Page 26

Part of me wants to make this fair.

My cock twitches when I think about finding him and making him submit.

To the Crown.

To The Silent.

To me.

I circle the first room, empty except for the faint scent of wet concrete and bleach. I check the closet—nothing. I stand in the center of the hall, listening.

From two doors down, a whisper. A shift of air. I turn my head, smiling.

I walk.

He’s waiting in the service alcove, pressed against the wall, heartbeat hammering so loud I can almost hear it. I stop outside the door, count to three, then open it slow.

He’s there, arms tensed, ready to fight or bolt. His chest heaves with exertion, the robe open, half-off one shoulder. He meets my gaze, and there’s no fear.

Only anticipation.

I step in, close the door behind me.

“Good,” I say, voice gone rough. “You lasted longer than most.”

He shrugs, wipes sweat from his brow. “You want to see what I’m made of?” he says.

I nod.

He lunges.

I let him tackle me to the wall, his body a tangle of muscle and heat. He’s strong, an even match for me. I twist, grab his wrist, force him down to one knee. He laughs, spits blood, then goes limp in my grip, a trick he must have learned in a thousand brawls. He comes up swinging, lands a punch to my gut that doubles me over.

I grab his hair, yank him back. The sound he makes is pure challenge, not pain. He braces a hand to the wall and shoves me, hard, but I plant my feet and shove back. The collision knocks the wind from both of us. For a moment, we’re locked together, face to face, breath mingling in the cold air.

He says, “You gonna fuck me up, or fuck me?” His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide.

I answer by slamming him to the wall, pinning both wrists above his head. He doesn’t fight it—he leans in, closing the gap, lips parted. He bites at my jaw, draws blood.

I taste the salt, the copper, and want more.

I press my mouth to his, hard enough to bruise, and he bites again, harder. I let him, because I want to feel it. I want every part of him imprinted on my skin.

He gasps, then moans, the sound low and desperate. I drop one hand, grip his throat, and squeeze just enough to make him shiver. He pushes his body against mine, all sinew and sweat, grinding into me like he’s trying to merge us.

I reach down, tear the robe the rest of the way. He’s naked underneath, cock already hard, flushed dark against the pale of his skin. I run my hand down, wrap it around him, and his hips buck, seeking more.

“Is this what you want?” I whisper in his ear.

He nods, grinding harder.

My hand closes on his throat, thumb digging in just below the jaw, the way I did in the cell. He shudders, but not from fear.

I kiss him, bruising and hard, forcing his lips apart. He bites back, drawing blood, and the taste is lightning on my tongue. I pull back, wipe my mouth, then grab his jaw in both hands and slam our mouths together again, this time deeper, hungrier. He opens to me, teeth clashing, tongues battling for control.

The fight doesn’t stop when I pull away. He claws at my shirt, rips the buttons, leaves red lines down my chest. I answer with a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back and biting at the long line of his neck, tasting salt and blood.

He bucks his hips, tries to drive a knee into my thigh, but I’m ready. I catch it, twist him, force him face-first to the wall. The robe falls off his shoulders completely, puddling at his feet. His back is streaked with sweat, the muscles alive and quivering.