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"Never," he replies, opening his eyes. They burn with a fanaticism that mirrors my own, a shared sickness that binds our souls together. "I am yours. In every way. Now and forever. Just tell me what you want."

"I want your mouth on me," I command, my voice a low, silken purr. "I want you to lick away every last secret you kept from me."

Romeo doesn't hesitate.

He leans forward, his head dipping down to my lap. His lips brush the silk of my dress, tracing the soft skin of my thighs before his tongue sweeps over between my legs as my dress inches higher and higher with his perfect mouth.

A gasp escapes my lips, my hips arching in desperate anticipation.

"Tell me you forgive me, Iris," he whispers against my clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

"I forgive you, Romeo," I pant, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper. "But I will make you beg for my mercy."

He groans, his mouth devouring me, his tongue working magic between my legs. He brings me to the edge again and again, teasing, tormenting, and praising me with every lick until my body is begging for release.

"Scream my name, mia regina," he demands, his mouth pulling away just enough for me to hear his ragged breath. "Scream it like you worship me."

"Romeo!" I shriek, my body convulsing, my orgasm tearing through me like a wild fire. I squirt hot liquid all over his face and down his swallowing throat, crying out his name until my throat is raw.

He drinks every last drop, his mouth never leaving me.

When my body stops shaking, he pulls away, his face smeared with my cum, his eyes burning with raw hunger that mirrors my own. He rises slowly, pulling me into his arms, kissing me until my lips are swollen and bruised.

"My queen," he whispers, his thumb stroking the emerald on my ring finger. "My glorious, terrifying queen."

I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face into his chest. The scent of him is all around me. He is my monster. He is my obsession. He is my safety. And he is entirely mine.

TWENTY-FOUR

IRIS

Pain does not have a color.

If it did, I would have painted it by now, some ugly smear I could put on anything my fingers could touch and walk away from. Instead, it lives in the dark behind my eyes and in the places my body still flinches when a door slams. People think agony is bright red like fresh blood or white-hot like an open burner on a stove, but real, blinding agony is absolute, hollow silence.

The first thing I remember after the thunderous roar of the cathedral shattering above my head is the smell of burnt electrical wire, scorched copper, and vinegar.

I was drifting. My body felt weightless, suspended in a thick vat of cold oil, yet every nerve ending along my face was on fire. It felt as if thousands of needles had been heated in an open hearth and driven deep beneath my cheekbones and brow and straight through my pupils into my brain.

Whenever I tried to inhale, the air caught in my throat like shattered glass.

I tried to lift my hands to wipe the wetness from my face, but my arms would not obey. Heavy leather restraints pinned my wrists to cold steel bed rails. Coarse gauze was wrapped so tightly around my skull that the pressure made my temples throb in violent, sickening pulses.

"Don't fight it, little rose," a voice had whispered somewhere far above me in the dark.

Not a doctor's voice. A voice with the sour, stale reek of blended whiskey and cheap cigars.

Danny.

My father's thick, calloused palm had pressed against my trembling shoulder, his fingers shaking so hard they rattled against the metal frame. I could hear him weeping, wet, choked sobs that hitched in his chest like an engine dying in the winter frost.

"Forgive me, my Rose," he had babbled into the antiseptic air. "Forgive your old man. I didn't know the bishop had men hidden in the choir loft. I didn't know they brought blades. God help me, I should have put a bullet in my head before I let them touch you."

I tried to part my lips. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask him why he let those men in black cassocks tie me to that wooden cross like a slaughterhouse pig. I wanted to ask him why my world was black, why I couldn't open my eyes, why there was no light, no ceiling, no sunshine, and nothing but an endless void.

Only a broken, wet groan escaped my dry throat.

"Hush now, lass," Danny whispered, his tears splashing cold against my exposed collarbone. The doctors say the stained glass shredded the retinas. The archangel's wings came down on you, Iris. The light is gone. But you're alive. You're breathing."