And Fate damn it, I hate that even less.
I should correct her of that notion. Show her where she belongs: under heel.
It’d be so easy.
“Escape drills. Break my hold.”
She crooks her eyebrow incredulously. “Breakyourhold? You’re a fucking giant,” she argues, looking up and down my body at our size difference.
“Turn around.” She rolls her eyes but thankfully does what I say so I have a chance to talk my disobedient dick down from where it’s becoming even more prominent through my athletic shorts.
“Hands behind your back.” With a sigh—like she’s doing me a fucking favor—I close the distance between us until my chest is brushing her back and grab both her wrists in my hand, trying not to think about how easily my fingers wrap around the thin bones. “Go.”
“You going to teach me how to do that first?” she asks over her shoulder. My grip tightens on her wrists in warning and she scoffs before turning back around. And then, for the first time in a long time, I’m taken by surprise.
She shoves her ass into my pelvis,hard, and my hold on her loosens enough for her to pull away, darting beyond my reach before I can pull her back. She faces me, full of piss and vinegar like a kitten hissing down a Rottweiler. “How was that,teach?”
Everything fades into the background as her mocking tone pries apart the open wounds that my family’s carved into my memory: my mother’s cold dismissal when Cyrus told them Quentin’s accident was my fault. My father’s derision at my “weakness” when I begged him to stop Cyrus’ nightly torment. Cyrus standing over me, wings spread, blocking out the sun as he crushed my throat beneath his claws.
No one willeverspeak to me like that again. No one has the fucking right. Not my family, and certainly not some powerlessbitch at the bottom of the fucking hierarchy. Whatever she sees on my face makes her eyes widen in realization that she’s crossed a line.
“Sloppy.” My growl comes out like a threat as I get in her face and grab her wrist before she can back up, easily twisting her elbow behind her back into an arm bar. “Again.” This time, I’m ready for whatever bullshit she might pull as she struggles against my hold.
I curl over her, pushing her forward as I block her foot and she lands on the mat with a thud, knocking the air from her chest. When she rises, there’s no trace of her earlier attitude. Now her face is blank, eyes wary and muscles tense in anticipation of my next move. I ignore the familiar stance of someone waiting for the next blow to come through the static of my own anger.
She doesn’t say a word for the rest of the hour, no matter how many times I take her down. Over and over and over again, just to make the lesson stick. By the time Carrick blows the whistle to signal class is over, she’s shaking with exhaustion. But no matter how many times she goes down, she refuses to stay down, which infuriates me as much as it inflames the simmering lust that’s only grown more difficult to ignore after feeling her body struggle beneath me.
At the sound of the whistle, she collapses against the mat as I loom over her, tracing the line of sweat that drips down her neck until it disappears into her cleavage where her nipples harden as her skin cools. Under different circumstances, she’d be naked and dripping with me, begging for mercy as I own her body from the inside out.
But life doesn’t work like that.
Not for me.
Not at Dreadhurst.
This will have to do.
Our eyes connect when she finally opens hers, and I don’t bother to hide my smirk at her disheveled state. Her gaze hardens, but she doesn’t look away. That spark of defiance I’ve tried to extinguish over the last hour flares back to life, and I have to turn away, leaving her bruised and broken on the mat, before my dick makes another appearance.
Fucking Fate, I can’t wait to do it all over again next week. She hobbles off to the locker rooms as Carrick blathers on about something I couldn’t care less about. When he finally fucks off, Calanthe slinks up to me with a smug grin, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she eye-fucks me.
The Legacy of Lust is wearing… something. I don’t know what the fuck it is, only that it barely covers her tits and the shorts are so far up her ass crack I’m surprised they haven’t completely disappeared. She’s stunning—as most succubi are.
She’s also a completely self-obsessed narcissist. Her pink-tinged power wafts through the air, teasing my senses with promises of more, but nothing she could say, do, or wear would ever compel me to touch her.
“Can’t believe Carrick is making you work with her,” she makes a sound of disgust from the back of her throat that makes me physically recoil. “How’d she’d even end up at Dreadhurst in the first place? It’s not like she’s one of us.” That’s about the only thing I don’t hate about Nyx. “Did your fathers mention anything?” she hedges, but not even her perfect pink pout moves me to indulge her curiosity so I only shrug in response. “That’s a shame, I’m sure it’ll all come out eventually. Speaking of coming out… you should stick around. Me and the girls left her a little surprise in the showers. It’s time we formally welcomed her, don’t you think?” She bites her lip before turning and swaying her hips, accentuating her pert, round ass.
I can’t tell if it’s my conscience rearing its ugly head, or if I’m nauseous from not having eaten in two hours. I should probablymake sure Calanthe hasn’t killed the girl or something. The lust demon can be fucking vicious when she wants to be, which is often.
I hesitate leaving now that my temper has cooled somewhat, forcing down the twinge of guilt at having taken out my damage on her. I pick up shit around the gym that those asshole kids couldn’t be bothered to do themselves, and I don’t have to wait long before the metallic ping of the gym door opening breaks the silence, echoing in the cavernous, empty room. Nyx’s head peeks out as she peers around the corner, scanning the gym, purposefully ignoring me. Her wet hair is plastered to her head, water dripping down her bare shoulders to pool on the floor.
Now that I know she’s alive, I can leave. That’s what I tell myself, at least, as I walk towards her—close enough to smell whatever soap that still clings to her skin. She sighs, resting her head against the door before looking up at me.
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, but… I need a favor.” I look at her expectantly, crossing my arms as I wait for her to continue. “Can I borrow your shirt?”
Well, this is a first. Usually girls are begging me to take off their clothes, not mine. “You want my shirt,” I repeat.
“Or a jacket or something. I’ll give it back.”
