the water’s warmth began to fade, when the current grew stronger with each sigh and heave—when the sensation of pins and needles crept into her awareness, growing strong enough to drown out the sensation of his lips—she had to stop.

Isobel froze. Her eyelids lifted.

Grimacing, Varen parted the kiss that had already ended.