Page 5 of Ma Petite Mort
Hell, it almost killsme.
Every. Damn. Time.
“Say it,” he orders, one hand around my throat, the other wrapped tight around my waist.
Not choking. Just claiming. Just reminding me who the fuck I belong to.
I drag my nails down his stomach, watching the way his jaw tics, the way his body hums beneath my touch.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, grinning like a sinner at confession. “To fuck, to ruin, to bleed dry—take your pick.”
He growls low and deep, dragging his teeth along the soft curve of my throat.
Around us, the drums pound harder, syncing with the pulse in my throat. The crowd begins to chant, low and primal. The torches stretch higher, flames licking the canvas above like they’ve been starving for blood.
Then it comes.
The first scream.
High. Real. Raw. The kind that makes your spine twitch. Someone’s already bleeding. Someone’s already begging.
The blood feast has begun.
And fuck, I’m starving.
Bjorn’s breath brushes my ear, thick with heat and the coppery tang of someone else's death. His arm is locked tight around my waist, muscles like stone, chest slick with blood and sweat. He smells like smoke and iron and something older than time. Something holy.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he growls, voice like a drumbeat in my spine. “The shift. The silence before the storm. The gods leaning in.”
I nod, barely breathing. My whole body is buzzing like a live wire.
Gods, he’s right. I can feel them watching. My skin itches with it. The weight of unseen eyes, the press of something ancient and waiting.
“You’re so fucking hot when you get all prophetic,” I murmur, breathless. “Tell me more.”
He growls again, low and dangerous, dragging his teeth along my jaw like he’s marking territory.
“Tonight, we honor the old ways. We give Odin our blade. We give Hel our fear. We give the Vanir our flesh.”
His hand slides lower, gripping the underside of my thigh, pulling me tighter against him.
“We give the gods blood,” he says. “And in return, they let us survive.”
Gods, I love it when he talks murder to me.
“And me?” I whisper, tilting my head, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear. “What do you giveme, baby?”
He chuckles, dark and mean.
“You get to set it all on fire.”
My hips roll instinctively against him. The leather between my thighs is soaked, and the only thing hotter than his body under mine is the way the crowd is chanting like they’re already praying for death.
Skål. Skål. Skål.
The word rolls like thunder through the tent, shaking the altar beneath us.
“Fuck,” I breathe, smiling like a lunatic. “This is better than foreplay.”
