Page 104 of Haunted Spurs

"Who cares what your name is or... what you do outside of here," she tells her, her voice stripped of any trace of her usual sarcasm. "You're our friend. We'll call you whatever the hell you want, and more importantly, you can be whoever you want to be."

Carolina's words hit me. I'm not used to seeing her so empathetic and profound; usually, she's just an unstoppable whirlwind of energy and carefree vibes. But then... I vaguely remember reading her story in the tabloids that occasionally flood the internet. The oppressive pressures of the crown. The royal scandals. Her, her twin sister, and her brother constantly in the ruthless crosshairs of the paparazzi.

I think Carolina knows a thing or two, much more than anyone else in here, about what it means to desperately want to be someone else.

Empathy is contagious. Indya nods, taking a step forward. Emma smiles sweetly at her. In a silent chorus of female solidarity, we let her know that the wig and the lies don't change anything about what we've shared so far.

The only one who remains completely immune to the tender moment is the massive dark shadow standing behind Melusine.

"Okay... very sentimental. I'm tearing up," Lucien comments. His voice is a block of ice. He pushes off the mantel, towering over us. "Which room is ours, Melusine?"

I stare at his hard gaze. He really seems like a fucking dickhead. It doesn't surprise me at all that she can't stand him.

I'm about to turn to Carolina to comment on the pathetic scene, when a puff of hot air tickles the nape of my neck.

"What's going on?"

The low, raspy, unmistakable voice vibrating right against my ear sends shivers from my head to my toes. An electric jolt that paralyzes my breath.

I whip around.

And, in the exact moment my eyes meet his, everything else vanishes, swallowed by nothingness.

Because Ron Willers is standing right behind me. And he's giving me a slow, lethal wink.

My gaze drops inexorably downward.

Resting against his right thigh, gripped firmly in his hand... is the branding iron from the challenge.

The one he promised to get for me.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

30

Branded.

Selene

"My thighs are spread wide, my core pulsing, offered up as a sacrifice to the man looming over me."

It sounds like a line straight out of one of my novels, except... it's real.

Ron is standing at the foot of the bed.

We lit a few candles that cast long, flickering shadows across his bare chest. His dark jeans are unbuttoned, the zipper down, revealing the sharp V-line sloping toward his groin. His blue eyes, usually so clear and sunny, are now dark, liquid pools, devoured by a lust so black and primal it steals my breath.

In his right hand, he grips the branding iron from the challenge.

The thermal plate at its tip emits a red, luminescent, hypnotic glow in the dim light of the bedroom. It isn't real fire, but the metal's temperature is high enough to radiate a thick, arousing heat that I can feel even from this distance.

Ron takes a slow step toward me, stepping right into the space between my spread legs. His body heat washes over me, mixing with the heat of the object he's holding in his fist.

"You live in the minds of monsters, of dominants. But writing it isn't the same as living it. Is it?" he whispers.

I swallow hard, shaking my head slightly against the pillow. "No. It isn't."

He leans over me. His face is a breath away from my stomach. He lifts the brand, hovering the red, hot, glowing plate a millimeter from the pale skin of my inner thigh. He doesn't touch me, but the heat radiating from the iron caresses my epidermis, covering me in goosebumps from head to toe.