Page 8 of Drowned By the Dreadnought

My tears burn my eyes as they join the relentless downpour sluicing off his body.

He grabs my face and forces me to look up at the ceiling before plastering his palm on my forehead and pressing me down so the back of my skull aches from the floor.

I blink as his shoulders block the worst of the shower and stare in shock at his long, thick shaft. He’s massive everywhere. His scarred fingers, so much bigger than mine, can’t wrap all the way around the partially inflated knot near his base.

There’s no way even just the tip of his dick will fit in my mouth. I’ll never survive a rutting by that monstrosity.

But the sweet, earthy scent wafting from his cock fills my mouth with saliva. My insides clench. I sink my nails into whatever part of him I can reach and swallow before I choke on my excess spit.

The motion only highlights my thirst.

He releases his knot. His hard cock defies the laws of gravity and bobs above me.

I flinch as his fingertips land on my injured cheek.

“Who did this to you?”

His low snarl steals the floor out from under me. My stomach plummets. I stare up at him, trapped between yearning and confusion.

“Why do you care?” I ask.

Our eyes meet for the first time since he threw me over his shoulder, and I realize I must have landed in the shadows after bouncing off his chest if he didn’t notice my throbbing cheek the first time we locked eyes.

“You’re mine to hurt. No one else’s,” he growls.

Disappointment drains the fight from me, and I let my hands drop to the floor.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“There you go with the theatrics again. You won’t—”

“What theatrics?! None of this is—”

He clamps his hand over my mouth and snarls.

“Who hurt you? Was it the male your father chose for you? I bet you didn’t like him either, so you made a big fuss and fought with your father.”

He’s not making any sense. Frustrated tears seep down my temples. I close my eyes, too wrung out to handle more, but he lifts his hand from my mouth and pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, demanding my attention.

Without a trace of sympathy in his gaze, he aims eyes filled with the promise of retribution down at me. Not a sliver of the sweet, lovely boy of my dreams remains.

“Who hurt you, Morwenna?”

He pinches my chin harder and my control snaps.

“My father! My father hurt me.”

He scoffs and shakes his head.

“Your father would never hurt his perfect little princess.”

“He did! Mom died, you left me, and he started hurting me. All. The. Time.”

He stops and studies my face, but I don’t know what he’s looking for. I lost faith long ago, but I pray to whatever deity might be listening. Please let Russt believe me.

Doubt flashes across his face, and for a moment my heart leaps with hope, only to crash as he dons a scowl. Emotions clog my throat, but I push the truth past them and whisper, “My father’s princess died the day my mother never came home.”

He sighs, rolls his eyes to the ceiling, and takes a deep breath before lowering his gaze to mine again. My spine ices over as he strokes his cock while holding eye contact with me.

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