“Show me what I did to you, slayer,” he growls. “Show me the mess I made of you.”
I push. The thick spill he’s pumped into me slides out. It’s indecent and perfect.
“Perfect,” Voren says, voice like winter wrapped in praise.
Dreven’s hand is there instantly, possessive and cold, catching the mess with his fingers and smearing it over my cunt as if he’s painting ownership on me. He pushes two fingers intome, up to the knuckle, slow and remorseless. I sob for it, greedy and sore and somehow still empty.
“Fuck me,” I moan. “Dreven, please. Fuck me.”
His shadow chains flip me on my back and haul me up the bed. He looms over me, his cock twitching.
“No foreplay,” I pant. “Just your cock inside me.”
Dastian chuckles. “We warmed her up for you.”
Dreven growls and presses his hands on my hips, ramming his engorged cock into my soaking pussy. I wrap my legs around him, forcing him deeper as he slams a hand to the headboard.
He fucks me like he’s staking a claim inside me, hard and deep, every thrust punching a ragged sound out of my throat. His shadows coil over my ribs and tighten at my wrists again, not restraint so much as reminder. I arch up, meeting him stroke for stroke, even though I’m wrung out and shaking.
“Eyes on me,” he orders, and when I drag my gaze up, his are a storm, silver gone almost white. “Always on me.”
He changes the angle, and I forget the universe. He grinds in, slow for one brutal heartbeat, and the pressure blows wide, my nerve endings scream, the world whites out, and I come with a harsh, broken cry that scrapes my throat raw.
Dastian groans against my skin, “Look at her. Fucking perfect,” and the praise pushes me over again, aftershocks snapping through me in jagged waves.
Dreven’s control snaps. He thrusts hard, savage, the slap of his body against mine filthy and perfect, and then he locks up with a snarl and spills inside me, heat pouring deep enough that I whimper, overfilled and used in the exact way I need. His shadows shiver across my skin like a second climax.
He doesn’t drop me. He breathes, rough and close, forehead to mine for three long, quiet beats while Dastian kisses my collarbone and Voren’s thumb strokes my cheek in lazy frost-signs that cool the sting.
He pulls out slowly. I’m open, slick, messy in a way that should humiliate me, but only makes me feel wanted. Dreven’s fingers catch the spill, presses it back into me with proprietary care that has my pulse tripping.
Dastian flops onto his back, smug and wrecked, and drags me onto his chest like I’m a particularly treasured trophy. My heart is a steady beat. I breathe past the ache and for a minute, all I hear is rain ticking against the glass and three impossible heartbeats wrapped around mine. For a minute, I let myself float.
Then the snake on my bedside table gives a tiny, audible hiss.
Chapter 7
Nyssa
It hisses again. Not loud. Sharp. A little fuck-you sound that slices through post-orgasm haze like a scalpel. I grab my blade, but then nothing else happens. It’s like it woke up momentarily and then decided, nah, fuck this shit, and went back to sleep.
Great.
“I hear you, snakey,” I mutter and close my eyes.
“You’re just going to sleep?” Voren asks.
“Yep. I’m not staying awake to stare at some inanimate piece of metal when I could be in dreamland.”
Voren makes a noise that sounds like a sermon wrapped in a threat. I give him the finger under the duvet and let exhaustion drag me under.
The dream is immediate and rude. No easing in, no floaty shite. Just me lying on the black dais with a gaping chest wound with the steel snake curled over it like an expensive paperweight. It’s cold. Really, truly dead-cold.
“You’re a corpse,” I tell it.
“So are you.”
It doesn’t open a mouth. It opens a feeling. Old stones. Locked doors. An empty throne with my name carved wrong.
