Page 47 of The Dark Rising
Looking her over, I take her in. Blood coats her mouth, and it should repulse me, but us wolves like seeing blood on our prey. Seeing my own on her though does something to me. Something possessive and probably not stable. Her hair fans out around her, longer now, long enough for me to wrap more around my fist.
An image of me plowing into her from behind comes to me, guiding her with her hair to stay still and arch her back as I pull her down on my cock.
Shaking out my thoughts, I lean forward and she freezes. I pay her no mind as I lick the side of her mouth, tasting myself on her and she huffs, but otherwise doesn’t make a sound. I pull back, knowing I’m pushing her, and I still have something to do.
I rise, bringing her with me and maneuvering her until her arms are behind her back, still having a grip on her wrists. I move us over to the chair by the table. Sitting down, after a little struggle on her part, I guide her to straddle my thighs so she’s facing me. She scowls, and I smile at her being uncomfortable. I can’t help but think how perfectly she fits against me.
I take a strip of meat and hold it up to her. “You will eat, then you will rest.” Her eyes turn hard. I bring the food to her lips and she turns away. I squeeze her wrists in warning, probably too hard, and she looks at me sharply. “You have to build your strength to kick my ass, right?” She looks down at the meat, wriggling her hands, and Itskat her. “After days of you ignoring me, after days of you being just a lump of skin in that bed, not eating, not drinking and not fucking sleeping,” I growl, my head lowering. “You will eat by my hand until I say it’s enough.” Her eyes flash, bouncing between mine in anger. “Oh no, little wolf, you fucked up with riding my patience too hard. Now. Eat.”
I place the meat back to her lips, and just when I think I will have to force her mouth open, her lips part. She accepts the strip of meat and I watch her as she chews with rapt attention, a pleased sound rumbling from me. When she opens her mouth for more, I make her wait a little for what she just ate to settle in her stomach. When satisfied, I give her another bite. She wriggles in my lap after she swallows, probably feeling uncomfortable, and I raise a brow at her.
“You don’t want to do that.” She stills, and it makes me think she didn’t realize she was doing it. “Unless you do?” She looks down, and I let out a chuckle.
I bring more food up for her to eat, and when she has one strip left, she shakes her head. I let it go, knowing she has eaten a lot. Her eyes start to droop, and she sits up straighter. I stand, holding her under her ass with one hand and she makes a noise of protest. I hush her and walk her over to the bed. Crouching down, I let her sit as I slowly release her wrists, waiting to see her next move.
“Rest,” I tell her softly as she bring her hands to the furs and clutches them tightly. She doesn’t look at me, and I let a low sound rumble in my chest. Her eyes swing to mine. “I will leave for a while, and when I come back, we will talk.” Her brows furrow and I lean forward. Her flinch has me pausing and grinding my teeth. I rise and step back, nodding my head to the furs and leave.
As soon as the door clicks, I rest my head against it, my hand clenching around the handle at her reaction.
I shouldn’t be surprised she’s flinching from me, not after what I have done, but I won’t allow it to continue. I stretch my back out.
No. I won’t allow it at all.
Eighteen
Rhea
He’shereagain.
After sleeping Gods knows how long, I finally feel a little rested. With the food Darius gave me, and after he left to do whatever he was doing, I managed to get some sleep. I hate that he got me out of my somewhat den that I made, but his words rang true.
I’m an Alpha, I need to act like one.
“Am I in my new prison?” I keep my eyes closed as I ask him, my throat feeling scratchy from not speaking for some time.
I hear him shift, the air tense and filled with something I can’t place. “No,” he answers softly, too softly and so unlike him that I peel my eyes open in confusion. Why does he sound like that? Pity?
My hackles rise.
He sits in a chair next to the bed, elbow on the armrest with his chin resting on his closed fist. His eyes roam over me, brows pinched together, before once again his eyes take mine captive. Always taking them captive. They’re not as cold as he looks at me, more curious and thoughtful, and I have no idea what that means. Unsure, scared, and wary, I break contact first, feeling uncomfortable and look around the room we’re in, taking it in properly for the first time.
I’m in a bedroom somewhere in the keep, it’s minimal, a chest of drawers to the right near a door, a balcony of sorts to my left. The glass doors are shut, and dark curtains drape either side, left open to let light in. Another closed door leads off at the back of the room, and I take a second to wonder what’s in there. A fireplace rests across from the large, dark wood bed I’m in, full of wood and alight. A table with a couple of chairs are not far from it against the wall, where Darius sat and fed me. There are two smaller side tables on either side of the bed, with a lantern on one and a picture of a family on the other. I pause at the picture and study it, of the woman and two children in the frame. I know immediately who the woman must be, Darius’s mother.
His features come from her with the same chin, ears and hair, along with his nose and the shape of his face. Everything but the shape of his eyes. I look at the small child she holds in her arms, her smile so wide as she looks down at the little boy beside her, who could only be Darius. Younger Darius looks up at her with so much adoration, and love, it makes my heart clench. They look so happy.
“My mother and younger sister,” Darius murmurs, noticing where my attention is. I’m shocked for a moment that he so willingly told me.
“They’re beautiful,” I tell him honestly, not knowing what else to say. Staring at his family, pain lances my heart as I think of my own. I don’t have a picture of Mom and Dad. I have nothing left, even the knife my dad gave me is gone, all I have are memories that are clouded with pain.
“They were.”
“Were?” I ask, my eyes moving back to him.
He shifts in his seat. “Rogures took them too soon. Isabell was only two.” I swallow, feeling the sadness of those words and for the young girl who barely lived before she died. How he must have hated me when he thought I caused the rogures that took his family from him. Is that why he wouldn’t listen to me? I can understand to an extent why he wouldn’t after believing that.
The pain of losing your family is something you cannot put into words, something you never recover from. Especially if they were stolen from you, just like mine were.
It doesn’t mean I forgive him for what he did to me though.
