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The vine-curtains are whipped to the side.
I cringe just as Terry takes a stumble backwards. She hits the pillar.
Slowly, I lift my gaze to the furious face of the prince. He slides his molten silvery eyes from Terry to me—and on me he settles.
In a blink, he’s storming towards me.
I yelp as I make to scramble away from him and the danger seething from his tense body, but he’s too quick, and he’s snatching up my arm in a death-grip.
Daein yanks me out of the corridor and into the atrium. His stride is purposeful and steady—he knows where he is taking me and what he means to do.
I don’t.
Before she’s out of sight, I throw a wild, terrified look back at Terry. My fear reflects on her face, and it stings my eyes with tears.
This is it.
My life is over before I had the chance to live it.
I won’t survive my time here after all.
My tears turn on me as the prince drags me up the staircase. Soon, I’m blubbering down corridors, being dragged alongside him, his fingers digging deep into my skin, bruising me.
“Stop your sobbing,” he commands as he steers me down an unfamiliar hallway. It’s narrow and without any doors, only windows—except at the end of the corridor, where there is a set of double doors, blackwood painted in silver patterns.
He boots open a door, revealing a place I recognise all too well. His bedchamber.
“I will not harm you,” he growls, his tone anything but reassuring. He drags me over to the bed and throws me onto the mattress.
I bounce on landing, quick to scramble upright. But I’m only given a second before the prince follows me on the bed, moving over me.
Slowly, he guides me back down to the mattress, his silvery-blue eyes harder than blocks of ice. One hand dips into the bed beside my head as I arch back, as if to escape him. My fear comes out in sharp breaths.
The prince holds my gaze with eyes of blizzards. He’s livid. Dangerous.
And he has one thing on his mind.
He reaches a hand down between us and clutches onto the bulk of my skirt. Bunching up my skirt, he fits himself between my spread legs and lowers himself to me. His hand comes back up and reaches for my tear-streaked face. His fingertips are surprisingly tender as he traces the damp lines, wiping the tears away.
But this time is little different to the last.
He’s quick to push his way inside of me, made difficult by the tension in my body.
“Relax,” he growls, his tone anything but.
I cannot.
Even when he hikes my leg up over his hip to help ease his way inside of me, I create a barrier by turning my cheek to him.
It doesn’t stop him. He brings his mouth to my cheek before he starts to move in and out of my core, filling me too much—it’s all too much.
My eyes shut, my mind drifting to when he sat me on the table and dipped his head between my legs. That was what I wanted from this. That is what I expected. The pleasure that consumed me, that he gave me.
Instead, hetakespleasure now. Even if he is gentler time, doesn’t pin my wrists to the bed or bite me or fuck me like I’m a whore to him. Even if he ghosts his mouth over mine, then along my jawline and he growls against my skin, there’s something missing, because he doesn’t give—he still only takes.
I pretend I’m back on the table, his tongue swirling around my bud, his hands caressing my thighs, his heated eyes on every exposed part of me.
And I wonder if it will ever be like that again.
