I stand at the foot of the bed, the enchanted dagger gleaming in my grasp. It was a gift from an elder demon prince, forged to slit witch-throats and sever immortal magic at the root. I’ve carried it for a millennium.
The blade catches the light like a sliver of ice. It hums faintly, a low, resonant thrum that vibrates through the air and into her body, making her shiver before I’ve even touched her.
My gaze drifts over her, rabid and deliberate, as if I could memorize her all over again: the rise and fall of her chest, theway her thighs press together, seeking friction that the bindings won’t allow. The dagger descends, hovering just above her collarbone, close enough for her to feel the cold kiss of steel without contact.
She gasps, a sound half fear, half invitation.
The pulse at her throat beats in time with the hum of the blade, and I think—no, Iknow—that the gods who cursed me could never have crafted anything half as exquisite as this: her body straining toward danger, her soul laid bare beneath my hand, betraying how badly she wants this, wantsme.
“Such a pretty feast you make, my dear,” I murmur, my voice a dark caress.
The blade traces a path downward, following the curve of her breast, the metal so cold it burns. Elara arches into the sensation, a whimper spilling from her lips as I circle her nipple—never quite touching, never quite giving her what she craves.
I know the contrast is maddening, the heat of her skin, the chill of the blade, the way her body trembles for more. Her hips lift off the bed of their own accord, seeking something, anything, to ease the throb between her thighs.
“I’m going to gorge on you so hard.”
I hear the hunger thrumming beneath my own voice, the ruinous devotion wound through it, and I accept this too. It will always be this way with her, this woman who owns me with one look, one breath, one lifetime stretched into eternity.
A low chuckle rumbles from my throat as I dip the dagger lower, skimming the soft swell of her stomach before gliding over the flare of her hip.
“You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” The flat of the blade presses against her inner thigh, just shy of where she needs it most, and Elara lets out a broken sound, her bound wrists twisting against the silk. “I can smell how wet you are.”
My free hand slides up her leg, fingers splaying possessively over her belly before dipping between her thighs.
She’s soaked, her folds slick and her clit throbbing, and when my fingertips graze her, she jerks against the restraints, a moan tearing from her throat. “Fuck, youaredripping.”
The dagger abandons her thigh, the cold metal now tracing the crease where her leg meets her body, teasing closer, closer, until the flat of the blade presses against her clit.
Elara’s back bows off the bed, a choked cry ripping from her as the icy steel meets her overheated flesh. The sensation is too much, the cold, the pressure, the way it sends a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to her core.
Her thighs tremble, her muscles locking as she fights the urge to grind against the blade, to chase the release that hovers just out of reach. Blood and the spilling of it has never been a problem for us, her magic and my blood always at hand to heal, to rejuvenate. To heighten the smallest caress into a lusty inferno, ready to consume.
“Lucien—please—” The word is a broken plea, her voice raw with need.
My breath is hot against her ear as I lean over her, the dagger still pressed flush against her clit, unyielding. “You think you deserve to fuck my dagger and come, little witch?” My lips brush the shell of her ear, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin just hard enough to make her gasp. “You’ll come when I say you come. And when I do, you’re going to scream so loud the whole fuckingpalazzohears how good I make you feel.” The blade shifts, the edge now dragging lightly over her swollen flesh, not enough to cut, but enough to make her feel—to make herache. “You’re mine to play with. Mine to ruin. And by the time I’m done with you, your cunt is going to be so sore, so used, you won’t be able to walk without remembering who put you there.”
Elara’s breath hitches, her body strung tight as a bow, every nerve alight with anticipation. The dagger leaves her clit, trailing downward in a slow, torturous descent, the blade’s tip dipping into the slick heat of her entrance. She whimpers, her hips rolling helplessly, trying to force the steel inside her, but I pulled back with a dark laugh.
“Not yet. You don’t deserve to bleed for me, sweet witch,” I admonish, even as my fangs descend, fatten and sharpen and drip with saliva in anticipation of the intoxicating feast ahead. The dagger retreats, leaving her empty, her pussy clenching around nothing, her frustration mounting. “Beg me for it.”
Her pride wars with her need, but need wins out. “Please,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Please, fuck me with it. I—I need—” The words dissolve into a moan as the dagger returns, this time pressing more firmly against her entrance, the cold metal a stark contrast to her scorching heat.
My free hand tangles in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of her throat. The dagger withdraws, and for a heartbeat, she thinks I’ll deny her again but then the blade is at her neck, the edge resting just above her pulse point, the cold kiss of steel making her breath stutter.
“Look at me,” I command, my voice a velvet growl.
Elara’s gaze snaps to mine, her dark eyes wide and blown with lust, her lips parting as she pants. The dagger doesn’t move, doesn’t press harder. It just rests there, a promise and a threat all at once. I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, my touch almost tender in contrast to the blade at her throat. “You’re mine, Elara. For all eternity. Say it.”
These words she’s heard before. Uttered in strife and in love. In curse and in benevolence. And yet they send a fresh wave of heat pooling between her thighs, dripping onto my dagger. Just as they did the first and the thousandth time.
“For all eternity, yours,” she breathes, raw and honest, and something inside me breaks.
I press my thumb against her mouth, and she takes it instinctively, her tongue swirling around the digit, eyes locked on mine.
The dagger shifts in my other hand, its edge dragging lightly over her skin—not breaking it, just enough to raise a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.
I can’t stand the distance any longer. My lips crash against hers, the kiss bruising, possessive. I nip her lower lip before my tongue claims her mouth, tasting the confession still trembling on her tongue.
