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If these were to be my final moments, I wanted to be brave. But I was not brave, my instinct to run screaming at me to move my legs and flee. But for some reason, the noise he made kept me pinned. Held me there—right there—to await destruction.
The fog was never going to be mine.
Maeve was never going to be truly safe from Thayer.
And I was going to die without having ever lived.
At least the room smelled nice and I was surrounded by pretty things. That is what I would think of, not that he was slowly reaching forward to take me by the throat.
Lightly, his grip circled my neck.
A ghost of a smile, malicious and starved, played over his lips when my racing pulse was under his thumb.
The man never smiled, a dry smirk all I had ever witnessed.
This smile let me know it was personal.
I would pay for what I’d done.
Voice heavily distorted with anger, he broke down every last word of condemnation. “The idea that you would have let some random man fuck you, desecrate your body….”
I swallowed, the action only emphasizing his grip on my throat. Expletives were rarely used by those around me, but the implication made it clear.“Fuck”was a dark word for intercourse.
Dangerous, he asked, “Would it have mattered whose cock was inside you?”
Another new word.
Tilting my head back so I might measure his every move, I confessed, “No.”
“You would have let anyone touch you any way they wished?”
Was that pain in his expression?
“Yes.” If that’s what it took.
He closed his eyes, drew in a slow, deep breath, and released it.
“I should have done this a long time ago.” The hand about my throat pulled me marginally closer, close enough that his breath warmed my lips. “If you are giving away your body, then consider it claimed.”
Before I might fully grasp the insanity he’d just spoken, his mouth crashed down in a harsh, punishing kiss.
This was not a boy’s tentative explorations in the secret dark, but a fully grown man taking whatever he wished from a woman with no experience in how to defend against such things.
There was no tenderness in the way his lips moved over mine, in what he tasted or took.
Stunned, my arms were uselessly frozen at my sides, my body stiff from shock. Yet I squeaked, each sound of protest swallowed down or covered with his demanding grunts and snarls.
No reprieve from a relentless opponent was offered.
No opening I could exploit.
The threatening hand at my throat altered its grip, burrowing into my hair until the base of my skull was cradled in his palm. His tongue dipped into my mouth, and I squealed as he teased.
The taste of him was sweet. When I bit down, his blood did nothing to injure the flavor.
He tasted exactly how the room always smelled—distracting and delicious.
The fact that I liked it, stupidly realizing the source of that fragrance had never been the toxic flowers around the room, enraged me.
