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Chapter1
Only Blackbirds Sing Alone
Tyreste Penhallow’s face buried between her legs as he voraciously devoured her, body and soul, was Anastazja’s favorite escape.
His skilled tongue was a virtuoso, conducting its masterpiece.
The symphony of desserts was designed to leave her dangling along the narrow precipice between joy and agony.
Though his greatest ability—his true power—was the way he made her forget.
Tyreste hooked his thumbs inside her, spreading her until she felt the sharp tug of flesh, the first whisper of pain. His modest cabin at the forest’s edge had always had an icy nip in the air, which he claimed heightened her need. She couldn’t say if it made a difference or not, because around Tyreste, she lived in a constant, relentless state of need.
Rising moans hummed against her tender core, sending her clawing farther up the table, her toes and fingers curling against the wood. She never wanted to come down. Tocrash.Those moments were the only ones when she still felt alive. When her ragged, strained breaths were evidence she was real and her pleasures were hers to take and give. When none of the rest had ever happened, or ever would.
A sudden, delicious shock of pleasure caught Anastazja off guard. She pitched forward on the table, her head thrown back in ecstasy, earning a splinter in her ass for her excitement. She didn’t muffle her screams; Tyreste loved the sound of her coming undone. He’d more than earned every desperate moan and whimper.
Just as she was cresting, he freed his thumbs and thrust three fingers inside her, right as her muscles clamped hard, fighting his intrusion. His shoulders strained as he bore down, his fingers dug deep, clashing against the tumultuous waves of her release. Every one lasted longer than the one before but never, ever long enough.
When Tyreste withdrew his hand—an agonizing retreat she could hear as much as feel—Anastazja collapsed onto the wood. She slowed her labored breaths, resisting the inexorable return to reality.
Tyreste came up from where he’d been crouched, his eyes dancing with devilry, and before she could breathe out, he’d come over her like a ravenous predator and filled her full with his cock.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come.” He grunted, slamming into her and driving more splinters into her flesh, drawing blood. She relished each stab of pain. Only the living bled, and it meant she was still alive.
Tyreste looped an arm under one of her legs and fastened it beside her head. He slowly pushed all the way in, mischief dazzling his gaze as he watched her react to how hard and swollen he was after hours of play—how deep he could go. The first time he’d done it, she’d walked away with bruises—ones she could see, and ones she could not—but she craved the pain the way she needed air to breathe.
Pain was living too.
Tyreste’s wet hand circled her ankle. His fingers slid with every thrust, unable to hold on for more than a few strokes at a time, but Anastazja was flexible enough to lock the pose herself. Besides, she had another idea, a gift that would drive him unthinkably wild.
It was their last time together. Might as well make it memorable.
Anastazja peeled his hand from her ankle and, with her eyes sealed to his and her teeth dragging her bottom lip, she brought his fingers, moist with her cum, into her mouth. His eyes rolled back, a hard, guttural groan vibrating from the depths of his throat as she sucked his fingers until they were tickling the back curve of her tongue.
With his hand still in her mouth, Anastazja moaned, garbled but clear enough to make his eyes widen. “Harder.”
Soon enough, Tyreste would hate her. He’d rue the day they met, avoid her on the narrow village roads of Witchwood Cross, and retreat to the back room of his family’s tavern when she passed by.
But in that moment, he was entirely hers.
And she was his.
His mouth hung, lips glistening and sweat rolling in industrious drops down his temples. They’d fucked for hours, but he always denied his own finish until the very end.My parting gift,he called it, sweet, seductive.Evidence of what you do to me.
He always left enough “evidence” that Anastazja single-handedly kept her vedhma busy making grimizhna tea.
She secured one leg around his hip, the other pinned above her head in obedience. And then he said it, the words she’d been starving for and dreading in equal measure: “Only you, Ana.” She could hardly make them out through the jarring rhythm of his impaling, but she knew them by heart. “No one but you.”
Flesh slammed flesh, the savage song mingling with debauched cries. She knew his tells by heart—could feel, well before it happened, his balls draw up and tighten against her ass, and the explosion of hours’ worth of pent-up release. But she was still breathless with shock when the flood hit. Every inch of her tingled with hypnotic warmth, drowning her from the inside out.
Tyreste went stumbling as though he’d been punched by a man twice his size. He gaped down at his cock, shaking his head with a wonder-filled exhale. “I wasn’t ready for it to end, but it would take the Guardians themselves to rouse him again.”
“Him. Have you named the poor dear too?” Anastazja laughed, despite what was coming. Sweet Tyreste was just as enticing to her as Wild Tyreste. She would miss them both equally.
He glanced up with a stymied look. “What should I call him? Not Poor Dear, surely?”
“I was only teasing.” Anastazja searched for the many layers of her dress, strewn in careless heaps across the room. They told the story of the afternoon, of Tyreste’s hungered, wordless answering of the door. Of her tripping and stumbling over the back of one of his chairs when she’d tried to shimmy out of her overdress, only for him to join her on the floor and take her before she could finish disrobing.
