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Sarvi nods. Giant black leather wings unfurl and the unicorn leaps up into the sky, flying away, leaving Death and I alone in the garden.
I watch as Sarvi’s dark shape in the periwinkle blue sky disappears and then I feel truly afraid.
“You’re angry with me,” Death muses, his gaze roaming my face.
“I’m always angry with you.” Frustration rolls through me and I try to whip my face from his grasp, but his grip is strong.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Not always. Not when I’m giving you release. When I’m making you come. You’re beautiful when you give in, when the pleasure overrides your desire to be in control, when it makes you surrender. There’s no anger there, just you at your purest self. Is it any wonder I’m addicted to making you feel that way? It’s like a gift, from you to me.” He pauses, giving my chin a hard squeeze. “Your soul on a platter. All for my consumption.”
I refuse to back down from his eyes. “I’m not giving you anything,” I deride. “Not on a silver platter and most definitely not my soul.” To give him my soul…would mean death, would it not?
“You give me your body every night,” he says, his hand releasing my chin and trailing down to my breast where his thumb slowly grazes across the fabric, my nipple hardening under his touch. “I don’t even have to ask. You just give it to me, begging for me to take you anyway that I can. You want to be consumed, little bird. You want your feathers plucked, your wings clipped.”
He leans in and kisses my neck and I fill with the smoky sweet bonfire smell of him, mixing with the bracing sea air. “But perhaps,” he murmurs against my skin. “It would be better if I did ask for your hand in marriage, instead of taking it.”
His tongue licks up the side of my neck, breath hot beneath my ear, and I hate the way my body automatically responds to him, like a puppet on a string. My eyes fall closed and I try to suppress a moan, a useless attempt.
“If I did ask,” he goes on, taking my lobe between his teeth and tugging lightly, his breath heavy, “would you say yes?”
“I would say no,” I whisper as I try to find my resolve. “My answer would be no.”
He growls, the sound making me shiver.
“Then it’s a good thing I take and never ask,” he snaps and suddenly he’s reaching down and hiking up my dress, his hands gripping my ass and lifting me up, pressing me against the wall.
My legs automatically wrap around him, my boots digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him against me. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m mad as hell at the idea of being forced to be his bride, no planning, no discussion. I know it was the end goal, at least the one that Bell had put into my head, but I didn’t think it would happen this fast and I didn’t think it would be non-negotiable. I thought there would be a proposal and fanfare, that Death would marry me because it was something he wanted, because he loved me, maybe, or at least saw me in some sort of romantic light. That there was some kind of meaning behind it all.
In the end though, it’s all just a political move. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different.
It doesn’t seem to matter much anyway, when he’s about to fuck me senseless against the garden wall.
Death lets out a moan that I feel to my toes and reaches down, swiftly unbuckling his pants while he continues to bite and suck at my neck, leaving bruises and marks.
“I’m going to make you my bride,” he says gruffly. “But first I’m going to make you come. Fuck you so thoroughly, you won’t be able to walk for weeks.”
He covers my mouth with his, his tongue violent and searching. His cock presses against the spot where I’m already wet, and when I shift slightly, it slides inside me with delicious ease.
God, I hate how much I love this, how much I need this.
He lets out a jagged breath and starts thrusting into me as I stretch around his thickness. I never imagined I could feel as full as I do with him, this feeling of being totally and completely whole. I moan lightly, feeling him everywhere inside me, each nerve glowing with desire.
His hips curl forward and he starts pumping into me, my back razed against the garden wall, but I don’t feel any pain. Even as the pace picks up and the rhythm becomes punishing.
He’s so hard, thick and stiff, shoving into a place so soft, raw and tight. Every muscle in me is tense to the point of shaking and each thrust undoes another part of me. I feel like I’m made of glass and I’m close to shattering, and that there’s a chance I may not be able to pick up the pieces after this. I may not want to.
