Page 67 of Heirs of the Cursed

“I don’t trust you,” she said in a whisper, and that revelation was as painful for her as it was for him.

“Oh. I know, love.”

“Then stop.”

Ward frowned. “Stop what exactly?” he asked, walking toward Naithea until the wall rose behind her and she had nowhere to run. “My insinuations toward you? The fantasies that cloud my judgment every time I see you and have to keep my composure while I hear my men say what they’d like to do to you? My own fantasies that keep me awake at night?”

“All that,” Naithea answered breathlessly.

The distance between them was suffocating. Naithea could feel his breath against her soft lips, smell the sweet ale in his tongue. Her eyelashes fluttered with delight at each phantomcaress he traced over her body. For a moment, she entertained a dangerous thought—what if she let go of reason, gave in to the darkness Ward had so effortlessly awakened within her?

She wanted to run her hands through his moon-white hair, tangle it between her fingers until it was completely out of alignment. She wanted to lose herself in his arms and let him guide her to the bed, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss in which the other’s breath was all the air they needed to survive. She needed to lose herself in the pleasure he was so willing to give her, even if it was just for one night.

Ward’s hand closed around her hip with hunger while the other gently cupped her neck. He caressed her lips slowly, admiring the flames of longing in her boreal eyes as he let out a painful sigh.

“What is it about you that I can’t stay away?” he asked, more to himself than to her.

Their lips were mere inches apart, making Naithea shiver at their invigorating touch. And when she let her head fall back to plunge into the kiss that could be her doom, a piercing scream chilled her blood.

Naithea pulled away, familiar with its owner. All hetairas had grown accustomed to each other’s screams after years of living together. Her heart raced again, but this time not with desire but with fear.

She didn’t stop to make sure Ward was following her.

She darted out of the room and across the wide hallway until she reached the knob of the mirroring door in front of her own. The door slammed against the wall, though not even the loud noise alerted the man hovering over her best friend.

What Naithea saw was horrifying.

Jehanne was naked, crying on her knees. Tears slid down her pale cheeks, down her chin, and onto her exposed breasts. There were ropes around her wrists that kept her arms stretched outto either side and prevented her from covering herself from her client’s attacks.

When the man raised his fist to deliver another blow to Jehanne’s wounded and aching body, Naithea didn’t hesitate. She leapt forward—not to attack, but to defend. She covered her friend’s body with her own and took the hit.

She would no longer be a coward.

She would no longer be weak.

His fist impacted against her face and Naithea raised a hand to her cheek to fix her deadly eyes on the man in front of her.

The air she’d been holding disappeared from her lungs as she faced him—the man she and all her sisters had heard about for years. The man who visited Bellmare occasionally to collect Madame Dimond’s earnings.

The Fiend.

Understanding crossed her face. Regnera had the night off because of a high fever, so the Fiend had been left without his preferred hetaira and had chosen Jehanne to fulfill a new fantasy, which the madam had allowed.

The Fiend scanned Naithea’s face in astonishment. However, his mask returned to its place as he began to advance in her direction, a devilish smile tugging the corners of his lips upward. In his eyes, something dark flashed, like an ancient hatred that dated back to years of disdain.

Naithea waited for the next blow to hit her, still protecting her sister. She’d take it, she knew she could. Taking the blows and punishments was easier than seeing her loved ones’ agony . . .

But it never came, for two strong hands closed over the Fiend’s throat and pushed him against the furthest wall of the room.

“Touch her again and you will bleed for it,” Ward growled.

The Fiend’s only response was a low, ghoulish chuckle.

Jehanne’s uncontrolled crying reached Naithea’s ears, drowning out the conversation between the commander and thedebt collector. She turned to embrace her friend and scan her body for injuries that required immediate attention.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Jehanne simply nodded as Naithea untied the ropes with shaky hands. Once freed, her arms fell limp at her sides, then instinctively moved to shield her naked body.

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