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He smirks. “I’ve not brought you here to sleep.”
“Your bedroom, though.” I wince. “Isn’t that too fuckingintimate?”
“Creatures like us aren’t capable of intimacy.” Luca’s smile is full of that repellent tenderness he seems to reserve for me and me alone. He steps forward, forcing me to step back through the doorway, forcing me back into the dark, velvety shadow of his bedroom. “How can we beintimatewhen there’s nothing inside us but a big, darknothing?”
His words feel pointed, and they ring a bell as if I dreamed them, except I couldn’t have because my dreams are just about the only places in my life Luca can’t invade.
“Don’t fish for compliments,” I sneer. And, because he needs to hear it, I tell him, “I’m not going to fuckingfixyou, Luca. This isn’t a fairy tale. You’re not a cursed prince, and I’m not the dick-fixing witch that’s going to break your curse. My kisses won’t change you. You’re a monster and you’re going to stay a monster. Whatever’s broken inside you will stay broken.”
“Good.” Luca kicks the door to his bedroom shut behind us. His bowstring is still pulled taught; I watch his shoulder for a tremor, a sign that he’s growing tired, but there’s none. “I don’t want to be fixed, Lynch. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask, and I stop stepping back because he’s stopped, and now I’m standing in the middle of his bedroom, on that smooth dark floor, with the clean, sharp smellof Luca all around me, and his bed like a dark, waiting portal to something terrible and irreversible.
Luca nods.
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He lowers the bow, loosening the string, tucking his arrow away in its quiver. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with you.”
I laugh, an ugly, harsh sound, even to my own ears. “Now you’re just lying for the sake of lying.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” He sets his bow down on the gleaming surface of a cabinet; he unstraps his quiver from his hip, sets it down too. He advances towards me, and a shudder of dread makes my bones shake inside the casing of my skin. “Just like a poisonous flower. You don’t need to be fixed. You just need to be cultivated by the right hand.”
“Let me guess, Luca. You’re the only person capable ofcultivatingme? You’re going to harvest my leaves and suck the venom out of my petals?”
Luca reaches me. He pulls my pigtails free, shakes my hair loose on my shoulders. He drags off my tank top and kneels at my feet to unlace my boots, lifts each leg in turn to remove them, and he looks up at me, the grey of his eyes dim and dark in the shadow of his bedroom.
“I’ll suck whatever part of you you’d like me to suck.”
He stands right against me, daring me to step away from him. I refuse to yield him space; I refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him intimidate me. He takes off the rest of my clothes, calmly, gently, without any urgency whatsoever, and I shiver despite the warmth of the room, despite the sun outside. I shiver every time his fingers brush indifferently over my skin.
When I’m naked, he places his hands on my hipbones and pushes lightly, pushing me back in the direction of his bed. I take his wrists in my hands and hold still.
“Why not the cabinet? Or the floor? The chair, even?” I ask, trying to force my voice into playfulness, like it doesn’t matter to me, like I’m half joking.
He shakes his head, pushes on my hips, backing me inexorably towards his bed.
Leaving me no choice but to choke out, low and rough. “Not your bed.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“I’m not your fuckinggirlfriend,” I hiss for lack of a better answer.
“I don’t take my girlfriends to my bed, Lynch.” His smile is patient, indulgent. “I’m a gentleman. My bed is reserved solely for my future wife.”
He smirks when I open my mouth and speaks before I can.
“But I’ll make a particular exception for you.” He pushes me back until the back of my knees hit the edge of his bed, and I fall back, landing on my elbows. “In honour of a victory against a formidable foe.”
Luca lowers himself fullyclothed over me and kisses me on my mouth like I’m made of spun sugar. A kiss so soft it makes my mind blare with red horror, sirens warningdanger, danger, danger. I arch against him, I tilt my head and open my mouth to draw him further, to coax some aggression out of him, some urgency.
He laughs deep in his throat, low and mocking. He lays his fingers, still in his shooting glove, against my jaw, caressing the skin, tilting my head so that he can kiss the hollow beneath my ear. He sucks on the skin of my neck, softly, leaving a trail ofwarm wet spots. With his fingers, he plays with my hair, tickling my nape, tracing feathery caresses down my shoulders, arms, waist until my entire body is trembling.
I rise up against him, grabbing his face hard in my hand, kissing him hard and unceremonious on the mouth. I bite hard into his lip; I don’t stop until his blood tinges my tongue with that sweet bright rusty taste. I yank and pull at his clothes, forcing him to strip down to his waist, and then I push him back onto the bed, climbing on top of him.
I know he’s hard—it’s hard to miss the insistent push of his cock between my legs—so why bother with the foreplay? I kiss him, pull away with a wet sound and scoot back on his thighs so that I can open his trousers. I know I can make him come in minutes, and if fucking him for five minutes saves me from all this foreplay bullshit, then that’s what I’ll do.
Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
Fucking—that’s all men like him care about, ultimately. Fucking you or fucking you over—both, if possible. Luca can do both if it means we can go back to normal, if it means we can go back to opposite sides of the battlefield and trade barbs and blows instead of all this sickening fucking tenderness.
