Scarred(Never After #2)(62)

“I can’t…” My fingers tug at his head, torn between trying to wrench him away or smothering him whole, the pressure coiling inside me too much, too fast. When everything squeezes until I black out from the pleasure, I force him away, ripping his hair at the root as I pull him off my throbbing pussy.

I heave deep and unsteady breaths, my mind whirling and my muscles tight, begging for release. He drops the dagger on the ground and slides up my body, his eyes dark and his mouth glistening. I can smell my arousal and it makes my nerves pulse. I want to lean in and lick away the wetness from his lips, just to see how I taste when I’m fresh off his tongue.

His hands grip my wrists and move them above my head, the trunk of the tree chapping my overheated skin as he locks them in one of his palms.

“Do not keep me from you,” he demands.

His other hand glides back up the inside of my thigh, finding my core drenched and needy, and he slides two fingers into the hilt, curling them forward to rub against my inner walls.

“Oh, God,” I cry, my legs buckling as pleasure cascades through me in fierce waves.

“Such a filthy little liar, pretending you don’t want to come for me,” he whispers in my ear, his hold tightening.

I arch my back, heat collecting deep in my core and spreading outward until I can’t see straight.

“So naive, assuming I would stop if you told me no.” His thumb presses against my swollen clitoris before releasing it, causing my pussy to clench around his thick fingers, my insides winding so tight it steals my breath.

“Please,” I beg, growing delirious from his teasing.

“Please, what, little doe?”

“Make me come, I need to come.”

“Do you deserve it?” he asks.

“I will kill you,” I snap, frustration overflowing like a bubbling pot.

He chuckles, drifting his fingers in and out, a torturous pace that’s keeping me riding the edge, so close to exploding yet never enough to make me burst.

“Tell me you’re mine, ma petite menteuse. That no other man has had you.”

The anger explodes like a gunshot inside of me, irritated he thinks he can control me the way he is. Annoyed that it seems to be working. Snapping my eyes open, I meet his stare. “But then I’d be a liar.”

His entire frame stiffens, his movements freezing. “Who?”

“None of your business.”

“Tell me his name,” he croons. “So I can hunt him down and cut him to pieces.”

I arch my back until my chest grazes against his torso. “No.”

He grins, letting out a controlled breath as he releases me so fast I drop to the ground. “Then you don’t deserve to come.”

“You’re disturbed, Tristan!” I yell after him. But he’s already walking away, leaving me a panting, infuriated mess.





CHAPTER 35





Sara B.





“I do not care for this, let me speak to my brother!”

Michael’s voice is high pitched and strained, so loud that I shrink back against the wall. My uncle stands on the other side of his desk, his body rigid as he leans on his dark wood cane. He glances to me, his icy eyes dark and raging as if this is somehow my fault.

I’m not even sure what’s going on. I woke up to Ophelia throwing open my door, saying the king demanded to see me. I barely had time to let her dress me, and as a result, I’m nowhere near being presentable. My hair is still in its natural curly, frizzy state, brushing against the middle of my back, and I only had time to grab a simple day dress—sans the corset. I feel naked and like I’ve walked into a room with a loaded gun.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

My uncle turns to glare at me. Again, I’m taken aback by his obvious anger. I’ve seen it several times; especially when he’s passionately speaking about vengeance for my father, but this is the first it’s ever been directed at me.

My stomach drops to the floor, my face heating as if a thousand suns have exploded inside of it.

Did they find out about last night?

Impossible. I’d be thrown in the dungeons, not standing here without shackles and chains.

“What’s happened,” my uncle starts. “Is that your cousin—my son—has been kidnapped.”

My lungs collapse. “What?”

“Stop… stop… stop!” Michael screeches, his hands coming up to tug on his hair. My eyes widen as I stare at him, noticing the pallid skin and deep bluish-purple bags welting under his eyes.

He looks ill.

“They know,” he mutters to himself. “He must be telling them.”

I step forward, my insides churning with his ramblings. I’m not sure what has him so out of sorts, but something tells me to tread carefully. “Your Majesty, who knows?”

His eyes snap to mine and he shoves forward a square wooden box with dusted black metal hinges and an image carved into the wood on top. As I move closer, I realize it’s a hyena standing on a dead lion—its teeth bared and its black eyes reflecting flames.

The detail is immaculate and before I can think twice, my fingers are smoothing over the indents, mesmerized by the intricate design.

“Open it,” Michael whispers.

I do, and my stomach revolts at the sight, nausea whipping through my middle and up into my throat. It’s a hand; severed at the wrist with dried blood caked on every inch of skin until it looks as though it’s been gnawed on. And right beside it is a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.