Page 93 of White Raven

“Where have you been?” My voice came out more unsure than I wanted.

His nose flared, his eyes tracking down my neck to my filthy clothes. He stalked over to the water pitcher, pouring it in the bowl and splashing his face. He undid his belt, his pants falling to the ground as he stepped out of them.

“Huginn-Muninn!” A wheeze stuck in my throat, my body heating everywhere. “What are you doing?” I squeaked, looking away in embarrassment, but my attention returned instantly to his naked backside in the dim firelight. The flames flickering over his tall build, his broad shoulders flexing as he moved, his sculpted ass and thick muscular thighs. His body was for worship, to fall to your knees in awe.

My pulse thumped in my ears, my eyes greedy to take in more. Scars crisscrossed his entire back, making me want to reach out and trace them.

“Put your clothes on.” I forced my eyes to the fire.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he grunted, his tone resentful, reverting my gaze back to him as he turned to face me. I inhaled sharply. The sight of his full nakedness engulfed me in fire, like the flames had crawled out of the hearth and into my veins, burning me from the inside out. A glint of metal between his legs caught my attention.

Jævlig Huginn-Muninn. Was he pierced there?

He stalked to me, my body humming with fear and desire, trying not to look at the small barbell pierced along the tip. I had been with several men, but usually for a quickie in the horse stall, or in the forest, typically half clothed, or half drunk. I thought I had seen my fair share, but Onyx was ripping everything out from under me again. His entire body was nothing I had seen before.

“You are not my lover.” He lifted his lip, placing his hands on either side of the chair arms, leaning over me, aggression breathing in and out of him. “Nor my wife.” He sneered, his hand clasping my bicep, yanking me up to my feet. “You need to be reminded of your place.”

Fear tangled with heat as he dragged me to the table, his intense gaze on me, his chin flicking to the bowl of water, the pile of cloth next to it.

“A thrall washes their master,” he gritted between his teeth, his muscles still tight with aggression.

“What?” I looked between him and the bowl. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t give me this false outrage. Wasn’t it you on your knees last night?” He stepped into me, gripping himself. “You can’t stop staring at my cock. You know my eyes are up here.”

Embarrassment colored my cheeks, burning under my skin, the shame as he brought that moment to light.

“I’ve been too kind to you. Too lenient to what is ahead of you.”

“Kind to me?” I sputtered. “You chained me up!”

“And I should’ve kept you that way.” He was so close I could feel the heat from his mouth on mine, his arousal flattening against my skirt. “Now, when I tell you to do something, you do it.”

“Why?” I spat back. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”

His entire body tensed.

“Kill me?” I lifted my chin higher, challenging, knowing he couldn’t.

A low rumble came from him. His hand forcibly grasped mine, making my fingers clutch around the cloth on the table, dipping it into the soapy water. Controlling my hand, he moved mine over his bloody and scarred chest, the excess water trailing down his abdomen.

“You think I’m being unjust, kanin.” Resentment infected his tone. “How many bent the knee to the White Raven, cleaned you . . . not because they wanted to, but because their livelihood depended on it? Because they were a thrall doing their duty.” His words cut into me, the truth that I never thought about because I had been the one giving orders. I was the one people bowed to. Washed and cleaned. I never thought about how they might feel about it. It was normal and our custom. A privilege to work for the royal family.

He drew my hand lower to the wound still healing from one of our many fights along this journey. “You are the thrall.” He paused. “Wash. Your. Master.”

Brimstone and fire charred my stomach, rising to my mouth with fury, and down between my legs. It painfully pulsed and throbbed with my heartbeat. My breath held as he moved my hand over his ripped abs, the water tracking down his skin in the firelight, dipping down the deep V-line cut into his hips, to the trail of hair, thickening against his abdomen. He let go of my hand, waiting for what I would do next.

There had to be something wrong with me. I wanted to believe there was, because I didn’t pull back. I didn’t punch him in the crotch and run.

My hand ran over his taut muscles, the droplets of water dripping to the wood floor from the rag. My gaze divided between not looking up or not peering down, staying intent on every square inch of his body in front of me. I moved over his stomach, the towel dragging over the tip of him. There was no way to avoid it, the size alone made that impossible, but I felt obsessed with the piercing there, my attention unable to stay away from it for long. My fingers lowered, dragging the cloth over him again.

A cavernous growl hummed in the back of his throat, his body jerking. I pulled my hands back at his response. We both stood there, our chests rising and lowering in shallow motions. I could feel him waiting for me to decide, staying still, not forcing my touch on him.

It was sick, because I wanted him to force me. Take that choice away. Resolve me of wrongdoing.

Dipping the cloth in the bowl to resoak it, I strolled around him, running the soapy rag over his shoulders and down his spine. His muscles strained as my hand swiped over his taut ass, his head curving to peer back at me, a nerve in his cheek jumping. He watched as I traced the scars on his back, some deeper than others, some looking like they had just healed.

“Where did you get these?” Barely breaking a whisper, it still felt like a scream in the room.