Page 23 of A Story of Sinners

There was a battle taking place in his aura, noticeable in the clashing of the soft silver and harsher, darker shades that surrounded him. He didn’t know whether to proceed with care and caution or release his rage and jealousy.

For some reason, I wanted the latter. I needed to know our time apart had killed him just as much as it did me, that it wasn’t just me suffering from heartache and a one-sided bond.

“You hate me,” Ryken whispered, lowering his forehead into the hollow of my neck. “But this whole time, I was scared for you. Terrified. I could feel your pain and sorrow. I thought you were on the verge of death. Then, I come here to discover you are just fine.” He laughed and lifted his eyes to mine. There was a fury burning deep within those silver depths. “Better than fine, in fact. You were here, servicing the king of Cambriel.”

“I wasn’t,” I argued. “You don’t know what you left behind. You don’t understand what happened when you left for Faerie. I was imprisoned, starved. Iwason the verge of death, but you wouldn’t know that, because you are too blinded by jealousy to see the truth.”

“You have a history of deceit, and I don’t believe a word you say,” Ryken purred, brushing a lock of hair from my face. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll bargain for you and take you away to Faerie. Then, you can repay what you’ve done. You think you’re miserable here? I’ll show you misery. You think you hate me? Well, you’ll learn how much more Ihateyou.”

I shook my head. He didn’t hate me, and I would show him how much he felt the opposite. I tilted my neck in supplication and widened my eyes—an offering, a play to prove his words wrong. His gaze zeroed in on the scar he’d left there, his eyes filling with desire.

“Go ahead,” I dared, speaking with purpose. I wanted him, all of him, and if I couldn’t have all of him, I would take the envy and brutality. I’d take anything just to feel alive, if even for a moment. “Show me how much you hate me.”

Ryken spun me around and grabbed my arms, bending and twisting them behind my back to lock me in place. There was no need to lock me in place—I wasn’t going anywhere.

The rustle of leather sounded behind me as he undid his pants and slid my skirt to the side. His hand gripped my undergarments, fingers trailing along the waistline as he untied them and slid them down.

Bared to him, I arched my back, begging to be touched. Instead, he backed away and raised his hand. A harsh slap cracked against the skin of my backside, and I gasped.

“What—” I started to ask, but my words were cut off as he struck the plush skin again, again, alternating hits from cheek to cheek, punishing me for the misdeeds he thought me guilty of.

Each slap of his palm stung, and something about the pain made my core throb and clench. His palm grazed over the welts, caressing the raw, burning pain, drawing prickles of heat. “You take punishment so well,” he whispered.

When he was done massaging the soreness away, his hand trailed between my body and the wall, brushing across my mound, moving lower, cupping me while his fingers dipped into my center. He hissed at the arousal that met his fingertips, rubbing it up to my swollen nub.

Ryken tutted. “Such a dirty girl, Dahlia. You’re dripping all over my hand.”

A whimper sounded from my throat when his fingers drifted lower. He pushed two in, spreading them apart while grinding his palm against my center, and my core throbbed when he slid a third finger inside, “Gods, so hot and tight.”

“Ryken,” I moaned, grinding against his palm.

“Are you going to beg me for it, little crow?”

“Yes,” I cried when he withdrew his fingers, only to thrust them deeper.

His palm ground down roughly, and my core spasmed. “I didn’t hear aplease.”

“Please,” I begged, bearing down on his hand.

“I think you can do better than that.”

“Please, Ryken! I need you! I want you!”

He removed his fingers, and I whimpered at the sudden feeling of emptiness, but it was silenced when those same fingers were thrust into my mouth. “You beg too loud. Be quiet unless you want everyone to hear. Now, suck.”

I sucked, tasting myself on him, and a groan sounded in my ear.

His grip on my arms disappeared, and I felt the tip of him line up at my entrance, pushing through. He bottomed out with one thrust, knocking the air from my lungs and filling me to the point of discomfort. His hand roughly dragged along my body, gripping my backside, my hip, and trailing up my stomach and breasts until his arm was wrapped around me, pulling me close. His palm closed around my neck, squeezing as his heavy panting ghosted the shell of my ear.

“Gods damn, Dahlia, you feel so good,” he groaned.

Then, he pulled back out and slammed into me, in and out, each push of him grinding my body against the wall.

I cried out, the feel of him dragging along my walls making my nerves spike with pleasure. Some sick and twisted part of me thrived at the feel of his violence. It preened at his jealousy, flourished at the feel of his possessiveness. Little sparks of lightning trickled along my spine, lighting my nerves up in a way I’d never felt before, and I sucked on his fingers again, dragging a low groan from his chest.

“Do you let your little princeling take you like this?” he questioned breathlessly.

His question made my blood boil, and I bit down on his fingers as hard as I could. Blood pooled in my mouth, and I shook my head. He knew better than to think something like that, or at least, he should. His fingers dragged from my lips, down to my hip, leaving a trail of blood. His chuckle sounded sinister.

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