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When I last contacted Triaten a few weeks ago, he’d assured me that Venetia was fine at the Academy. He wouldn’t give me any details, but his assurance was enough.
I trusted him to tell me if anything had gone awry. Not that I had a choice.
I sucked in a bracing breath, my hand holding flat against my belly through my dark tank so I didn’t break down in tears in the middle of the restaurant.
Searching for anything to shift my mind from sinking down that dark hole of loneliness, I looked out the open breezeway toward the ocean. Pasty white vacationers on holiday were frolicking on the beach with their families in the cove. A few surfers bobbed far out in the ocean, trying to force the low waves rolling in into something surfable. Sailboats crisscrossed the open water beyond them.
Venetia would hate it here on the island. Too hot. Too much blistering sun for her fair skin.
I’d thought if I disappeared to somewhere she would hate anyway, the whole of this would be easier.
It wasn’t.
The tears threatening me were back under control and my stare dropped down onto the red and white gingham tablecloth. My forefinger traced the red and white checkers on the old-fashioned vinyl that fit perfectly in this Italian eatery that shouldn’t exist this close to the beach on the island of Grenada. In my worldview, there was something about sand and pasta that didn’t mix well, but I did love the food here.
I sat in this nook almost every day with my back to the wall and a book or my phone in front of me. Anything to take my mind off the serious case of empty nest syndrome I was dealing with.
Maybe this was why panthenite parents didn’t generally become attached to their children. The time with them was incredibly short compared against the hundreds of years one would live without them. Easier for everyone.
The hairs along the back of my neck suddenly spiked. Malefic in the area.
Before I could even lift my gaze, a hand clamped down on the front of my yoga pants, cupping my crotch, and I gave a silent yelp.
Damen.
Shocked still for a second—giving him far too much of an opening—I froze with my head down, unable to stop his middle finger from sliding along my folds and pushing into my sex through the stretchy fabric.
His thumb and forefinger clasped onto my clit, his palm on my womb, and I was on the verge of an orgasm ripping through my body with the slightest touch of his power. My thighs clenched together, my folds instantly wet.
Damen out of nowhere.
Damen here, of all places. In a fucking Italian eatery. Twisting his fingers into me.
Oh shit. There it was. The fucking precipice. Vicious and punishing.
He sat casually on the bench beside me, his look bored and aimed toward the ocean as he fingered me behind the curtain of the tablecloth. His hand manipulating me and sending the most brutal orgasm surging through my body.
So sudden and instant, it was on me before I could even think to fight it, to try to resist it, to even lift my head.
My eyes clamped tight, my head stayed down as I tried not to scream and freak out everyone in the restaurant.
Fighting with everything I was to not feel what he was doing to me, my hand shook as I moved to grab his arm, my fingernails digging into the taut muscles along his forearm, grinding through the sleeve of his button-down shirt.
His mouth crowded in next to my ear, a seething whisper at his lips. “You stop me and my men come in and rain carnage on this place.”
The ecstasy from his fucking hand continued to roll through me, but I managed to find a way to open my eyes and tilt my head up. Families around every table. Kids coloring. Grandparents laughing. Mothers feeding babies. Families. Families all around.
Happy.
Oblivious.
Oblivious to this asshole groping me underneath this tablecloth. Oblivious to the blood and danger they were in.
Another brutal wave charged into my clit.
My head rolled back, my eyes closing.
My fingernails embedded deep into his arm as every muscle in my body twitched with the fire of his damn power.
