After a few minutes, I push myself upright, trying to work the cloth free from my mouth. My fingers fumble against the knot, frustration curling in my chest. Then he sits up too, his hands brushing against my jaw as he takes over. The rough fabric slides from between my lips, leaving them tingling in their absence.
“What’s your name?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Braiden,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. I let the name roll over my tongue, savouring it as if it’s a forbidden taste. “Braiden.”
With a slight feeling of embarrassment, I rise from the bed, letting his gaze sear into me. Glancing toward the bathroom, I let my hand linger in the air, and he follows, silent and close. His presence is a heat that presses against me with every step.
Once we are both inside, I turn on the shower, and the steam curls around us in heavy waves. The silence is thick, charged. The water traces a path over my skin that’s already burning from an unspoken pull. My gaze drifts over him, lingering shamelesslyon every carved line of muscle. Heat coils low in my stomach, I want him again already.
His hands find me first, gliding soap over my shoulders, down my arms, and tracing the dip of my spine.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mumbles, his tone bearly audible that I nearly miss it over the sound of the water. My heart does a somersault in my chest when I return the touch, running my palms across the hard planes of his chest, and over the taut muscles of his stomach. Every pass is slower than it needs to be, lingering where it shouldn’t. Turning the simple act of washing into something far more dangerous.
To my disappointment, he turns off the water and steps out of the shower. Water dripping from his body as his gaze sweeps the room with quiet intent.
“Only one towel?” he asks, his tone unreadable.
“Shit, sorry, let me grab you one,” I say, tugging the only towel off the rail and wrapping it tightly around myself before hurrying out. The sound of my wet footsteps echoing down the hall.
Without lingering, I snatch a towel from the airing cupboard and rush back toward the bathroom, waving it lazily in front of me as I step inside, only to be met with silence. He’s gone.
My pulse spikes instantly. What the fuck? The steam is still curling in the air, the water still dripping from the tiles. But theroom feels empty in a way that makes my skin crawl. Panic claws its way up my throat.
With my heart pounding, I tighten the towel around me and step into the hallway, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot in the stillness.
“Braiden?” My voice is barely above a whisper, as if saying his name too loud might summon something else entirely. I push open the bedroom door, but the room is empty. The sheets are still rumpled from where we left them, the faint imprint of his body fading like a ghost.
In utter disbelief, I move through the rest of the house, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the shadowy corners where light doesn’t quite reach, but there’s nothing. The front door is locked, with no sign of it being opened. My pulse quickens with a different kind of fear now, if he didn’t walk out, how did he leave?
When I step back into the bathroom, my chest is aching as though someone’s reached inside me and squeezed the life out of me. The steam has started to thin, curling away into the corners, and for a moment I just stand there, staring at my reflection.
Then I see it.
Through the fading mist, thick red letters slash across the mirror:
I’ve got your lover boy.
A lipstick kiss stains the corner. It’s deep crimson, and wet enough that it looks as if it could still be bleeding. My stomach drops, making my breath stutter. The walls feel too close, the air too hot. What the fuck is happening?
Here I was thinking Thorne was the one slipping between her sheets. What a joke. He crowns her his banshee, binds her to him in power and then what? Keeps his distance as if he’s a priest. Pathetic. If he won’t take what he’s claimed, I will.
Plus, this new development makes everything easier. I’ll keep a firm grip on her sweet handsome human until she comes crawling to me, desperate to save him and when she does, I’ll be waiting.
I didn’t expect to be hauling a prisoner along with me, and now the problem’s gnawing at me, where the hell do I stash him? This side of the veil or mine? Both come with risks I don’t have time to weigh. Fuck! I’ve got to stop letting impulse drive my hands before my head catches up. I can admit it, I let my anger take the reins, and now I’m paying for it.
He’s not bad on the eyes, for a human, pretty enough that theidea of keeping him as a pet, slithers through my mind. I can almost picture him chained, obedient. Him breaking piece by piece under my hand. The thought tastes sweet, but I know it’s a luxury I can’t afford.Faigheann peataí faoi deara.(Pets get noticed.)
No, I need him for leverage. He’s the key to prying that power. Thorne’s pathetic excuse for a banshee has a weakness, and it’s here with me, bound and breathing. I could smell her desire for him from a mile away, it was impossible to miss. That kind of hunger is a weapon, and I plan to use it until she bleeds.
It took longer than I wanted but I managed to drag him through the veil with me. Something strange happened on the way. He started flickering, like a dying lightbulb fighting to stay alive. Only it wasn't weakness. No… it felt wrong, familiar, as though this side knew him, welcomed him. The kind of welcome that’s whispered in blood and bone, as if the place had been waiting for him all along.
I brushed it off, I haven’t got time for shite like that. I’m on a mission. One that ends with that banshee bitch on her knees, crawling. Even if I have to break every bone in her body to get her there. I’ll rip the wail from her throat and make her choke on it before I’m done.
I’ve locked her pretty human in an old family tomb, with no light, just damp air, and the stink of the dead for company. I’ll have to remember to water and feed him, at least enough to keep him breathing. Can’t have him rot before I’m done using him.
It’s a shame it’s come to this. I blame Thorne. If he’d just handed over what’s rightfully mine instead of gifting it to that feeble little bitch, we wouldn’t be here, would we? No, he had to make it a game. Now I’ll make sure we both play it my way. Every heartbeat that banshee spends wondering where he is, will be a dagger twisting deeper into her chest. By the time I finally summon her, she will be trembling and broken, willing to give up everything just to see him alive again.
(Gach braon deireanach dá dóchas, brúfaidh agus dófaidh mé.) Every last drop of her hope, I will crush and burn.
