“Good girl,” he purrs.
He enters me without mercy, the mirror catching the moment my soul fractures open. His eyes burn into mine, refusing to let me go, letting me see exactly what I do to him.
The rhythm is brutal, holy, the smacks of our skin meeting creating a filthy song recognizable to anyone who hears it. My nails scrape the porcelain basin as his hands hold me in place while he drives into me with vicious precisions. Each thrust is a vow, a punishment, a plea.
“You burn for me,” he groans.
“I’d raze fucking kingdoms, monster man,” I pant, “but you’d salt the earth.”
He slams so deep that I cry out. “For you? Every fucking time.”
The world narrows to choppy breaths and wicked heat and the reflection of a man who terrifies everyone but kneels at my feet.
When it’s over, we stay tangled with his body draped over mine, our reflection ruined and perfect. The vanity unit and mirror are smudged with my fingerprints. My hair is a riot, my lipstick’s gone, and the bite on my neck sticks out proudly. A flush sits high on both of our cheeks as he slides out of me.
He turns me slowly, reverent now, as he straightens my dress and stuffs my knickers in his pocket. He rests his forehead against mine, our soft breaths mingling together, his hands anchoring at my hips like he can’t let go.
“Only ever yours,Lisichka,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my forehead.
It’s not just a promise.
It’s a confession.
Then he pulls back with a wicked smile, and I turn to the mirror to fix my makeup the best I can. “Next time someone touches me, Kisa, don’t get jealous.”
I don’t why my pulse beats erratically when he uses a shortened version of my name that only he gave me.
“Oh, no?” I ask, my hands pausing in my hair.
“No.” He kisses my nape, his teeth nipping lightly. “Just remind me to fuck you sooner.”
A laugh rips from me, not even surprised. My dramatic monster man.
“Oh, your cock is that magical, huh?”
“I don’t know. Ask your pretty little cunt if it is,” he says with a wink.
Myhusband.
Mymonster.
MyBogeyman.
Just mine.
All mine.
And he seems to wear the title proudly.
Who the hell knew I was so damn possessive?
twenty-seven
Cressida
Sunnivasprawlsacrossmykitchen island like a cat. She’s chewing licorice whips this time and swiping through her mobile with a fingernail painted a violent pink. Two guards linger at the far door, pretending to be invisible.
“Your haunted stair sighed at me again,” Sunni announces dramatically, flicking her gaze my way. “Either Elara likes my boots or plans to murder me dramatically on the landing one day.”
