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And then he’s kissing me like I’ve never been kissed before.
Like it’s the last time because—I realize—it is.
My hand tightens around the stake as I wrap my arms around him and melt into him.
Tears stream down my face, hot and salty, coating my mouth.
Nox lets out a ragged breath, then brings his lips to my ear.
“They’re all willing in the end,” he whispers, his voice slick and smooth as the oil dripping from the lantern on the wall. “But you more than the rest. Tell me, little girl. What sort of pain do you prefer?”
Something is so very wrong, my brain tells me. Because Nox sounds strange, not at all like himself.
But that’s not how he feels, and I find my mouth speaking for me. “I like whatever you like.”
“I’d like for you to drop that stake you have against my back.”
My fingers loosen of their own accord, and the stake clatters against the ground.
But that’s strange too, because Nox told me earlier exactly where to stake him if I needed to, and a stake won’t do me much good lying on the ground.
Nox’s lips trail their way down to my neck, just like earlier, when we were interrupted.
His teeth scrape against my skin.
A sharp jolt of pain.
Then unadulterated numbness.
It’s notthe way my limbs go numb that frightens me.
It’s the faint memory of a memory, so far removed by pain and pleasure that I can only glimpse it from a distance, grasp at it with oiled hands.
There’s something Nox wanted me to remember, and I can’t get a hold on it, and that’s what scares me the most.
“Nox…”
He’s not listening, and the more I focus, the more I can isolate the sharp pain that’s rippling through my neck. So intense that I want to cry out, but my mouth won’t let me.
“Nox…” My breath is panicky now. Something is wrong. “Nox, stop.”
The teeth digging into my flesh retract, and he appears as shocked as I am when he does as I say.
When he pulls away, the force of his body pressing me against the wall does too, and I crumple to my knees.
My elbows hit the cold stone floor, and pain rattles my bones upon impact. I gasp for air, but it sounds more like a wheeze.
Something warm and wet and sticky trickles down my neck.
It splats against the floor in droplets.
“Blaise!” Someone gasps, and my mind rakes around to assign a face to the voice. Mismatched skin and hair.
Gunter.
Gunter’s at the dungeon door.
There’s no rattling of a key in the lock, though.
