"Mine," I hiss.
The word escapes before I can consider whether it's appropriate, vampiric possessiveness bleeding through whatever rational thought I've managed to rebuild. My voice sounds rough, drunk on blood and proximity and the particular madness of waking from near-death to find myself in a darkness prince's arms.
He smirks.
The expression transforms his face from beautiful to devastating, smugness and challenge and something that might beprideall mixed together into something that makes my blood-warmed body respond in ways entirely unrelated to feeding.
His finger rises to my face.
The touch is deliberate—one digit pressing against my bottom lip, pulling slightly, revealing the blood that still stainsmy mouth with evidence of what I've just done. The gesture is obscene in its intimacy, claiming without asking, touching without permission.
"I know I'm yours," he says, and the casual acceptance of my possessive declaration makes something in my chest burn. "But if you mean Atticus, we have a tier system going on here, Little Mouse."
Tier system.
The words should make sense, but my blood-drunk brain refuses to process their meaning. Everything feels fuzzy around the edges, too saturated with sensation to parse complex concepts. I'm trying to understand what he means, trying to connect the dots between his smirk and his words and the particular way his shadows continue to caress my skin?—
My confusion must show on my face.
His smirk softens into something almost tender, an expression I've rarely seen from the Prince of Duskwalkers. He leans closer, reducing the distance between us until his breath mingles with mine, until all I can see is the shifting silver of his eyes.
"Gwenievere," he murmurs, voice dropping to something intimate, private, meant for me alone despite whatever audience we apparently have. "Do you know who you are?"
Do I know who I am?
The question lands strangely. I am... I am someone. The familiarity is there, lurking beneath the fog of blood-drunkenness and fever-fatigue. I know this face above me. I know these shadows surrounding me. I know the weight of bonds pulsing at my neck, wrist, and chest?—
But do I know who I am?
The answer feels important, vital, but my mind refuses to produce it clearly. Everything keeps shifting, thoughts slidingaway before I can grasp them, identity feeling more like a suggestion than certainty.
I do know one thing, though.
Those lips look appetizing.
The thought arrives with the particular clarity of desires too strong to be clouded by confusion. Whatever else I might have forgotten, my body remembers exactly what it wants—and right now, it wants to taste the man asking me questions I can't answer.
Bite them,something whispers.Claim them. Make them yours.
"And she's totally going to either bite you or fuck you. Can't tell."
Zeke's observation floats through the space, delivered with the particular casualness of someone stating obvious truth rather than making commentary. His voice carries feline amusement, the satisfaction of a cat watching events unfold exactly as predicted.
Both options sound appetizing.
The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity, cutting through the fog like a blade. Bite or fuck. Claim or consume. Either would satisfy the burning need currently making my skin feel too tight for my body.
But the idea of this man beingmine?—
Something shifts in my core. A heat that has nothing to do with fever, spreading from some central point to encompass my entire being. The sensation is overwhelming enough to make rational thought evaporate entirely, leaving only instinct and need and the absolute certainty that I want this shadow-wrapped prince beneath menow.
I move before I consciously decide to.
My body surges upward, using strength I shouldn't possess given my current state, and suddenly our positions are reversed.I tackle Cassius with force that should be impossible for someone who was barely conscious moments ago, momentum carrying us both until he's on his back and I'm straddling his chest, pinning him with weight that shouldn't be enough but somehow is.
Mine.
The word pulses through me like a heartbeat as I claim his mouth.
