Page 22 of Dare

“I’m not a kind man, so I wouldn’t fuck that way. But providing I could stomach the task, my objective would be an alternative form of abuse,” the prince explained. “First, I would make certain you wanted it.”

Whereas his tone had been cold and slippery, now it leaked steam into an already-sweltering environment. A new type of heresy snaked across my knees and made a slow, infuriating track to my inner thighs.

As if I were a specimen, the point of his blade etched my heart. “All too willing, you would smother yourself against me, at which point I would subjugate you with patience.”

The weapon scorched a path down my bodice, along the swell of one breast, and skidded over an erect nipple. “Thoroughly. Methodically,” he muttered as the stud lifted into a rough peek.

Next, he slid the knife to my ribcage, running from left to right along each bracket. “Instead of my cock, I’d open your pussy with the hilt of my knife until you gushed like a tap, wet and quivering.”

Something repulsive happened. My traitorous body morphed into someone else’s—a woman I didn’t recognize. Heat rose to the surface, so that pearls of sweat drizzled between my tits.

What dark magic was this? What form of Winter experiment?

The weapon sloped over my stomach and down to my navel. Scanning his descent, the prince murmured, “Then I would ply your soaked cunt with the handle, lashing in and out until hidden noises cracked from your lips like a vulgar little secret.”

Because that would mean I desired him.

“Or like a cure.”

Because that would mean I owed him.

For a moment, he lingered on my stomach. His brows furrowed, noticing something that darkened his features.

Moving on, he sketched my hipbone. “I would make sure you craved what you hated.”

What I hated. No other emotion could better describe my feelings. Yet despite this hostility reaching a fever pitch, a molten rush flooded my bloodstream. For that, I hated myself more.

“I would make you betray yourself,” the prince emphasized. “I would draw sounds from you like blood from a flesh wound.”

When the scalpel knife caressed the inner ledge of my thigh, the pulse in my veins throbbed. The violent sensation pumped heat to the nexus, my pussy tightening of its own accord. To my disgust, a terrible impulse tugged my hips in an unholy direction, toward the one man who would never deserve it.

The knife climbed to the hem of my chemise, which fluttered like butterfly wings. My nemesis halted. I seethed but didn’t move, since doing so would nudge the blade into my flesh.

Then he skated the knife under my skirt. Merely a centimeter, but that was plenty. My head fogged as the tip halted a scant distance from the hair covering my slit, which pounded like a muscle.

This had to be some form of manipulation or glamour. Visions of the prince’s hilt fucking me laid siege to my thoughts. In response, my limbs shook like a dam about to break.

Somehow, the prince registered this effect. Like an oversight, those hellish eyes vaulted to mine, revolted fervor streaking through his pupils. He was enjoying this, and he detested this.

“That is how I would fuck you.” And finally, the prince burrowed in, both of us shaking, hating. Then his voice sank to a terrible whisper. “And that’s how I would become your greatest regret.”

Whatever he’d been doing to me, it had transformed from hypothetical to literal. Rage kindled, combusting to the forefront and scalding every other shameless, faithless sensation in its wake. I might be shackled, but that was nothing new. Years of being confined had taught me ways to fight back.

His broad frame radiated over me as we traded bitter looks. But instead of shrinking away, I curled forward like a venomous creature and struck. With deliberate motions, I called his bluff. I rubbed every inch of my body against his, from my limbs, to my cunt, to the nipples poking through my chemise.

That did it. As if I’d pulled a trigger, the prince stiffened, his weapon arrested beneath my skirt. Relishing his confounded expression, I seized that moment and brushed my clit over the hilt. And then again.

And again. Cautious not to rub against the blade, I slid my crease back and forth along the handle while leveling him with a death glare—goading him, daring him. The maneuver issued a challenge to reach deeper, offering him permission to test me, to funnel that knife higher and see where it got him.

Try and intimidate me. Try and tame your captive. Try it hard.

And risk losing. Because who said I would regret a thing, especially if it led this man to act, to make so much of an effort, as he’d already done a dozen times. The sinuous move made it graphically clear. If I could get him to search the continent for me, to get this near to what he abhorred, to smother his fancy weapon all over my chained body, then I could manipulate him back.

In fact, I could get him to do other things. Like set me loose.

Then I’d be free to respond with all the vigor he anticipated, except my teeth would be the least of his problems. Because anything that had teeth also possessed claws and fists.

My performance worked more than I’d foreseen. The prince’s hold on the weapon faltered, the reaction barely perceptible. His pupils fattened, and his eyelids turned down to half-mast, then sparkled with contempt. I saw the moment he recognized the slip, what he’d allowed to show through.

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