Dorran uses the motifs to climb higher, and the muscles of his bare arms stretch and flex as he pushes himself up without so much a grunt of struggle. He’s so fluent, so mesmerizing to watch in his state of stealth.
I suck in a breath – the back of my throat icy, dry – when he clasps my balcony’s granite railing. I take a few steps back when he swings one, and then the other leg over it, before turning inward and hopping down onto the floor.
Thunder rumbles the cloudy sky again, and it’s followed by a zap of lightning that briefly illuminates Dorran’s sharp features.
I swallow. “You’re late,” I tell him.
The bells on the antique clock in the foyer below, start ringing, and Dorran smirks.
“Am I?” he asks challengingly.
I push a fallen strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’ll get your money.” I turn and rush into my room, throw my phone on the bed, grab the cash from my nightstand’s second drawer, and walk back to where he’s waiting for me.
“You know,” I start, then offer him the money, “you could’ve gotten yourself killed right now. The guards at the gates are merciless to a fault; they wouldn’t have hesitated to end you. And, as savage as you might be, even the Bloody Prince can’t take on more than half a dozen trained assassins on his own.”
His lips spread into a manic smile as he takes the money from me and pockets it. “Don’t tempt me, Little Swan,” he says with a touch of levity in his voice. “Because I just might feel obligated to prove you wrong. I’m in a giving mood tonight, after all.”
I laugh, and something in his expression changes. Before I can even blink, he’s closed the space between us, pulled a switchblade out, and has wrapped a hand around my throat firmly.
He nudges me, and my back presses against the pillar behind me. He then leans in – so close that I can see every fleck of blue in his eyes.
“Now, Little Swan,” he whispers, “what was so funny about what I just said?”
I stare up at him as my heart goes fucking insane in my chest.
He’s beautiful.
He’s brutal.
He’s my key to salvation.
Dorran brings his blade to my cheek, and the cold metal all but bites my skin, resulting in goosebumps to rise on my scalp and neck.
“Tell me,” he whispers again, then tightens his hold on my throat.
I try to gasp, but it’s impossible. I can’t breathe, and there’s a slight ache in the middle of my chest that should be concerning, but it only excites me.
When I don’t answer him, he drags the blade over my cheek and brings it to my lips. “Open your mouth,” he commands.
I shift on my feet and continue to look at him, to which he chuckles and squeezes my throat even tighter.
I arch forward, and grab his wrist with both my hands when blackness creeps over the edges of my vision. I claw at his fingers because I really can’t breathe now, and my chest feels too heavy and constricted.
Dorran simply smirks. “Open your damn mouth, Cignette,” he orders.
Hell, the way he says my name – it’s like dragon-fire on my chest. It sears through me; it thaws my damn rationality.
I relent and part my lips, and immediately, he loosens his grip on my throat.
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Now, pull your tongue out.”
I do, and feel myself get wet when he flattens the switchblade and runs it over my tongue. He starts from the tip, then pushes it up further, all the way to the inside of my mouth.
“You like that,” he says. There’s no question in his voice. “Who fucking knew.” He pulls the blade out and flips it around, putting the weapon’s black handle into my mouth. “Suck,” he directs.
I wrap my lips around the metal, and it instantly warms against me. I then hollow my cheeks as I suck on it, and Dorran starts to slowly pull the handle in and out of my mouth.
“Harder, Little Swan,” he orders. “I’m sure that mouth of yours can do better than this.”
