“Because I may be fucking you right now,” I purr, my nails dragging down his stomach, “but I’mnota virgin.”
“Lillien, stop,” he demands, his rage immediate. It ripples through him, violent and alive. But anger and lust are twin flames—and both burn the same. I feel the shift before it happens. His fury curls into desire, and I take it.
I feed.
The moment his energy flares, I drink it in, drawing on his heat, his arousal, his pulse. He tries to resist, but I keep moving, grinding my hips until his strength becomes mine. His hands slip from my skin. His breathing turns ragged, shallow.
The first time he comes, he shudders. The second, he shakes. By the third, his face is pale, his body trembling. I can feel his pulse weakening beneath my hands, but the hunger is relentless. I can’t stop.
When I finally look at him—really look—his eyes are glazed, his mouth open, his body limp. And then, just like that, he’s still. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. I’m the only thing alive in the room.
I slide off him slowly, every nerve alive with power, my skin slick with sweat. My breath comes hard, uneven. I glance down at him, at the hollow shell of what used to be Shawn. There’s no horror. No remorse. Just disappointment. He should have lasted longer.
I run a hand through my hair and straighten, my body humming with energy, with life that isn’t mine. Then I feel it—heat, pressure, the crackle of power in the air. Deimos.
He fills the doorway like a shadow come to life, eyes burning with something between fury and fascination. His presence is a storm: violent, charged, and far too aware.
I don’t turn immediately. I let him look. Let him take in what I’ve done.
When I finally face him, his voice is low and dangerous. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I glance at Shawn’s body on the bed, pale and empty, then back at Deimos. My voice stays calm. “He tried to rape me last night,” I say, pulling my dress up, fastening it slowly, methodically. “He would have, if you hadn’t intervened.”
Deimos’s jaw tightens, his fists curling at his sides. His control is fragile. Good.
“Besides,” I add, “he was only with me because of a bet.”
He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, frustration etched deep into his expression. “But Ididrape you last night,” he says flatly. “Are you going to kill me?”
I grin, slow and sharp, stepping closer until I can smell the smoke on his skin. “I already stabbed you.”
His eyes flicker—something caught between surprise and dark amusement.
I rise onto my toes, bringing my lips to his ear. “Besides,” I murmur, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, “I wanted you inside me.”
His breath catches. The faintest smirk tugs at his mouth before he crushes it under a scowl. “You didn’t need to kill him.”
“No,” I agree. “But Iwantedto.”
Something changes in his face. Something slow and violent.
“I don’t appreciate having to clean up after you,” he mutters, the words sharp as knives.
I laugh softly. “Burn it or something.”
I start to walk past him, but his hand shoots out, catching my arm. His grip is firm, possessive, a silent warning. “Go back to the house, Lustling,” he orders, his tone low and commanding. “While I clean this up.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, his lips curve. “Looks like we’re going to need rules. Like not killing ex-boyfriends.”
I roll my eyes, tugging my arm free. “Whatever.”
Turning away, I walk out, feeling the heat of his stare trace the curve of my back as I leave. Behind me, I hear him curse under his breath, the scrape of his boots against the floor as he pulls out his phone—probably calling one of his brothers.
But I’m not going back. Not yet. The night still feels hungry, and so do I.
TWENTY-ONE
Deimos’s call wasn’t a surprise. The edge in his voice was.
