Page 87 of Stalked By Seduction and Shadows

I closed my eyes and let the world fall away. On the third sphere, I heard a song from the first one repeat, and I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time.

I opened my mouth, and I sang.

My voice melded with Frida’s. As soon as I was comfortable with the tune, I allowed myself to move from melody to harmony—reveling in the way my voice rose and dipped, complementing hers. We were two singers on a stage together, pain and love bleeding from our throats as a crowd clapped and danced.

I didn’t quite know how my voice knew what to do. I remembered creating harmonies when I was a child too, back when Mom still took us to see local performances and Isabella still let me sing. Something inside of me intuited what sounded good, which notes to hit and which to avoid, how I could make my voice smooth or deepen, widen or grow sharp or raspy.

Depths poured from me, and for another fleeting, heartbreaking moment, I remembered Snow opining that Isabella had clipped my wings. Snow wanted me to soar instead.

Singing felt like soaring. Instead of the whoosh of firebird wings and the deafening howl of wind, my head was light and airy from the oxygen leaving my lungs, and it was a delicate weaving of instruments that carried me away.

Maybe that was why I used to make up songs when I sat on that old swing out by the woods. Because both things together made me feel like I was seconds away from reaching the stars.

Just like he couldn’t have known how much tickets to the upcoming opera would mean to me, Rune couldn’t have known how much this room reminded me of my own mental landscape. Everything about it felt like me, as if my soul had been painted across the walls and captured in tiny crystal spheres.

How had he known? How did he know me?

How could all of this be coincidental? That everything I’d ever dreamed—everything I thought I’d lost when Isabella had been taken and I was forced to abandon Jaxon—was still coming true through him?

Color danced against the black of my eyelids from the room’s magickal display. When one song slowly faded away, a new unfamiliar one took its place.

When a hand brushed mine, I screamed.

41

RUNE

After ordering Arrowe away, I found Scarlett in the music room.

I slipped in quietly. The sight of her on the carpet—flowing dark hair, starlit fair skin, closed eyes, cornflower blue fabrics draped over her every sinful curve—was nothing compared to the sound of her.

It had been nearly a decade since I’d heard her sing. If anyone had seen what I did next, it would’ve been the end of me.

I lowered to my knees. Her lilting, goddess-blessed voice filled the room, overshadowing all other sounds. She rose and fell like ocean waves. Powerful, sublime, impossible to capture through language. If she were a siren, I’d be her helpless sailor already dead and sinking to the bottom of the sea.

I was terrified to move, or even to breathe, lest I risk alerting her to my presence. I never wanted this to end. I wanted to listen to her voice forever. How could I ever again tolerate silence when this beautiful creature existed?

When the song faded and she closed her mouth, I mourned the loss of her voice echoing against the iridescent walls.

I reached for her hand, and as soon as my fingers skimmed her palm, she jolted. Her eyes flew open, and the sound of her scream and scent of her panic had me instantly hard.

Before she could yell at me for intruding or flush with shame or embarrassment, I moved on top of her and captured her lips with mine. Her rapid heartbeat and erratic breathing, paired with her initial struggle against my weight, tested my every ounce of control.

Even angry, her lips were soft and open, locking with mine like they were meant for me, just like the rest of her. When I felt dampness on her cheeks, I pulled back, marveling at the depth of feeling that had poured from her after hearing recorded music for the first time.

“This isn’t good,” I said softly.

Adorably disoriented, Scarlett stared up at me through her thick lashes. “What?”

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry.” I shook my head. I couldn’t stop myself from capturing her salty tears with my tongue, my hand shooting to her throat when she squealed and attempted to wiggle away. I laughed and held her in place. “That is very bad news for you indeed.”

“You’re demented.”

“Thank you, baby,” I whispered.

Her cheeks were bright red, her entire body tense with shame. I hated it, just as I hated whoever failed to encourage her to sing at every opportunity, instead of locking her heavenly lilt away.

I wanted her to sing for me forever. I wanted her siren’s song to pour from her lips while I licked her pretty pussy. I wanted to force her to keep going even as I sucked her little clit, pumped her with my fingers and then stretched her with my cock. I wanted to hear her melody mix with her moans. Then I wanted to really test her. I wanted to hurt her, see how much she could take while holding tune, punishing her for every lapse.

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