The quick, impulsive admission has my heart on fire.
Chapter 15 - Iosif
I can’t stand the thought of her being lonely. It has repercussions.
Then again, almost anything does.
“If I’m in this world, I should be prepared for it,” she argues, matter-of-fact. Janella has the ability to make whatever she says sound like common sense. It serves her greatly. She fits into my world better than either of us anticipated.
Do I want to drag her deeper?
“We’ve talked about this, Iosif. You have to let me in. I’m not a damsel in distress.”
I shoot her an unimpressed look. “You sound distressed now.”
She feigns reaching for the spear on the wall to finish me off.
It makes me grin helplessly.
More and more, it becomes clear that what had seemed like an inspired suggestion from Janella a couple of nights ago, in retrospect, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever gone along with. I can’t believe I almost bought that we could just move past the sex and forge a companionship devoid of fire.
I’d been on some badass painkillers, sure—but still.
In theory, it would’ve absolved me of the sins swirling in my head any time she’s in my line of sight—and most times she isn’t, honestly. In practice? Every time she so much as brushes up against me, I want to fuckingbiteher.
And then there’s the matter of her delectable perfume. Those supple curves. Her undulating laughter. Big, ethereal doe-eyes that are goddamn impossible to deny, whether lit up with that laughter, brimming with hurt, or flashing with indignance.
Any way I twist it, proximity is inevitable.
Of course, I’m aware that it’s digging my own fucking grave to invite her with me when I work off steam with my blades. It’s gagging on mouthfuls of dirt to agree to teach her how to handle my weapons.
Yet here I am, her round ass tucked against my cock, keenly feeling her adjust her stance and aim the very dagger that launched this whole trajectory.
“Don’t you want me to know I can handle myself? I know it helpsmesleep better at night knowing you can hold your own in any fight.”
My eyes narrow at her in accusation. “Are you trying to flatter me?”
“Isn’t that the way to a narcissist’s heart?” she chirps, batting her lashes at me flirtatiously. She’s mocking me. Yet, it has an effect. Everything about her does.
Every smartass quip or earnest remark elicits the same reaction—the need to be so deep inside of her again.
And, therefore, the resultant avalanche of guilt.
I don’t have to think about it to know I’d be no gentler with her this time. Fuck the painkillers—I’ve never known a better high than earning Janella’s broken whimpers.
“It’s disturbing,” Janella slices through my spiral, “when you think so loudly. I’m trying to master medieval torture here, Bluebeard!”
My hand wraps around her wrist without a second thought. Her pulse stutters beneath my fingertips. We stand there, frozen like a Rodin statue.
“Inmyworld—” pointedly, I clear my throat until the words are less hoarse, “—there are bigger, worse distractions to contend with. Focus on your target.”
There’s no fucking way she doesn’t know what she’s doing when she presses back into me, her ass grinding into me.Fuck me.I force my breath to remain even, unbothered. I squeeze her wrist in warning.
I drop my hold, and she launches the spear. It embeds itself in the target’s outer ring. It isn’t perfect, but it’s not too fucking shabby either. Up until a week ago, she’d never handled weapons. She knows how to shoot a gun now. And blades, she’s intent on mastering.
Once she romanticized them as “an extension” of me, I couldn’t say no to her.
“Elbow higher next time. You let it droop, your aim is fucked. Brace your core more.”
