Page 52 of Every Shade of Shadow

I'm still reeling from the intensity of my release when the Professor leans in to unbuckle the restraints. I collapse into his arms, my knees too weak to support me.

He lifts me effortlessly and carries me to a velvet chaise, settling me onto his lap. I curl into his broad chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

So he’s human after all.

This is different. Until now Darkwood has been distant, cold, but this is tenderness. This is new.

"Are you well, little lamb?" His voice is rough with concern.

"Yes," I whisper, making eye contact. "Thank you."

His arms tighten around me. "You did beautifully. But we must always exercise caution. There are dangers in these practices that could seriously harm you if we are not careful."

I nod, surprised by his protectiveness. "I understand. I trust you.”

My skin still burns from the kiss of the whip, from the flurry of lashes that followed.

A tense silence follows my admission. Darkwood stills, his body rigid against mine. When he speaks again, his tone is uneven.

"Your trust is a gift I do not deserve." He cups my chin and lifts my gaze to his. I see a world of pain in those eyes—deep, haunting pain the likes of which I couldn’t possibly fathom. "You should know I am not a good man. The darkness I harbor will consume you if you are not vigilant. It has consumed others—scarred them, taken their life."

The idea that I’m not special or unique, but simply one of a long line of the Professor’s conquests, stirs a thick jealousy deep inside me.

I have questions, but I keep my mouth shut.

Not yet.

I search his eyes, but they remain guarded, revealing none of the demons he alludes to.

"Shadowcraft is seductive by nature," he continues, "and many have been led astray by its allure. I would not see the same fate befall you. Be careful, my pet, even around me, especially around me."

I frown, disliking his warning, though I sense it comes from a place of honesty, not manipulation.

"I’m not helpless,” I say, which is hilarious given I was literally strung up on a cross, helpless.

I am helpless to resist him, to resist my own burning need for whatever this is.

A flicker of amusement softens the hard line of his mouth. "Bold words. But heed them well, witchling. Some thresholds, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed."

His ominous prophecy does little to dampen my determination. I cling to him, desire simmering beneath my skin. The forbidden arts call and I mean to answer, no matter the cost.

“Now,” he says, voice even, “bend yourself over the back of this chaise and let me see that pretty little ass of yours again.

“What?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

I ease myself off him, body aching, and bend over the chaise, my cheeks flushed with shame.

“Yes,” he purrs. “Now, spread your cheeks. Let me see your asshole.”

The fuck, Annabelle, I chide myself, but again, I can’t seem to resist.

I do as he commands, fingers trembling, the cool air whispering against the exposed buttonhole of my most private of areas.

Really? I ask myself, but it’s pointless.

“Yes,” he repeats, needier now. “Face me.”

---