Page 65

The flat of the knife pressed into the top of my spine, the tip digging in sending skittering shocks across my skin.

“Did the Fae who killed the King speak to you?”

“No.”

The blade twisted and let its edge split an arch of whip sharp fire along the outline of my shoulder.

I tipped my head back and screamed. The sensation danced with the unbridged need that carved within me, rewiring my brain and shorting any circuits that I might have had remaining in place. I was a beating heartbeat between two thighs shaking like leaves on a forgotten tree.

“They didn’t!”

The knife found my shoulder blade and carved a matching wound there. The chill of my blood leaking down my back brought to mind a bloodied angel, bleeding from the stumps of shorn wings.

“Who plots against the King?” He heaved great gasps of ragged breaths being drawn into the bellows of his lungs behind me.

“Probably a whole fuckton of people!” I screamed when the tip of his knife found an especially tender spot on my ribs and pressed enough for the flesh to give way to its bite.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the knife left the shallow cut to travel his path around to face me.

A leather glove slid around my throat and tipped my head back, the knife finding the bone of my hip.

“Do you have a lover?”

“What?” I gasped, and the blade cut an inch-long tease of pain along the sensitive flesh that yielded so easily. He didn’t repeat himself. My brain charged through, rampaging around the cage of my skull, trying to find how this fit with the interrogation. “N-N—what?” The blade cut deeper, farther toward the fountain at my apex. “No!” I finally screamed.

A groaning purr was my answer as the glove tightened around my throat and dizziness sought to claim me. The scent of the black leather gloves and his natural woodsy cologne filled every bit of me and left no room for anything other than him.

“Why not?”

“I—what?”

“Why don’t you have a lover? You have been in the warrens for months. Long enough to find someone to fuck this greedy, wet pussy. So, why don’t you have a lover?”

“I’m not interested in anyone.”

Blood trickled down my wrists as the cuffs bit into my flesh and ripped a shriek from my lips.

“Interesting . . .” I could hear the self-satisfied grin in the words and wished I could muster the energy to bite him.

The pressure of the black leather glove tightened for a single moment and then released as it began a lazy journey down my chest, taking a side quest to flick the rock-hard peaks of each nipple before plunging between my thighs to cup the drenched flesh of my pussy. My hips had a mind of their own and began rocking against his hand.

He had called me greedy, and he was correct, I was greedy. I needed to come for him with every fiber of my being. It was a divine mandate, and I was a pious penitent waiting on absolution.

“Say it again,” he commanded.

“What?”

The knife, once more, pressed against my skin. This time, without pretense, it dug into my hip and bit a cut, sending a quick reproach for my misbehavior. Slick blood slid down the length of my thigh and dripped to the floor.

His grip tightened around my too-sensitive flesh, and he whispered, “Say it again.”

“Please . . .”

A groan of utter pleasure rippled between us, and two impossibly thick, leather-clad fingers plunged into the grip of my pussy without a single second of hesitation.

“Fuck!” I screamed as ecstasy flooded me and washed any last hope of making it through this situation with my senses.

It was gone. The memory of any higher thought but an ash on the wind as the burning stretch of his invasion leaked in and took over. He did not move, did not press further, simply let me enjoy the sensation of his fingers parting me and my juices soaking his gloves. Fuck, the sight it must have made, his fingers buried within me, the scent of my pussy flooding into the leather.