Recent content by Imogen Celreos

Imogen swallowed hard, heat coiling low in her stomach as Greydon’s grin carved straight through her carefully maintained composure. Gods, she squirmed under it, unable to stop herself. She dipped her chin, lashes lowering, doing everything she could to hide the traitorous twitch of a smile...

Greydon’s presence was that quiet command that drew every part of her attention like a tide to the moon. She kept her expression schooled, smiling faintly at the jeweller as if nothing were amiss, though her pulse had begun to thrash beneath her skin. “Silver would be lovely…” she murmured...

The earth was still trembling when they reached the crash site. Imogen could hear the dying moans of the bat-beast before she could see it, its vast wings twitching in the dust. Her heart pounded in her throat as Vaelith’s claws struck stone, scattering gravel and ash with every step. Her...

Imogen forced her gaze to stay forward as Ilir guided her through the crowd, every heartbeat still echoing with the knowledge that Greydon was near. She didn’t dare look back. If she did, she knew her composure would shatter. His voice, his promises, the heat of his hands on her skin, they all...

Imogen gave a soft laugh, the sound light but hollow beneath the layers of practiced poise. “Yes… nerves,” she agreed, her gaze momentarily lowering to the cobblestones as though shyly conceding the point. Her hands smoothed the silk at her sides. She had been about to say more, something...

Imogen drew in a quiet breath as the carriage door swung open, and for a moment, she nearly didn’t recognise him. Ilir stood in the morning light like he belonged to it, golden and polished. It was the first time she had truly seen the man he must have been in the courts of Malennis, poised...

Her head tilted ever so slightly at the mention of soup - a surprisingly gentle gesture that caught her off guard. For a fleeting moment, her expression softened. “That is… kind of you, my lord,” she murmured, offering a faint, weary smile and a small dip of her chin in gratitude. The warmth...

Imogen’s hand tightened imperceptibly on the doorframe as he spoke, her knuckles paling with the effort it took to keep her expression composed. Gods, she wished he would stop looking at her like that. That calm, assessing stare that seemed to strip her bare and measure her worth. Once, she’d...

Imogen startled slightly at the knock, her hand pausing where it rested on the balustrade. The sound of his voice made her stomach tighten and her pulse leap traitorously beneath her skin. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring out at the gardens below, trying to will away the sudden...

Imogen sipped from her glass slowly, buying herself one more precious second of composure, though her pulse throbbed hot in her ears. Her lips curved into a languid smirk as she watched him squirm before her, and gods, she liked seeing him undone like this. She needed more of that. Her teeth...

Her breaths grew shallow, tight, each one dragging through her chest as though she’d run for miles. Her pulse pounded in her throat and between her ribs, loud enough she was certain he could hear it. She could not take her eyes off of him, the sight of Greydon Tomyris, the face she’d thought of...

Her eyes never left him as he crawled to her, her face a picture of calm composure and subtle amusement, but her mind and heart were anything but calm. She should tell him to go. She really, really should. And yet… every inch of her skin prickled alive under the weight of his gaze. Her...

How many men in her life had, much to their later regret, called her things like darling or sweetheart? Quite a few. And never, not once, had she ever felt herself swoon. Never had her cheeks betrayed her like this, pale skin warming under the weight of the word as though he’d just lit a match...

Imogen stared down into her glass, the amber liquid catching the light as her thoughts turned cold. “Yes…” she said quietly.. “I know what kind of man he is.” Each time Ilir’s hands had been on her, his touch had been a cold, cruel thing that made her skin crawl. A reminder of the bars around...

Gods, even the way he was looking at her made her blood heat, and the graze of his fingers against hers had sparked a fresh flame. “Nor am I…” she murmured, watching him over the rim of her glass as he tipped his head back, column of his throat bared - a perfect target, and yet the last thing...