Page 57 of The Hellkeeper

"What’s wrong?"

I hesitate. But this man has seen me naked. This man kissed me between the legs. What’s left to hide?

"I feel dirty."

"Don’t," he growls. "You feel me. That’s what you feel. And I don’t make you dirty. I make you mine."

He tips my chin up, so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They are darker than before; nearly black. Consuming.

"Listen to me, little flower. Nothing will ever make you feel filthy for wanting this. For wanting me. They don’t get to soil what belongs to me."

A breath catches in my throat.

"You think this is sin? Then let it be sin. I’ll worship at your feet, damn myself over and over again just to taste you. You are not wrong for wanting this. You are not wrong for taking what’s yours. Do you understand me?"

"But—"

"No but. There is nothing filthy about you and me. What we do together is sacred."

Something that feels a lot like salvation wrapped in destruction rakes over me at his words.

"You are my religion now. And I don’t pray to anyone but you."

This man who breaks me apart then puts me back together in whatever way he pleases… and I let him.

Maybe I am ruined. But is that so bad?

I prop myself up, turning to face him. I trace over a scar carved into his chest; a jagged line that makes him flinch. Shame dulls his eyes.

"You can’t tell me not to feel dirty," I whisper, my touch feather-light against his skin, "when you’re ashamed of your scars."

His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks in his cheek.

"I’m not ashamed."

"Liar."

I lean in, pressing my lips to the raised mark. Then another. Then another.

"They’re beautiful."

"You’ll make me believe it one day, little flower."

Warmth spreads through my chest. But then, reality crashes in like a wrecking ball.

Work.

I jolt upright, slipping from his grasp. He watches, amused, as I frantically towel myself dry. I run to the bedroom. My bra is under the bed. Great. I retrieve it, snap it on, and then reach for the dress.

"Where are my panties?" I mutter, glancing around.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the very picture of smug male satisfaction.

"You won’t need them."

I scowl. "Where are they?"

"Somewhere."

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