The irony is thick enough to spread on toast. Not that I'm going to mention how that mystery voyeur added an extra spark to my orgasm. Something tells me that particular confession might need to wait until his caveman tendencies settle down.
"You do realize we basically invited an audience by fucking against a wall during a royal party, right?" I dodge a decorative vase as I chase after him. "I mean, what did you expect? A 'Do Not Disturb' sign magically appearing?"
He spins around, pinning me with a stare that could melt steel. "I expect my mate to be for my eyes only, not some fucking pervert lurking in the shadows."
He spins around and takes off again. I can't help but snort. "Oh, please. So you can take me to a club and literally eat me out in front of everyone, but this is different?"
Fuck—my feet are screaming as I struggle to keep up with his giant strides in these damn heels.
Rhyland stops so abruptly I nearly faceplant into his back. He spins around, crowding me against the wall with that predatory intensity that never fails to make my pulse race.
"Damn right it's different." His voice is pure pissed-off Viking, his eyes glinting with possessiveness. "At the club,Icontrolled who watched, what they saw.Iwas in charge of who got to see whatIgave you. But here?" His hand curls into my hair, not squeezing, but a dominant reminder of his strength. "Some random fucker just got an eyeful of what belongs to me, without my say-so."
His gaze burns into me, the need to claim, to possess, to dominate radiating off him in waves. "No one sees you like that without my permission, Angel. No. One."
It hits me then, like a jolt to my lust-addled brain. That night at the club, Rhyland never let me finish. Sure, he teased me to the brink of insanity—a delicious torture that still makes my toes curl thinking about it. But now it clicks: my Nordic control freak doesn't share the grand finale. My orgasms are his personal show, a private performance for an audience of one.
Talk about selective exhibitionism. Leave it to my thousand-year-old vampire to find a loophole in public indecency.
Lucian
53
This isn't happening. This can't be fucking happening.
The sight hits me like a fatal blow to hope, shattering my world into bloody pieces.
My angel—my beautiful, radiant Seraphina—hangs crucified against some dark makeshift massive cross, like some fucked up sacrifice. Runed chains wrap around her body, pulsing with sickly black magic that makes my heart race. But her wings...fuck, her wings...
"Holy shit," Emily's voice cracks through my frozen horror. "We need to get her down. Right fucking now!"
I stumble forward, crushing broken feathers beneath my feet. Each step leaves crimson footprints, like I'm walking through some demented fairy tale gone wrong. The air smells of Seraphina's sweet blood, and dark magic—Morgan's unique brand of necromantic bullshit.
"Ph-phina?" My voice breaks. "Baby, can you hear me?"
Her golden eyes flutter, glazed with pain. "Lucian." her weak voice fucking undoes me.
Black corruption spreads through her once-pristine wings like poison, stemming from iron spikes that look like they were stolen from Satan's toolbox. Each nail pulses with the same sick magic as the chains.
Through our bond, I feel nothing but static and agony—like someone's replaced our connection with barbed wire.
"The nails," Emily hisses, her hands shaking. "They're warded. I can't—" She swears viciously. "The magic's fighting me."
I reach for the nearest spike, and holyfuck—white-hot pain sears through my palm. The metal burns like sacred fire, forcing a snarl from my throat. "What the hell is this?"
"Blessed iron mixed with my own special brew. Like it?" Morgan's voice slices through the room like a serrated knife, making us whirl to face her.
She emerges from the shadows like a goth-whore nightmare, all black leather and too much eyeliner. Dark energy rolls off her in waves, the power that makes my hair stand on end.
"Turn it off, Elvira," I growl, putting myself between her and Phina. "Before I show you a whole new use for that pentagram choker."
Morgan's laugh is sharp. "That's cute, Fangface. You really thought I wouldn't clock your little ambush upstairs?" Her eyes, rimmed with kohl and something darker, lock onto Emily. "Color me impressed, though. Your discount Sabrina packs a bigger punch than I thought."
"Bitch, please," Emily's magic crackles like a live wire. "last time was a fucking warm-up. You really wanna see me go full Scarlet Witch on your bony ass?"
Morgan prowls the room's edges, her black-painted fingernails trailing along the stone. Her movements are pure predatory grace—like a jaguar toying with its food.
I tune out her evil overlord TED Talk, zeroing in on my angel. "Phina, baby." My voice cracks as I brush blood-matted hair from her face. "Just focus on me, okay? We're busting you out of this shithole."
