Page 48 of Ma Petite Mort
I’m barefoot, covered in dried blood, glitter, and the vague scent of smoke and sweat. I tiptoe through it all like a ballerina in a warzone, skipping over puddles and entrails with a grin stretching my lips like a knife wound.
Because I know where he is.
I always know where he is.
And there he is—just like I pictured. My monster, my executioner, my god.
Bjorn sits at the edge of the altar like it’s his personal throne. Shirtless, bloodstained, tattoos glowing like runes under firelight. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, half-burned, and his eyes are the color of reverence and wreckage. One hand rests on his axe, the other’s loose in his lap like he just fought a war and won.
“Morning, sunshine,” I chirp, stepping over what might be someone’s spine. “You look like wrath wrapped in afterglow.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just exhales smoke and watches the sky.
So I climb right into his lap like the good little heathen I am.
“You brooding or basking?” I ask, curling my arms around his shoulders and nuzzling my face into the dried blood on his throat.
His hand settles on my thigh—firm, grounding.
“The gods are full,” he mutters.
“Good,” I purr, tracing lazy patterns along his chest. “’Cause I’m still hungry.”
His fingers twitch and I press a kiss to his jaw.
“We did it, y’know,” I whisper. “Every scream, every offering, every moan—they watched. They listened.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes another drag of his cigarette and lets it burn down between us.
“You were perfect,” he says finally, voice low and heavy. “The way you moved. The way you offered him up. I saw the gods in your eyes.”
My grin grows crooked and wicked.
“I felt you watching.”
“I always watch you.”
Something hot coils low in my belly. That same hunger. That same need. Not for death. Not for blood.
For him.
Always him.
“I’ve still got a little fight in me,” I say with a teasing smirk, grinding just slightly against the muscle of his thigh. “Think the gods would mind if I prayed again?”
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
His hand slides between my thighs like it belongs there—because it does. Thick fingers, calloused from a thousand kills, stained with blood and ash. They part me like a priest unveiling an altar. Reverent. Hungry. Made for this.
I whimper, sharp and breathless, spine arching as my hips tilt into his touch. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s worship. His kind of worship—messy and full of violence and devotion.
“Say it,” he growls, his voice low and wrecked beside my ear, smoke curling between us like a second mouth whispering sin.
“My god,” I breathe. “Yours. Always yours.”
His fingers drag slow through the slickness he’s already made of me, teasing at the edge of where I need him most. He circles lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin me properly. Like he enjoys watching me shake for it.
And gods, I do.
