Page 37 of Claimed In Darkness

This should be easy.

One quick thrust to the throat, straight through the artery.

A clean kill.

Fast. Effortless.

But my hands freeze.

I watch him, my pulse going crazy in my throat, and I feel it—the hesitation.

The weakness.

I should want to see his blood spill. But instead, all I see is his mouth, parted slightly in sleep, the way his dark lashes fan against his sharp cheekbones.

The way he looks almost human.

I berate myself for noticing.

I lift the knife.

His eyes snap open.

Damn it.

I react on instinct, lunging for the kill. But he’s already on the move.

He grabs my wrist midair, twisting sharply, yanking me down onto the bed.

The next thing I know, I’m on my back, my wrist pinned against the sheets, the knife ripped from my grasp and tossed to the floor with a dull clatter.

Zephiran looms over me, all heat and danger, his breath fanning against my cheek.

"Now, now, little fox," he purrs, voice thick with amusement. "That wasn’t very smart, was it?"

I snarl, twisting beneath him, but he’s too strong. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing just hard enough to send a clear message—I could break you.

I arch up, using the leverage to slam my knee between his legs.

He dodges, barely.

A sharp, dark chuckle follows.

"Feisty even in failure," he murmurs, pressing his weight against me.

The bastard is bare.

Heat and muscle and shadow, pressing into every inch of me, a slow, deliberate punishment.

I thrash, but the friction between us makes it worse.

His body is scorching, his skin smooth, and I hate that I notice.

"Let me go," I growl.

He grins. "Why? So you can try again?"

His grip shifts, fingers sliding to my throat, holding, pressing, claiming.

---