Page 67 of Wicked Court

I think I liked it better in their sex dungeon.

His dark presence fills the room, snuffing out Wilder and Axe’s previous gestures of kindness.

The soft glow of the kitchen lights casts deep hollows across his angular face, his eyes reflecting a duty that both frightens and beckons me. There’s a barely restrained ferocity about him, tempered by an elegance that belies his capability for ruthlessness.

A lock of my hair falls across my cheek at my head turn, and Cav steps toward me. His proximity is overwhelming, the heat of his body like a matchstick striking against my body.

“Your hair,” he murmurs, lifting the strand away from my face with a gentleness that contradicts the coolness in his gaze. “It glows in this place like a single candle in an arctic storm.”

His fingertips graze my neck, a touch feather-light.

The scent of him—cedar and mint—fills my senses.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he whispers near my temple, though whether it’s a reassurance or a warning, I can’t tell.

“Don’t I?”

The question slips out. His nearness is intoxicating, dizzying, and for a moment, I lose myself in the turbulence of his attention.

He searches my face as if looking for a sign, a confirmation that I’ve given all I had to give. “You gave us what we wanted. There’s no more to be done.”

The light wind his body emits as he takes a seat beside me is like a velvet caress that seems to stroke the very air between us.

Wilder’s hawkish scrutiny never strays from Cav and me, as if he’s etching every detail into his memory.

His gaze, sharp and rapacious, slices through our conversation.

“Now, was that so difficult to do?” Wilder says to me.

He discreetly shifts, adjusting himself under the table.

In the back of my mind, the ghostly sensation of Wilder’s touch haunts me—a map of teeth marks etched onto my skin beneath the grip of cold stone and unyielding straps.

And then Kaspian enters, sauntering through the doorway freshly showered in a gray sweater and dark denim jeans with the ease of a satiated man. But his smile is all edges and corners. He’s the one who broke through my defenses, who peeled back layers of flesh and fear to lay bare the truth at the heart of me.

Bastard.

But a talented one.

“Quite the picture we make, don’t you think?” Kaspian drawls, condescension shading his gaze.

There’s something else there too—an earnestness that clings to the fringes of his slanted smirk, as if he’s glimpsed something on me that’s more precious than the coveted ruby necklace.

“I’m so glad my intimidation, kidnapping, and torture amuses you,” I challenge, my voice steadier than I feel.

Kaspian tilts his head, regarding me as a cat would a fish flapping helplessly on land. “Everything about this situation amuses me, Elara.”

His eyes hold mine, and in them, I see a flicker of genuine curiosity—a rarity for someone who usually views people as codes to be cracked and files to be encrypted.

“Even your resilience,” he adds in a low voice.

I jolt at the compliment. It’s as if he recognizes the strength it takes to sit here, ensnared by the desires of potent men, each with their own dark yearnings and sordid histories.

I concede, but mirror his tone, “Don’t mistake your amusement for triumph, Kaspian.”

His lips twitch.

They can give me tea and soft blankets, but they’re bound by needs darker than the night outside these stained glass windows.

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