“Mine,” I growled, losing the last bit of self-control I had left. My teeth sank into her skin, marking my possession. “I’m going to mark every inch of you.”
I clawed at the thin material of her leggings, tearing them away before freeing myself from my jeans. She settled back on my lap. We both shuddered as her pussy brushed against my cock.
“Fuck me until it hurts, so I know without a doubt you’re still here with me.”
Without warning, I slammed into her. Fuck, we fit together so goddamn perfectly.
“Ah, Grey…” She fisted my hair, tugging tightly while shuddering around my cock.
I ran my tongue over her hardened nipple, sucking it between my teeth. I was about to make good on my promise to mark every inch of her.
“Fuck, little witch. You were made for me.”
The sex wasn’t romantic or slow, but needy and rough. Our hips slapped together with each violent thrust. Her long nails dug into my back as her pussy tightened around me, pulling me over the edge with her.
She leaned against my chest as we caught our breaths. She listened silently to the rhythm of my heart.
Her soul was mine—forever. I had traded a collar for something more permanent. And I’d happily belong to my little witch forever.
EPILOGUE
LYRA
Seven months later
The dead were silent.
And sometimes, the silence became too much.
The whispers had plagued my mind for so long. Without them, my thoughts echoed too loudly. My fears and regrets raged with nowhere left to hide. And sometimes, I caught myself straining to hear them, almost wishing them to return to fill the hollow silence of my own mind.
At first, I thought it might only be temporary. So, I waited. And waited. For the familiar pressure to return, for the whispers to caress my mind, tightening like a bird of prey’s talons, slowly squeezing the life from its victim.
Yet days turned to months, seasons came and went, and still nothing.
They were gone.
Grey, however, wasn’t so easily convinced.
That’s how I found myself standing in a place that used death as architecture. At the entrance of the empire of the dead.An ossuary filled with nobles, important figures in history, and ordinary people. Skulls, femurs, tibias, and an array of smaller bones lined the walls, taking us deeper beneath the bustling streets of Paris.
This was the farthest I’d ever been from Twisted Spires. Like my mom, I was shackled to the spirits and the church. She never escaped. Her whole life had unfolded within the city limits, but mine would not.
We lingered, falling behind the tour group. The guide’s voice echoed down the clammy corridor. The air was damp and heavy. Death lived here, and the silence that surrounded us was thick and suffocating, like early morning fog.
A moth fluttered down the labyrinth of death and came to rest upon a skull before me. Its wings splayed wide, and a pair of painted eyes stared back. Each slow beat made them blink, as if death itself was watching.
Suddenly, the moth took flight, gliding deeper into the corridor lined with bones. When we didn’t follow, it fluttered back, hovering inches from my face as if beckoning us forward, then floated low and unhurried down the tunnel.
“It’s an omen.” Grey’s eyes were glued to the moth. “I think it wants us to follow it.”
“What kind of omen is a moth?”
“Not a good one.” Grey sighed, but I followed anyway, needing to know if the magic was truly gone.
The tunnels were narrow and winding.
Our fingers laced together as I strained, waiting to hear the familiar whispers—the pleadings, the begging. For as long as I could remember, the dead had called to me.
