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He stroked his neck and winced. I’d choked him with my own bare hands. And what he didn’t understand was how I’dlikedit.
I shot from the chair and strode to the window. I couldn’t stand this. Old bruises given to me long ago flared up, brought to life by my own memories, even after so long. Arin was in my bed, wearing my cuff, rubbing his throat. I was looking in a mirror, only seeing an innocent man there instead of the nothing boy who deserved it.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
“We’re doing it.”
“You’re going to get hurt.” The power I had, wearing Razak’s clothes, standing in my brother’s shoes, choking out the Prince of Love for all to see— The rush had almost seen me finish Arin.
I couldn’t be around him, not like this. Everything was muddled in my head. I’d hurt him.
“Lark.”
“It’s fucking Razak!” I rubbed my head, trying to force the thoughts and feelings away.
“Lark, damn you, look at me!”
So fierce, my Prince of Flowers, cuffed to my bed and kneeling there as though he wasn’t a rabbit trapped in a snare with the wolves circling.
“We’re doing this, it’s happening,” he said. “We only need to make it out the other side.”
Was that how I’d looked, tied to the bed, baring my teeth like angry prey? No wonder Razak fucked me. The same need roared so hard and fast through me now, it rocked me back against the barred window. I’d bend Arin under me, wrap his golden hair in my fist and fuck him from behind, then cut him, and gods, I’d come so hard, deep inside him, making him mine.
Was that my desire or Razak’s?
I braced a hand against the window frame and bowed my head, keeping my back to Arin, and tried to will my body under control. Was I losing my damn mind?
What if I took the crown tomorrow, wore it, and told the world who I was? Zayan, Umair’s bastard son, come to claim Pain as my own. I’d hurt them all, everyone who had hurt me…
I rocked, head down, cock so damned hard it would only take a few strokes and some well-timed spike of pain for me to come. I didn’t want to be like this. I wanted to be back in the Court of Love, pulling cards from sleeves and picking pockets, dancing through the night, weaving fantasies for bored lords and ladies.
“If I wasn’t damn well cuffed here, I’d come to you.”
“Trust me, you do not want to be around me right now.”
“Don’t I? What makes you think I don’t know what you’re going through? This is getting inside your head. I can see it. I want to help. Tell me what you need.”
“Nothing from you.”
“Lark, what do you need?”
“What do I need?” I tipped my head back and blinked at the ceiling. “I need to fuck you so hard, it’ll hurt the both of us.” I needed to hurt him, and myself, punish him for making me do this, punish me for liking it. Everything was a blur, a mess I couldn’t escape. I didn’t want to be Razak, but also, I did. I wanted to be Lark, but didn’t. And in the middle of all that was Zayan, the boy who played the fiddle and sang for coins in his cap.
“Do it,” Arin said.
“No.” My pulse thumped in my throat. “I’m not an animal.”
“Do it,” he said again, louder.
He didn’t know what he was saying. This place, it was eating at my mind, and it would eat at his too. I couldn’t hurt him, not like I wanted to. It would break us, ruin us, tarnish his shine.
Rustling fabric drew my eye toward the bed, to him, where he untied his trousers and grasped his cock in his free hand.
He was hard?
He glared, holding my stare while he held his cock.
I shoved from the window, bit my gloves free and tossed them. When I got to the bed, I made quick work of my trousers, shucking them loose. Arin turned, poised on his knees, his right arm held taut by the cuff, his left hand stroking his dick.
