"Better," he said, watching her face. "Your blood is warming. I can smell it changing."
One hand traced down her stomach, lower, until his fingers found her. She wasn't ready—would never be ready for him—but he was patient, clinical, working her body like an instrument he was learning to play. When she remained dry, unresponsive, he made a thoughtful sound.
"Perhaps you need more direct stimulation."
His mouth replaced his fingers, and she nearly screamed, not from pleasure but from the violation of such an intimate act from someone she despised. But her body, treacherous thing, began to respond to the mechanical stimulation. She could feel herself growing wet despite the horror, despite the hatred.
"There we go," he murmured against her."See how easily the flesh betrays? All that resistance, and yet here you are…."
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to disappear into herself, but he stopped immediately.
"Look at me," he commanded. "Be present, or I stop being gentle."
She forced her eyes open, forced herself to watch his face as he returned his mouth to her. The warmth in her chest thrashed weakly, confused by her body's physical response conflicting with her emotional revulsion.
When he finally rose up, positioning himself over her, she could see her wetness on his mouth. He was making sure she could see it, could see the evidence of her body's betrayal.
"Now," he said, pushing just the tip inside, making her feel the intrusion. "Let's see if your blood is finally sweet enough."
He entered her slowly, watching her face the entire time. She couldn't help the sound that escaped—not pleasure but something raw, broken. Her body stretched to accommodate him, and she hated that it knew how, that Eliam had taught it to receive, and now Malus was using that knowledge against her.
He moved with deliberate rhythm, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip. Not violent, not rough, but almost tender. That made it worse somehow, that he was taking time, taking care to build her body's response.
"You're getting wetter," he observed. "Your body is beginning to want this. I can feel you clenching around me."
She turned her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Every. Moment. Present."
He shifted angle, and suddenly he was hitting something inside that made her gasp, made her hips lift involuntarily. He smiled, cold and satisfied, and targeted that spot relentlessly until she was making sounds she couldn't control, her body climbing toward something she desperately didn't want.
"Perfect," he breathed. "Now your blood should sing."
He bit her then, at the curve where neck met shoulder, and drank deeply. She could feel him inside her in two ways—his body taking hers, his mouth taking her blood. The dual invasion made her feel split apart.
The warmth tried to taint her blood, tried to make it bitter, but he'd worked her body too well. She could feel herself climbing toward climax even as she fought it, even as tears ran down her face.
"Yes," he said against the wound. "There it is. Arousal makes it so much sweeter. Like honey and copper and—" He thrust harder, making her cry out. "—submission."
She came with his teeth in her throat, her body convulsing around him in the ultimate betrayal. He groaned against her neck, drinking deeper as her orgasm flooded her blood with exactly what he'd wanted to taste.
He finished moments later, still feeding, and she felt him shudder with more than physical release. When he finally pulled away, from her throat and from her body, his eyes were dilated, almost drunk.
"Exquisite," he said, crimson staining his lips. "Your blood when you come... it’s intoxicating. Eliam is a fool for denying himself. Perhaps tomorrow I'll see how fear mixed with arousal tastes. Or pain with pleasure."
He stood, dressing efficiently while she lay shaking on the bed, blood seeping from the bite, her body still pulsing with aftershocks she didn't want.
"Clean yourself up," he said from the doorway. "There will be no court tonight. Ensure you rest well because tomorrow I want to see what else we can discover about your unique blood."
The door closed, and she curled into herself, the sheet sticking to the blood and other fluids on her skin. The warmth in her chest was so quiet she thought it might have died from shame. She could still feel everywhere he'd touched, could still taste him in her mouth, could still feel the echo of him inside her.
But worse than all of that was the knowledge that her body had responded, wanted, and had found pleasure in her own violation.
Minutes ticked by before she finally forced herself to move. She grabbed the sheet, wrapping it around herself, and tried to stand. Her legs shook violently, barely supporting her weight after all her body had been forced to endure. She had to grip the bedpost to keep from falling before she could stumble back to her own chambers.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she collapsed, the weight of what she'd done crushing her. But beneath the violation, beneath the disgust and self-hatred, something else burned.
Rage.
Pure, clean rage that he'd used Eliam against her. That he'd made her complicit through threats rather than force. The warmth in her chest responded to that anger, stirring from its hiding place, feeding on the fury.
