Page 35 of The Darkest Gift

"Perfect," Mason purrs, his eyes filled with desire. "And deadly." His gaze locks with mine, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just like you."

He leans in, capturing my lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling me closer as his tongue explores my mouth. I melt into him, savoring the taste of him,the feeling of being utterly possessed. When we break apart, we're both breathing heavily.

Mason reaches for a second knife, testing its weight and balance. He twirls it between his fingers with casual expertise, the blade catching the light and sending little flashes dancing across the walls.

I pick up the remaining two knives, their ebony handles cool and smooth against my palms. The weight of them is comforting, familiar. I can already imagine the exquisite patterns we'll paint across Elijah's golden skin.

"Well," Elijah's voice cuts through the charged silence, dripping with sarcasm. "Isn't this romantic? Nothing says 'true love' quite like his-and-hers murder weapons."

For a split second, something flickers across Elijah's face. It's so brief I almost miss it, but in that moment, his expression becomes utterly blank. Not the carefully constructed mask of neutrality he's been wearing, but something... emptier. As if the face we've come to know is itself a mask, and for just an instant, it slipped.

I pause, a chill running down my spine. Did I imagine that? But before I can dwell on it, Elijah's familiar smirk is back in place, his eyes glittering with defiance.

"You know," he drawls, tugging slightly at his restraints, "most couples just go for dinner and a movie. But I suppose when you're bored, rich psychopaths, you have to get a little more creative with your date nights."

I dismiss my earlier unease as a trick of the light or my own overactive imagination. Clearly, Elijah is still very much himself, sharp tongue and all.

"Oh, pretty boy," I purr, running my finger along the flat of the blade. "I do hope you're not planning on being mouthy the entire time. It would be such a shame to have to gag you again so soon."

Mason's eyes gleam with amusement as he kneels beside Elijah, the knife glinting dangerously in his hand. "Oh, I don't think we'll be gagging him just yet," he purrs, his voice low and rich with anticipation. "I'm rather looking forward to his screams."

The blade dances across Elijah's skin, not yet breaking the surface but leaving goosebumps in its wake. Mason traces the sharp tip along the curve of Elijah's jaw, down the column of his throat, across his collarbone. It's a promise of pain to come, a threat and a caress all at once.

Elijah swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the knife's edge. But even now, spread out and vulnerable, he can't seem to help himself. "Careful there," he quips, though his voice is slightly strained. "The neighbors might hear. Wouldn't want to ruin your perfect suburban facade, would we?"

A low chuckle rumbles from Mason's chest, wicked and dangerous. "Oh, Elijah," he murmurs, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosts over Elijah's ear. "One of the many benefits of wealth is the ability to live far enough from our neighbors that they couldn't hear you if you screamed yourself hoarse."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes roaming over Elijah's face. "Besides," he continues, a wicked smirk playing at his lips, "you'd be surprised how much rich people actively choose not to hear. It's amazing what money can make people overlook."

The knife in Mason's hand begins to move again, tracing intricate patterns across Elijah's chest. The sharp tip leaves faint white lines in its wake, not quite breaking the skin but promising so much more.

"Take our lovely gated community, for instance," Mason muses, his tone conversational even as his eyes remain fixed on the path of his blade. "Do you think anyone batted an eye whenwe had soundproofing installed in the basement? Or when we had extra-thick walls added to this room?"

I move to Elijah's other side, kneeling and mirroring Mason's actions with my own knife. The cool metal glides over Elijah's heated skin, raising more goosebumps. "Of course not," I chime in, my voice a seductive purr. "They were far too busy gossiping about the Johnsons' messy divorce or the Taylors' son getting kicked out of his third prep school."

Elijah's breath hitches as our blades dance across his skin in tandem, a symphony of potential pain conducted by four steady hands. His muscles tense and relax in waves, caught between the instinct to flee and the futility of struggling against his bonds.

Mason's knife traces a delicate path along Elijah's hip bone, the sharp tip barely grazing the skin. Tiny beads of sweat break out across Elijah's brow as he struggles to control his breathing.

I pause, my own blade hovering just above Elijah's chest. "Wait," I say, feigning concern. "We should have asked—do you faint at the sight of blood, Elijah?"

Elijah's head snaps up, his expression almost incredulous. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words, as if he can't quite believe I've asked such a mundane question in this situation.

"Are you serious?" he finally manages, his voice tinged with disbelief. "After everything you've done, you're worried about me fainting?"

I shrug, a small smile playing at my lips. "Just being considerate. It would be such a shame if you passed out before we really got started."

Mason chuckles, the sound low and wicked. "Well, if our considerate questioning is done," he purrs, "shall we begin?"

Chapter 20

Iris

Mason’s knife finally breaks the skin, a thin red line appearing on Elijah's chest. Elijah gasps, his body instinctively trying to arch away from the blade.

"Ah ah," I chide, my free hand pressing down on his hip to hold him still. "I wouldn't move if I were you. Unless, of course, you want the knife to slip deeper?"

Elijah freezes, his chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. "You're insane," he hisses through clenched teeth. "Both of you."

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