Her arousal hits me again, deliberate, like she's broadcasting exactly how wet she is. The image that floods my mind nearly brings me to my knees: that perfect ass up in the air, begging to be filled, her tight little dress hiked around her hips. Her pussy wet and dripping down her thighs, but it's that puckered hole that's calling to me, ready to be stretched around my cock. I can almost hear those desperate little whimpers she makes when she wants it in both holes, the way she begs so pretty when she needs to be filled completely.
Fucking shit.I shake my head, trying to clear it, but my beast is already straining against its chains, desperate to make that vision reality.
Christ. This isn't some fantasy I just conjured—she's beaming straight-up porn into my brain like it's nothing. Last time we tried this shit, I nearly passed out showing her Amara's torture dungeon memories. But my little firecracker? She's dropping these vivid, filthy fantasies into my head like they're fucking text messages.
My savage little mate's getting stronger by the minute; she knows how to use it to drive me insane. If she's already figured out how to weaponize this connection, I'm in deep fucking trouble.
She's across the room pretending to listen to some warrior's bullshit story, but those honey-gold eyes keep finding mine. That knowing look burns straight through me, and when her tongue slides across her bottom lip—fuck. She knowsexactlywhat she's doing and images she just planted in my head. My fingers flex against my thighs, already imagining how that delicious ass will feel in my grip, how those lips will look wrapped around my cock.
Just wait, baby. When I get you alone, I'm going to make you pay for every single tease.
Game on, Angel.
Erik
50
My gaze follows Rhyland as he gravitates toward Dani. Their bodies instinctively turn toward each other across the crowded feast hall. Their movement is like watching celestial bodies in perfect orbit—each step and gesture synchronized in an unconscious dance.
My fingers drum against the ornate goblet as I scan the room for the hundredth time, searching for a flash of platinum hair or the glint of mismatched eyes. Bryn's absence gnaws at me, each passing moment deepening the hollow ache in my chest.
The urge to seek her out claws at my insides, foreign and unsettling. This isn't me—I don't do uncertainty. I calculate, analyze, plan. But Bryn... she's thrown every carefully constructed strategy into chaos.
Is she hiding in their chambers, letting her thoughts of failure fester like a wound? The strategic part of my mind—the part that's gotten me through centuries of warfare and politics—is screaming to retreat, to accept defeat with dignity. But another voice sounds suspiciously like my brother's, urging me to fight.
The cave flashes through my mind—Bryn's body yielding to mine, her breath catching at my touch. The barn... gods, the barn. Her kiss had been wild, desperate, matching my passion with an intensity that still burns in my blood. Her body had come alive under my hands, betraying every denial her lips now speak.
I shift on my feet as memories assault me: Rhyland's determination when he first scented Dani, his relentless pursuit despite her resistance. How often had I watched my brother charge headlong into that battle, refusing to accept defeat?
Rhyland had fought for her and pursued her relentlessly until she accepted their bond. Perhaps that's what Bryn needs—not my careful strategy or measured approach, but raw, unrelenting pursuit.
My fingers tighten around the goblet. The thought of pushing her, breaking down her walls one by one until she acknowledges what blazes between us... it goes against every careful instinct I possess. And yet...
My jaw clenches. Perhaps it's time to take a page from my brother's book. After all, when has anything worth claiming ever come easily?
Movement on the grand staircase catches my eye, and my breath freezes in my lungs.
Bryn descends like a warrior goddess transformed. Her platinum hair cascades like moonlit silver, free from its warrior braids. The white silk gown hugs every curve, crystals on the bodice throwing rainbow light across her swollen breasts. My hands itch with the memory of their weight, how perfectly they'd fit my palms.
The goblet in my hand creaks dangerously as my grip tightens. I force myself to set it on a passing servant's tray before shattering the crystal.
I close the distance between us in long strides, my boots silent against the crystal steps. Bryn's eyes snap to mine, a flicker of something—surprise? Desire?—crossing her features before her warrior's mask slides back into place.
"Well," she drawls, eyeing my formal attire. "The stoic warrior knows how to dress for battle."
"You're one to talk," I manage, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. "You look..." Words fail me as I drink in the sight of her. "Georgeous."
A flush of color stains her cheeks for a heartbeat before she catches herself. I extend my arm, and her eyebrow arches in challenge.
"Playing protector again, Erik?" She says my name like honey over steel. "I've faced frost giants. I can handle stairs."
"The stairs might survive you, but your beauty is more lethal than Grave Warden tonight."
"Fífl," she mutters without heat.
"And what does that mean, little bird?"
"It means 'fool,' you silver-tongued rogue." She takes my arm. "Don't get ideas. I'm just here to support my sister."
