Page 36 of Nocturne

He nods at me before heading out. Ara types something on her phone and shows it to her sister. Iyra frowns, glances at me, and reluctantly leaves the room. Smart girl. She should be wary, leaving her sister in here alone with a man like me.

Ara nods at the chair Iyra just vacated, but I stay where I am.

Something inside me coils whenever she’s near. The voices in my head go quiet, even when she’s silent. Her mere presence is abalm I can’t explain, a peace I’ve never felt. And that peace—it’s dangerous. Addictive.

She types on her phone and holds it out for me to see.

Thank you for saving me, Mr. Devlin. For bringing me here and making sure Ivy was safe too.

I give her a nod, struggling against the urge to reach out and touch her. Just a simple touch to feel that softness under my fingers again. This is new. The fucking urge to touch a human is so foreign that I have no damned clue how to stomp on it.

May I see your hand for a second, please?

Please. It’s strange how alluring the word sounds from her. Makes me wonder how she’d sound begging me, desperate, pleading for release. The thought of making her wait, drawing out her pleasure until she thanks me for it, takes root and refuses to leave.

I frown, shaking off the ridiculous thoughts. But they come back the moment her soft fingers, roll up the sleeve of my shirt. She examines the faint, crescent-shaped marks she left, and her eyes fill with tears. Her hands are so gentle, her fingers brushing over my skin like she doesn’t want to hurt me.

It’s…unexpected. Not that she is capable of it, but no one ever gave a damn about hurting me

She dabs on some ointment she brings from her table, sniffing as a fat tear lands on my hand. Her pain, over a scratch I barely noticed, mesmerises me.

No one has ever cried for me—not even my own mother. Plenty have criedbecauseof me, but notforme. And seeing her droptears for me—it’s like a live wire sparking through my veins. I wonder how she’d react if she saw the scars that litter my body.

I want her tears. I want to be the reason behind them—tears of pleasure, of satisfaction, not pain or fear. The fear I saw in her eyes when I saved her—twisted something dark inside me, something that despises anyone putting fear in those beautiful eyes. Her laugh, that smile, her voice—I want those too.

And damn me, but I’m not ready to let that go. Even if I have to walk away from it, she’s clawed her way in.

She looks up at me, her eyes still wet, and I can’t resist anymore. I lean in, taking a deep breath of her scent—a warm mix of vanilla, hibiscus, and something uniquely hers. It floods my senses, shaking something primal loose inside me.

I want to consume her. Taste every inch and mark her.

I move closer, close enough that I could kiss her, but I stop short. Instead, I shift to her cheek, where those tears cling, and lick one away. Her essence tastes intoxicating, leaving me wondering how she’d taste in other places. It’s maddening, how this woman can unravel me.

She gasps at my touch, her lips parting, eyes darkening with a mix of surprise and desire. My hands clench at my sides, fighting for control. Just one look from her and I’m undone, struggling to remember why I can’t fall into this. But damn if it isn’t tempting to lose myself in her.

“That look,” I rasp, my voice low, “invites trouble, little siren.”

She shivers, her gaze dropping, and I have to fight the urge to pull her close, to watch her break apart for me. But I can’t. She doesn’t belong in my world.

I grit my teeth, taking a step back. She tries to hide the disappointment, but I catch it before she masks it away.

“Stay away from the monsters, Ara. Especially the ones who’ve had a taste.”

Eleven

Ara

I plop down into my wheelchair with Ivy’s help, trying not to wince when I put the slightest pressure on my ankle. My hip aches as well, but not as sharply as my ankle.

“Iyra will pick you up after you’re done,”

I nod, watching as she smooths her already perfect blouse. It’s her first day teaching a class in Mariam’s absence, and the weight of working under one of the toughest professors at the university is clear in her nervous movements.

If she’s under Mariam, nerves are natural, but I hope they don’t trip her up. Ivy’s blonde hair is styled in a chic bun, her brown pencil skirt hugging her hips, and her white blouse accentuating her natural blush and blue eyes. She looks effortlessly elegant.

“You should get going,” I say.

Ivy frowns, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got ten more minutes,” she says, brushing off my concern.

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