Page 59 of Lux

He has taken more people than I want to acknowledge. A wealth of carnal expertise floats around that closed-off brain. Yet…

I can't deny that when he looks at me, his jaw clenched, fangs peeking beneath his lower lip, his hunger for me isn't fake. Neither is the desperate way he rocks his hips into mine. Caught off guard, I shift my body in response, bringing myself into contact with the dangerous part of him.

In a choked grunt, he arches himself into me, watching me writhe and my eyes flutter shut. It's so different from how I grew up thinking mating should be--an act I never was meant to take part in. It was described in the archives as another task to endure, another purpose to fulfill.

Not vital.

It is he who makes this moment crucial. I can’t breathe without him inside me. I can’t think outside of his thrusts' slow, steady rhythm. My only words are frantic chants of his name.

In return, he is silent, ruthless, and endless. He lets me keep a semblance of control until he simply can't. A predator takes over, flipping me over, pinning me down, and slamming his length into me. All of it, no mercy given.

None required.

The friction blinds me. As his fingers glide along my flesh, sending sparks shooting down my spine, I am rendered senseless. There is no reprieve until we both cry out and collapse, his body on top of mine.

Only then can I remember myself again. Who I am apart from him.

Someone I never want to be again.

There are bad,bad thoughts on the horizon in both of our minds. Things that happened in the time we spent apart. We both are hesitant of the other’s new secrets, afraid to prod and poke. Yet our curiosity gets the better of us.

He asks first. “Tell me what happened to you. When I left.”

I nod and bury my face against his shoulder. Rather than speak, I shove the requisite thoughts into his mind. I let him see it all. Feel everything I felt. Everything.

As a result, he tenses with hatred, anger, and pity.

“They hurt you,” he growls, moving his hands to my waist, and gripping me tight. “Made you bleed. You didn’t scream. If you had screamed, I would have found you.”

Part of his anger is directed at me. For not needing him. For suffering in silence without him there.

I press a kiss to his chest. Then another along his jawline. “I am tired of screaming,” I say. “Tired of crying.”

He nods. His frown deepens. Those eyes are deep, dark red as he mulls over my thoughts in greater detail. Minchae unnerves him. Cyrus infuriates him, and the mention of my mother…

His fingers run through my hair as he sighs. “I will take you back. Soon. Now,” he says, reiterating his earlier promise. “I will kill Cassius and you will find the Aurelia, to kill or not as you please. I will take you and Cassiopeia?—”

Her name. It has lurked in his mind always, but with few concrete thoughts to tether it. Not now. It is a vibrant section of his mind, brought to life by a chance meeting. A beautiful female vamryre with white skin, pink hair, and reddish eyes. Daisy—yet he knew her as a different name. There is no way to describe how intimately he knew her: as his sister, his other half and his partner in bondage.

Cassiopeia. Part of him is so happy to have found her again. Thrilled. It sings as I did when I got my taste of almost-flight. He is at peace.

Yet, he is unsettled. Agitated. Cassius must be confronted. He promised both me and Cassiopeia that he would.

But…

He doesn’t want to. He thrives on violence and revenge, but he fears facing Cassius. Not the man himself, but the creature he made him once. Might make him become again.

“No,” I say. “You will not take me back. Not now. Not until you are ready.”

He scoffs, still petting through my hair. “Ready.”

As if he needs to be ready. He of unmatched bravery, ferocity, and strength.

His refusal to admit it even to himself is a testament to his pride. No one else holds sway over him like Cassius. He brings out the worst in him. Rather than being a mere vamryre, he transforms him into a monstrous creature.

“You will not,” I insist before planting another kiss on him. As he grunts in response, I feel my stomach flutter.

Although he may have more expertise in the carnal arts, I am learning quickly from him. Kisses that are violent, hungry, and bruising are his favorite. These small, quick, tasting ones, however, mark him deep, deep beneath the skin. After years of being ruthlessly devoured by the mind of another, he loves to be savored. Cherished. Treated like porcelain and glass.

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