Would it be so wrong to yield to that twisted part of myself? The one that yearns to taste the forbidden embers of hell? The same cursed piece of my soul that finds release in the sharp bite of a blade across my skin. Would Silas cut me? If I asked him nicely and was a good girl, would he lick the blood that welled beneath his knife?
My thighs clench as desire coils low in my stomach, a gnawing ache I’ve never been able to quench. I bet Silas knows how to satiate me. I’d bet my soul he could take me apart, delivering me to hell’s gates on a platter and leave me begging for more.
Silas’s shoulders go rigid, and for a split second, I worry I’ve spoken my forbidden fantasies aloud. His pupils are blown, nearly eclipsing the green rings as he holds me there, transfixed. But before I can do something incredibly stupid, Tempest is there.
“On second thought,” she says, glancing between us, “let’s go out.”
14
SILAS
“You shouldn’t run off like that,” I say, my lips brushing the crest of Evie’s ear as she sets the empty whiskey glass on the counter. It’s her third of the evening, the effects of the alcohol already visible in the way her supple body moves to the thrumming music of my club.
I love watching the way her spine stiffens, the way her breath catches when she realizes I’ve followed her off the dance floor. Someone had to. She’s lucky I don’t bend her over my knee and slap her ass until her porcelain skin glows red from my touch.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Evie retorts with a slight hiccup, spinning around to glare up at me.
Her body looks divine in the clothes I picked out for her. She probably thinks Tempest chose them, but the thought of anyone else dressing her, of imagining her skin and breasts and body wrapped in fabric is enough to have me seeing green.
When Evie reappeared in the kitchen thirty minutes later with her hair down, dressed in the clothes I bought, glowing with a look of excited determination in her eyes, my demonpractically purred.
Mine.
The red lace top is modest enough with short sleeves and dark buttons down the front. The black miniskirt flares just right, giving Evie the freedom she needs to move without the entire club seeing her perfect ass. She’d normally find it too short, but the black heeled boots and thigh-high stockings leave only a sliver of exposed thigh.
I press my palms against the bar, caging her in as I lean down. “Would you like me to be?”
Evie swallows, her eyes dipping to my mouth. “What?”
“Would you like me to be in control, little fox?” My lips twitch as I run my nose up the length of her neck, inhaling her sweet scent.
Fuck, how I’ve been craving her. Needing another taste. She shivers as my tongue lashes out, my lips closing around the fluttering pulse along the curve of her collarbone.
“You could pretend you’re a good girl who had her choice taken away.”
“Why would I want that?” Her voice is breathy as she arches into me, her nipples hardening through the fabric as they brush my chest.
“Because then you wouldn’t have to admit how much you liked kissing me.” A small whimper escapes her, and I smile against her jaw, nipping the sensitive skin. I shift closer, one arm braced on the bar, the other trailing up her trembling thighs.
“If I forced you,” I whisper, “you could pretend you don’t dream about my hands on you. About my lips exploring every inch of your skin. Like a fresh canvas brought to life beneath my brush.”
“Can I see them?” she asks.
My hand stills.
She bites her lip, cheeks flushing. “I saw some of your paintings. They’re yours, right? I thought it was Tempest’sroom, but the snake on the door matches the one on your throat…”
“You looked through my room?”
“No.” She winces. “Well, I mean… I guess technically yes.”
People move around us, drinks and drugs exchanged freely, but I’m focused on her. On how she’s looking at me. Nobody sees my paintings. I sometimes paint at the house, but once they’re done, I lock them away in my studio, entombed in the dark.
It’s an explosion of demons, how I wash my hands of all the blood I’ve shed. They’re grotesque. Haunting. Confessions spilled in color and shadow, but Evie is watching me, her thighs parted, gooseflesh pricking her arms while my fingers trace invisible designs over her inner thigh. She’s waiting, wanting to know more… about me.
“I liked them. Your paintings,” she clarifies.
My heart hammers against my chest as warmth rushes through my veins. The urge to share those secret parts of myself—the pieces that even my brothers don’t know—is more dangerous than any weapon. And yet, my hand moves higher, spreading her legs wider.
