Heat streams to my core at this thought. Tracing the rugged outlines of Dairell’s powerful back and massive arms and the menacing whisper of his wings, I cannot help but wonder how it would be with him. Would he take me slowly, exploring the sensation with scientific interest, or would he be raw and demanding? The twitching between my legs gets distracting and, mortified, I see him tense up instantly.
We enter my chambers, and he lingers, his presence filling the space, the hum of his power rippling through the velvety gloom. And something deep inside me responds to his call.
He studies me; his head cocked, his defined eyebrows curiously raised, a dangerously sharp fang biting his lower lip. Is he having the same thoughts as me?
I was about to major in psychology before dropping out, so I’m fully aware of what Stockholm syndrome means, yet I vow to do some extensive research once I get back home.
A flash of darkness, and he is onto me, his gloved fingers raising my chin. I’m torn between the primal instinct to run and a scorching dose of lusty curiosity. Heavy-lidded, he scans my face as if searching for something, and then his lips crash into mine.
His firm grip pulls me into the kiss, his tongue intruding, demanding, inquiring. This is not an exchange of affection. This is a brutal interrogation. He dives deep inside me, drinks my essence, samples my flavor, and reaches into my mind. His forked tongue is firm and silky, and I wonder how it would feel to—
Wrapped in the relentless embrace of his massive arms and wings, I’m getting high on his scent of midnight herbs blooming in secret gardens, dewy moss, and mountain glaciers. My fists land roughly on his wide chest, shoving him, fighting him to get another breath. Finally, he releases me, stepping back, panting, his eyes completely black.
Then he turns on his heel and leaves my room, soundless as a shadow.
I throw myself on the bed, feeling something I have never felt before. Loneliness. I have always sought voluntary solitude. I have always been content in my own company, yet now I’m close to begging my captor to stay.
Frustration and longing simmer beneath my skin, and my hand snakes between my legs. By touching myself, I find some meager release. When my fingers sink inside me, I bite my lips, imagining how having him do it instead would feel.
Dining together becomes routine, the awkwardness melting away. I get much better with making cutlery fly, and the prince opens up and answers my many questions. Yes, there are servants in the castle and a fantastic cook; they work here voluntarily and get paid well. Yes, there are villages and even cities in his lands, where locals and exiles from other kingdoms dwell, and many escaped slaves from the dark elf-dominated Lower Lands. Yes, it was all peaceful and prosperous until the Siphons arrived. No, the Black Guardians are not Undead but warriors, bound to this realm and the realm of the spirits, and yes, they have willingly chosen their fate.
Then, I finally gather the courage to ask about Cyrell. The shift in the atmosphere of the dining hall is palpable.
“Do not dare to ask me about him again, human.” A wrinkle appears between his finely shaped brows.
“You ordered me to murder him. I am worried about his whereabouts,” I start and cannot finish because his tall shadow suddenly looms over me, eyes narrowed in frustration.
“Does he mean a lot to you?” Dairell inquires softly, but I can perceive the concealed threat in his tone, “Cause I will erase him from your memory, just like the other two.”
The chair beside me squeaks under his weight, and his hand shoots up to my forearm and pulls me into his lap. Face down.
I fight back, aware of how futile it is to try and free myself of the steel grip of a winged male twice my size. He slings me over his knee and bares my behind. I’m more mortified than scared.
“I will make your body forget them,” he rumbles and raises a hand. It lands on my bare behind with a smack, and I bite my lips to stifle a scream of humiliation and pain. His massive rings surely have bruised me.
Another smack, and I squirm. My breasts are pressing against his muscled thigh, and I feel—oh God, the intoxicating mix of triumph and terror—an enormous erection pushing into my stomach. No wonder Fae claim that not all humans survive mating with them.
“Let me explain to you a few things about Fae males, Celeste,” the slap echoes among the hall, “They might have done their best to appear nice and civilized to you,” his hand lingers on my sensitive skin and against my better judgment I press myself into his cool touch. The prince notices it instantly and roughly squeezes my ass, drawing a surprised moan. “But they would rip you apart, consume you if you were not that important to us, and then fuck your cold corpse.”
Mortified, I sense my nipples pebble, and his fingers brush against the strip of my thong. I take a deep breath with a hiss, stiffening. I’m sure I’m soaking wet.
“Because this is in our nature, Celeste.” He pulls the string aside, and I struggle to escape, but his left hand on my back keeps me steady.” I will not sugarcoat it for you; I will not pretend I’m any different than them,” his brutal assault continues, a heavy slap landing on my ass cheek, “but I will never glamour you, confuse you with pheromones, or use any other trick to get you in my bed. But by the Serpent, I do enjoy the view!”
His voice is husky, and his rock-hard arousal is bruising my ribs.
His hand kneads the reddened flesh of my rear, and I feel dampness spread between my thighs. Before I know what’s happening, I slightly open my legs, taunting him. The onslaught on my backside continues, yet his fingers linger longer on my flesh, his fingertips casually tracing my soaked folds.
“You have to beg me if you want me the way you had the others,” his thumb presses gently against my opening, and I arch my back against his palm, still firmly planted on my shoulder blades.
“Oh, the symphony of pleasure and pain we could create together would light you up like a beacon of magic!”
I can feel his magnificent cock straining underneath me, and my inner whore is about to get on her knees and take it in my mouth.
As if reading my thoughts, the tip of his thumb enters me, and then he withdraws it and smacks my reddened cheeks again. I squirm, unable to tell if I want him to stop or continue, if I want to impale myself on this massive length or lock myself in my room and cry.
Sharp pain and pleasure followed by more pain and more pleasure. The need builds up inside me, and I don’t even bother to hide it anymore. I’m all drenched; pretty sure it stains his pants. I can hear him breathing heavily, his digit entering me deeper after each slap, then withdrawing to leave me gaping, aching for more. The toxic cocktail of extremes intensifies, and I desperately need friction; need to be penetrated and stretched. An approving growl confirms that he senses it, too, his hand greedily groping my cheek, spreading my backside open for his viewing pleasure.
“Do you like that, little human plaything? Do you want me to make you come?” I nod warily, shuddering.
