Humiliation.
I tried to take the edge off. Tried to be strong. Clever. In control of my own body. But I can’t eventouch myselfwithout it turning into a fucking catastrophe. Can’t even come without lighting the match of my own slow death. My curse feasted on my orgasm. I was nothing but fuel.
I thought maybe I could handle it on my own. Just once. Take a little pleasure. Take a little power. But instead, I fed itme. My own life force.
I’ve never felt so betrayed by my body, and my list of grudges against it are long and detailed.
This is some tremendous bullshit, and if Mal were here, I would tell her so before popping her in the face with my fist.
I stumble.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be a very hard punch, but once I get a little dick in me, I’m going to track her down and beat her to a pulp.
I laugh at my own thoughts, but it comes out a strangled rasp.
Talon hesitates. “We’re almost there,” he says.
Then he wraps his arm around my cloaked body to help me keep straight as we continue. My face turns up into the cold sleet just in time to catch the hot red embers flashing in his eyes as he holds me. Talon uses his other hand to lift the hood on my cloak, so it better shields my face from the light rain.
He's careful not to touch my flesh, and for one brief moment, I let myself believe this is our life. That I get to lean on him. That he gets to hold me. That we’re just…together.Whole.
The fantasy gives me equal jolts of pleasure and pain. Resentment flares in me. Why does everything between us have to be so witchtitting bittersweet?
Even through the headache, through the haze and burn and emptiness, I keep thinking about what he said. All of it.
The way he saw me. The way heknowsme. The way he’s been watching, memorizing,achingfor me, without ever touching.
I want to gather every word, every whispered confession and name he called me, and fold them into something solid. A memory box. A talisman. Something I can clutch to my chest when I need strength.
"We're here," he announces, drawing my attention forward.
From the outside, it looks like a condemned warehouse—rust streaks, rotted siding, one half-lit streetlamp above. But the bouncer standing out front tells a different story.
He’s big. Bigger and bulkier than Talon. Bald head, tattooed neck. His eyes glow like lit coal.
“You here to play?” he asks, gaze flicking between us.
Talon nods, retrieving his phone. “We’re registered.”
"Then you know the terms." The bouncer pulls a rune-etched tablet from his coat, tapping the screen. “Blood signature. Both of you.”
Talon puts his phone away before he reaches out and touches the tablet with his index finger. There's a small blue spark at the contact.
Under the expectant gaze of the bouncer, I reach out to do the same. A sharp pinprick zings across my finger.
“Magic immunization verified,” the bouncer intones. “Emotional consent spell active. No cursed bites. No fertility issues. No dream-walkers without collars. You’re cleared.” He studies us. “And you understand the Old Pact still holds?”
I hesitate, having no idea what the hell he’s talking about much less where we are. “I?—”
“We do,” Talon says, voice rough.
The bouncer lifts the metal bar behind him and lets it drop with a heavyclang. The sealed door creaks open.
“Then the only thing you’ll catch in there is heartbreak,” he mutters. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We step into warm, velvet shadows, and music that pulses like a heartbeat.
“What’s the Old Pact?” I whisper to Talon as we enter the building. The air is charged enough to raise every hair on my body.
