Page 67 of The Master and the Marionette

I’m howling now at the swelling blisters covering my waist, my arms, my back, my neck.

Before Meridei can decide if she believes his threat or not, the door opens. Belinda sticks her head in. “Suseas wants to see you.”

Meridei massages her wrist as she considers the summons. “My arms are getting tired, anyway.” The black leather whip hits the floor as she descends for the door.

An orderly walks over to reel me down.

“No!” she barks, one shoulder holding open the door. “Leave them. Forcing him to stare at her blistering body will teach him not to make empty threats again.”

Empty. I might laugh if I wasn’t in splintering pain head to toe.

The orderlies file out of the room behind Meridei, turning the gas off to the main iron light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. The old flickering scones are about as helpful as four small candles.

As the door clicks shut, I lose the little control I have left of my vocals. The sound of a dying puppy whistles out of me.

“Skylenna.” More sounds of clanking metal. But I don’t open my eyes to look. That was bad. Really bad. And neither of us anticipated that they would bring back the old ways. It was a grave error that has cost me, but mostly him. He was tied up when Kane’s mother was killed. This was probably a huge trigger. It must have taken every ounce of self-control he has to watch me take a beating. All for this plan. All to speak with Judas. All for one damn clue from the Stormsages.

A pair of warm, giant hands cup either side of my face, fingers weaving into my damp hair. And then a forehead touches mine. “I fucking hate this.” His voice is gravel and darkness and pure, unfiltered hate.

“Dessin,” I whimper. “It hurts.”

“Where, baby? Tell me where it hurts.”

I sigh. “Everywhere.”

His hands leave my face, skimming down my arms. And his touch, his warm skin, his hot breath blowing over my face—it makes the tears stop running.

“Here?” His thumb grazes the cap of my shoulder.

I nod, and he leans forward, pressing a light kiss to the spot.

“And here?” A finger traces down my sternum lazily. “Tell me where.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “There too.”

He bows his head between my breasts, and at first, it’s only his lips, then a flick of his tongue. I melt, arching my back and forgetting about the sting there too.

“Am I making it go away?”

“Yes.”

He smiles and looks up at me with pupils growing larger, swallowing his brown irises. His fingers trace over my hardening nipples under my white bra and my cheeks stain with wild heat. “Here, baby?”

I moan in response. His mouth closes over the peaks through the white fabric. Hot moisture seeps through the barrier back to my puckering flesh. And he’s sucking, wet sounds muffled by the thin material covering my breasts. Another sound peals from my lips, Was it a grunt? A whimper? I’m not sure. But I need more. I have to have more. It’s distracting me from the pain.

His mouth unlatches from my left nipple, only to close over the right one. He pinches it with his teeth, making me yelp at the sting. But his tongue immediately laps me over to soothe it.

I take in a shaky breath. Uneven. Shuddering.

Dessin raises his head, stealing another glance at me as he lowers himself to his knees. Two fingers stroke the covered slit, like a knife cutting through butter. He sighs, closing his eyes as my head falls back from the rush of euphoria.

“Christ.” His voice is broken and hoarse. His fingers glisten in the candlelight, soaking and he is only feeling me from the outside of my panties. I can’t help but want to apologize. For what? I don’t know. But my body is reacting in strange ways. Scarlett warned me this would happen. We leak between the legs.

“I’d beg for a taste,” he growls. “To have my head between your soft thighs.”

“Yes,” I answer his question before he can ask it. “Please.”

His two fingers press against my clit, sparking me with feral desire. I hiss, arching into his hand.

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