Page 124 of The Vespertine Treaty

I couldn't let her ask. I couldn't let her name it. If she named it, it became real. And if it was real, I was lost.

I grabbed the back of her neck and crashed my mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was a desperate attempt to silence the world, to silence the prophecy, to silence the screaming in my head. I devoured her sigh, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her shock and her sweetness.

She froze for a heartbeat, and then she melted. She moaned into my mouth, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer.

That sound undid me.

I swept her up into my arms, spinning us around. I didn't break the kiss. I couldn't. I needed her breath in my lungs to survive.

I walked us backward and slammed her against the dresser. My hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her waist, gripping her thigh to hike her leg up around my hip.

"Cain," she panted, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. Her eyes were blown wide, dark with desire. "Wait?—"

"No waiting," I growled, burying my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. "You wanted to help? You wanted to save me? Then save me, Ophelia. Let me drown in you. I want you to hurt. I want you to burn just like I burn for you."

I reached for the hem of her nightgown, bunching the silk in my fists and dragging it up her body. She lifted her arms, helping me, and I tore the fabric over her head, throwing it aside.

She was naked. Beautiful. Pale and soft and glowing in the dim light.

I stepped back, just for a second, to look at her. The sight of her—bare and flushed, her chest heaving—hit me harder than any spell. She really was the most dangerous thing in this godsdamned house.

I reached for the laces of my trousers, my hands shaking with a need that terrified me.

"The bed," she whispered.

"No," I said, my voice rough. "Here."

I slammed her back against the dresser, knocking a silver tray to the floor with a clatter that we both ignored again. My hands continued their mad exploration, gripping her thigh.

"Cain," she panted, breaking the kiss to gasp for air, her pupils blown wide. She tried to reclaim some semblance of control, herhand pushing feebly against my chest. "The bed... take me to bed. If you're going to consume me, at least do it there."

I froze. A dark, predatory smile twisted my lips. The madness inside me purred.

“No bed for us yet, little ruin,” I growled.

I spun her around to face the tall mirror, hauling her back against my chest. I gripped her hips and dragged her flush against me, making sure she felt the heavy, rigid length of my erection pressing hard into the curve of her ass.

"Kneel for me,” I commanded.

She hesitated, looking at my reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged.

"I said kneel," I roared, the voice of the Death Heir echoing off the stone walls.

She turned and dropped. Her knees hit the rug with a soft thud. She looked up at me, her eyes wet, defiant, and hungry.

I reached for the crystal decanter of brandy on the nightstand. I took a long, burning swig, letting some of the alcohol sear my throat, but I didn't swallow.

I grabbed her jaw, tilting her head back, and kissed her hard, spitting the warm, amber liquid into her mouth. She gagged, swallowed, and moaned, the taste of me and the liquor mixing on her tongue.

"Good little fucking Aenite,” I whispered, through gritted teeth, wiping a drop of brandy from her lip with my thumb, and then sucking it into my mouth.

She freed my hard and aching cock, pulsing with a need that felt like violence.

"Take it, wife”, I ordered. “Taste your husband. Worship me as your God.”

She didn't hesitate. She took me into her mouth, hot and wet and tight. The sensation was blinding. I tangled my hands in her hair, looking down at her—my enemy, my wife, my ruin—on her knees for me.At last.