A Monsoon Rising (The Hurricane Wars, #2)

by Thea Guanzon

“First of all,” he said through gritted teeth, “I don’t know how to react to you. You are infuriating and self-righteous and you get under my skin. Secondly, there have never been any other women—there was never anyone before you—and much to my dismay you have provoked me so much that you’ve wormed your way into my dreams. You are the only one who plagues them. And one last thing”—his voice lowered into a growl—“the next time I kiss you, I want to remember it.” Raindrops dotted his cheek as he bent down. Lightning streaked the sky as he pulled her to him. The Eversea’s dark waves slammed against the shore as he crushed his lips to hers.

I will always remember this. An errant tear streamed down her cheek, and she hid it against his throat, pulling him close. Just him and me and the monsoon.

it made her think of how everyone who had wronged her then had long rotted away beneath dust and rubble, while she was still standing. And perhaps that made her a monster, too.

If they emerged unscathed out the other side of the Moonless Dark, Kesath would not fight another war.

No more, Alaric vowed to himself from where he stood at Talasyn’s side, the two of them holding back the amethyst bolts, holding back the rot, keeping their island safe. I will go against my father to make it so. After the Sardovian rebels, no more.

Even if they hang me for it— There was fear, yes, but there was exhilaration, too. The defiant kind. The thrill of making a decision that was wholly her own. I will save him.

“I just wanted to say—” Alaric broke off. What did he want to say? Talasyn blinked up at him. “Yes?” I am sorry for everything.

I liked writing to you. I won’t let my father hurt you. I know we agreed that it’s simply physical attraction between us, but sometimes—sometimes I think— Ever since we met, I have lived in a dream of what could be.

“If there’s anything I believe in,” he said, “it’s your stubbornness. It annoys me quite frequently, but it can move mountains. I would have no one else by my side tonight.”

The colors were striking against his pale skin and sable hair. And Talasyn had rather liked the poetry of being the butterfly to his stag—but then he’d opened his fat mouth.

“Let the Nenavarene see their Lachis’ka ride the Night Emperor’s face.” There was a ragged edge to his deep voice. His breath was hot against her wetness. “Let them see me make my wife scream. Let them know, beyond the Shadow and the turning of the stars, that you are mine.”

“The Sardovians caused a diversion that drew the legionnaires further away,” Sevraim said. “All the way to the other end of the Citadel. The rebels were informed of the prison layout,

“We both lost our mothers when we were young, and now—at least you still have Prince Elagbi, but—but at least my grandmother didn’t kill my mother.” What?

Sariman blood and rain magic. Oryal loomed over her, a wraith in a rose-colored dress. Lightning crackled in her fist. Her eyes flashed white with the Tempestroad. “You really don’t belong here in Nenavar, Lachis’ka.” Oryal’s voice, coming from much too far away,