Page 108 of Dance of Deception

On the floor, like a satiated animal, I lean back against the chair across from her, allowing my breath to return to normal. The fire casts flickering shadows over the room, painting her body in shades of gold and crimson. Her chest rises and falls steadily. She's completely unaware of the weight of my stare.

I should be done with her. That’s how this works.

I never do repeats. Never fuck the same woman twice, not ever. Sex is a mere function, a necessary catharsis to keep the deeply violent urges in check. A release, nothing more.

Lyra is…different.

The first time wasn’t enough. Even the second time didn’t take the edge off. She’s still in my head, in my blood, coiling through me like a sickness I don’t know how to cure.

My fingers flex, digging into the carpet. I should feel satisfied. I should feel like a man who has taken everything he wanted, leaving nothing behind.

Instead, I feel restless.

I stand, crossing the room slowly. The wooden floor creaks, but she doesn’t stir—not even when I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

My hand hovers over her thigh. I don’t touch her, but the temptation is there, gnawing, whispering in my ear.

Mark her again.

But for once, I hesitate. Because this time, I don’t just want to take.

I want tokeep.

The thought is foreign to me. I am not a man who keeps things. I take, I use, I discard. That has always been enough.

But watching her now, in the aftermath of what I’ve done, a strange feeling inside me tightens, coiled low and deep and unfamiliar.

I’ve never cared about being feared. I’ve never cared what people whisper about me.

Iama monster, and I have never once lost sleep over it.

My eyes drag over her sleeping form.

I should take her to bed.

That would be the rational thing to do. It’s sure as fuck not chivalry. It just seems like the sensible thing to do, not to leave a naked girl sprawled across the chaise lounge of my library.

Especially not one who ismy fucking wife.

But I don’t move. I can’t.

I’m too enraptured by the sight of her, spread across the chaise like an offering, her skin marked with the signs of my claim. The dim firelight highlights every angry raised bruise, every sharp bite, every place where my hands and mouth have been andconquered. My stomach clenches as I look, heat curling low in my gut.

I kneel beside her, fingers trailing up her thigh, ghosting over the marks I left. The moment my fingertips skim the tender flesh, she shifts slightly, a soft breath catching in her throat. I smirk darkly.

Even asleep, her body remembers me.

I palm her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, feeling the warmth of her beneath my hand. This is what true ownership looks like—her bare, ruined body, branded, resting where I left her.

Hunger surges again, sharp and unrelenting. I shouldn’t. But then, have I ever been a man who denies himself?

Slowly, deliberately, I spread her legs.

She murmurs softly in her sleep, body pliant. I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, my lips dragging over her heated skin, enjoying the way her breath catches.

I move higher, pushing her thighs wider apart to reveal her pretty pink pussy.

Fuuccck.

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