Page 16 of Cursed Shadows 2

Think about me. Only me, only ever think of me.

Against the rage storming through my chest, I plaster on a dark smile. “Or did I merely warn her?”

I removed an obstacle I faced, but I removed the crutch he needed. The clench of his jaw as he throws his gaze back to mine is enough to tell me how pissed he is at that little move I made on our chessboard.

But I have a plan, and so I’m undeterred now that I see the lust in him, in his eyes, in the tightened crotch of his trousers.

One leg dangles, but I lift the other and press my heel onto the table’s edge. My smile keeps as I spread my thighs just a little—but enough.

Then I use what I learned from the whore.

‘Whisper his name like a prayer…’

His eyes are hooked on my core—covered by the mesh and lace and embroidering of the lingerie, but I know he sees beyond it.

“Daxeel,” I whisper the name, speak it like a plea, breathe it like I have so many times in the past as he brought me to climax on his fingers, on his mouth, on the underside of his cock.

Something feral runs through him.

It growls up his chest, rippling the soft wool of his sweater. His eyes darken as he staggers that one, single step for me—then steels himself, arms tense at his sides, hands fisted. But not before the bottle drops from his grip and honeywine spills onto the rug with loud sloshes.

He lifts his darkened eyes to mine—and I shrink back just a little at the ferocity in them.

A desperate need husks his voice, “I will agree that you are not to participate in the Sacrament. In return, this Quiet I will have your body,” his full lips twist with a snarl, “and I’ll start with your mouth.”

Daxeel has every intention of demeaning me with those words. Me, a female from the light lands where (if I was fullblood) I would be worshiped as superior. He reminds me of my place in his world, to his kind—and reminds me of a time we spoke of such things on a blanket he laid out for me so that the grass wouldn’t hit out at me or tickle my nose toomuch.

But he doesn’t expect my reaction.

That much I know when his chest expands with a deep inhale as he drinks in my scent. The rise of my arousal.

I slip off the desk and take slow, lazy steps towards the bed. “I accept.”

Scrambling to keep onto his ropes of control, he cuts me short. “On your knees.”

Looking up at him from beneath my lashes, I drop to one knee. Then the other. Back to the wardrobe, I sit my bottom on the floor between folded legs.

I am at your mercy.

Fear should be rattling through me. But it’s the thrill of it that has me in a dizzy.

He smells it in the air.

I feel it dampening the lace at my core.

And as he pushes forward, and I look up at him, at his height, his strength, I utter a breath.

As feral as the vicious hunger in his eyes, his voice is rough, “Touch yourself.”

I obey.

I lift my hand and, with a smile, wiggle my fingers. Then—gazes connected—I let my hand drop to my thigh with a slap.

The shudder of his breath has a growl to it. But he is unmoving. Just some steps in front of me, his head bowed and eyes burning into mine, he waits.

Dancing my fingertips along my thigh, I spread my legs just a bit wider, then graze the dampness of the lace.

A near-silent breath hisses from him.

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