He closes the door to the suite, and the sound echoes with a finality that is different from all the times before. It is not the sound of a cage being locked. It is the sound of the world being shut out.
He doesn't release my hand. He turns me to face him, his eyes, dark and searing, boring into mine. "The pact we just made," he says, his voice a low, guttural rumble, "is not one of words alone. It is a pact of body and soul."
He lifts my hand, the one he held while I claimed my new kingdom, and brings it to his lips. He kisses my palm, a hot, wet brand of ownership that sends a shiver down my spine. Then, he guides my hand to his chest, placing it over the hard, steady beat of his heart.
"You feel that?" he whispers. "It beats for you. It has from the moment I saw you. Now... you will feel it beat with you."
My own heart answers, a frantic, heavy thud against my ribs. It is not a rhythm of fear. It is a rhythm of anticipation, a dark, hungry drumbeat that I am only now beginning to recognize as desire. My own.
I don't pull away. I don't flinch. I hold his gaze, my chin lifted in a silent challenge. I have made my choice. I will not be a passive victim in my own life any longer, not even in this.
A slow, predatory smile touches his lips. He sees the change. He sees the invitation.
His other hand goes to the sash of the silk robe he put on me, his fingers ghosting over the knot. "May I?" he asks. The question is a mockery of politeness, a testament to the new game we are playing. He is not asking for permission. He is giving me the illusion of choice, forcing me to vocally consent to my own submission, to my own desire.
"You are the king," I say, my voice a low, throaty sound I don't recognize. "You don't have to ask."
"But I want to hear you say it," he counters, his eyes burning with intensity. "I want to hear you choose this. Choose me."
I stare into the depths of his dark eyes, the eyes of the man who took my body, who marked my skin, who saw the darkness in my soul and called it beautiful. The monster.Mymonster.
"Yes," I breathe, the word a surrender and a declaration all at once.
His smile widens. With a single, fluid tug, he undoes the sash. The silk robe falls open, pooling at my feet, leaving me naked before him. His gaze sweeps over me, hungry and possessive, but it doesn't linger on my breasts or the curve of my waist. It goes directly to the stark white bandage on my hip.
He kneels.
The act is so unexpected it steals my breath. He kneels before me, a king bowing to his creation. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of the bandage with a reverence that is terrifying.
"My mark," he whispers, his voice thick with a possessive, almost religious fervor. "My vow."
He leans in and presses his lips to the bandage, a hot, searing kiss directly over the wound he created. The pain in my hip flares, but it is instantly followed by a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure so intense my knees buckle. He catches me, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me steady.
He looks up at me from his position on the floor, his eyes black with desire. "I want to be inside you, Wynter. I want to feel you clench around me while you look at the art you created. I want to claim the body that bears my mark."
He rises, his power and heat a palpable force. He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bed, laying me down not with thebrutal efficiency of before, but with the deliberate care of a man placing his most priceless treasure on display.
He stands over me, shedding his clothes with an agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. He is magnificent. A dark god of muscle, scars, and raw, masculine power. When he comes down to me, covering my body with his, it is not a violation. It is an eclipse.
"This time," he growls, his lips brushing against mine, "you will not fight me. You will meet me. You will burn with me."
"Show me how," I whisper, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.
He kisses me then, a deep, punishing kiss that is all teeth and tongue and possession. I don't just accept it; I answer it, meeting his ferocity with my own, a silent battle for dominance that neither of us can win, because we are both a part of the same force.
His hand travels down my body, over the curve of my waist, until it rests on the bandage. He presses down, his thumb circling the edges of the wound. Pain and pleasure lance through me in equal measure, a dizzying, overwhelming cocktail.
"Does it hurt,cara?" he murmurs against my lips.
"Yes," I gasp.
"Good," he says, before his mouth captures mine again.
Then, with a movement that is both swift and inexorable, he captures my wrists. He pins my hands above my head, one of his large hands easily encircling both of them, holding them in an unbreakable grip against the headboard. I am trapped, completely at his mercy. The old fear flickers, but it is immediately consumed by a new, intoxicating wave of powerlessness. I am no longer a prisoner. I am an offering on the altar of this dark god, and I am gloriously, terrifyingly willing.
He doesn't kiss me again. Not yet. He begins to move, a slow, deliberate procession down my body. His lips are a brand, atrail of fire against my skin. He worships me, not with gentle reverence, but with a consuming, possessive hunger. He kisses the line of my jaw, the hollow of my throat, the frantic pulse in my neck. He nips at my collarbone, a sharp, stinging bite that makes me arch against him.
His free hand explores me, tracing the curve of my breast, teasing the peak until it is a hard, aching point. His mouth follows, laving the sensitive flesh, sucking it into a deep, bruising kiss. My breath hitches, a strangled moan escaping my lips. I am adrift on a sea of sensation, my mind going blank, my body a vessel for his pleasure, and, terrifyingly, for my own.
