“Now be my good girl and come for me.” I crook my fingers inside her to rub along her walls.
Then, because I’m an evil motherfucker, I bite the side of her throat.Hard.
Her knees buckle, but I keep working her until her pussy stops pulsating. Only then do I withdraw from her and lick her cum from my fingers.
Smirking, I fix her chemise, covering her. “Now we’re finished.”
Her laughter at my arrogant remark stays with me long after I leave her standing on the parapet—as does the vision of her gazing out at the sea. Wren was right. Rapunzel truly is a work of art. Devastatingly beautiful and begging to be broken.
For the first time in two years, I can almost remember what it’s like to have a soul.
Almost.
This time, though, it has a name.
Rapunzel.
17
RAPUNZEL
“It’s nice to have another woman here.” Emma shakes out a linen sheet before hanging it over a rope to dry under the sun.
I wipe sweat from my brow, the heat oppressive this afternoon. My arms and back ache, and it feels marvelous. It’s good to be putting in a hard day’s labor. This is living. Being out in the fresh air, with the lazy summer breeze thick with the aromas of the herbs that grow in the nearby garden. The clash of swords echo from the lists. Everyone busy with a task instead of wasting hours waiting.
Because that’s what I did in the tower.
I waited.
Waited for morning to become afternoon. For afternoon to age to evening. Night to become morning. For Sybil to return with stories of her travels.
And I waited on Wren’s visits.
Oh, God, how I waited, staring out my window, peering through the trees for signs of movement. For even the slightest sign of Wren.
But most of all, I waited to die. I waited as time passed slowly over me, moment by moment, bringing me closer to the grave. I existed for existence’s sake. The days filled with so much monotony and loneliness, death seemed the logical answer to end the constant misery.
But not here. Here, glorious, beautiful life thrives.
At first glance, Dyhurst is a decaying shell of a forgotten castle. That initial impression is shockingly deceptive. Once inside the formidable curtain wall, the ward is teeming with activity. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But it’s not as dead as it appears from the outside. There is a garden with narrow paths between the beds surrounded by wattle fencing. Four goats and three plump pigs are penned near where Quinn and Dax spar on the lists. Both men present a fascinating—and terrifying—sight as they mock-battle shirtless under the brutal midday sun.
Vastly different in temperament, build, and fighting style, they are a dichotomy in movement and skill, with Quinn holding back against his friend. Muscles flex beneath his decorated flesh. I still feel those vine-like tattoos warm under my touch, and when he glances at me, his midnight eyes hold me captive as the memory of what we did yesterday morning sends a fresh rush of desire to the juncture of my thighs.
When I took Quinn in my mouth, I understood what it means to have someone at my mercy. His body was mine to pleasure, and for those precious moments, a man as powerful as him was mine to control.
It was nothing short of incredible.
The two men move with mesmerizing grace over the lists, locked in a deadly dance that, if this were an actual battle, Quinn could easily overtake Dax. Not that Dax isn’t a fierce warrior in his own right. He’s just no match for Quinn’s dark strength. It’s a testament to Quinn’s ability to control his power.
When one attacks, the other defends. Then it’s a subtle shift, wherein one or two expert swings puts the other person on the defensive. It is riveting and alarming and beautiful to witness such violent skill exerted with ease by two feral men who used those same hands to bring my body to unbridled pleasure.
With great effort, I drag my gaze from the men and do my best to engage with Emma. She’s a lovely woman, not much older than me. The moment I stepped into the courtyard yesterday, she rushed over, took my hands in hers, and declared that we would be the very best of friends. She and I, Emma explained, are the only women here, and she hasn’t left my side. I even got a grand tour of Dyhurst, during which she introduced me to the men who inhabit this castle…
…all of whom are renegades of the crown in one form or another.
Then she convinced Wren to let me participate in the upkeep of the castle. For that alone, Emma earned my eternal gratitude—and friendship.
Although the ancient keep remains intact, unfortunately, the decayed chapel is a sad shadow of its former glory—and presided over by a defrocked priest. It seems the church frowns upon rebellious clergy who openly dare to question religious doctrine that favors men and harms women.
