Dance of Deception

Chapter 20

20

CARMINE

I don’t sleep.

I should.

I should be able to close my eyes and sink into the dreamless oblivion that always comes after I’ve taken what I need.

Because tonight I took everything.

My throne. My kingdom. My wife .

Lyra is sprawled across the chaise lounge: naked, exhausted. Her skin glows in the light of the dying fire, her limbs tangled in what’s left of her torn dress: its vain attempt to stay on her is almost comical.

Her skin is marred with the evidence of what I did to her. There’s blood—between her thighs, streaked across the shredded silk of her gown, on other expanses of her skin, where the sigil carved into my flesh rubbed her.

My ring glints on her finger mockingly.

She belongs to me now.

I watch her for a long time, my gaze dragging over the curve of her shoulder, the bruises already blooming on her thighs, the faint teeth marks on her skin. Seeing her like this—open, vulnerable—makes my blood stir again. A familiar pull deep in my gut, dark and relentless.

But this time, it isn’t just hunger.

It’s something else, that I refuse to name.

On the floor, like a satiated animal, I lean back against the chair across from her, allowing my breath to return to normal. The fire casts flickering shadows over the room, painting her body in shades of gold and crimson. Her chest rises and falls steadily. She's completely unaware of the weight of my stare.

I should be done with her. That’s how this works.

I never do repeats. Never fuck the same woman twice, not ever. Sex is a mere function, a necessary catharsis to keep the deeply violent urges in check. A release, nothing more.

Lyra is…different.

The first time wasn’t enough. Even the second time didn’t take the edge off. She’s still in my head, in my blood, coiling through me like a sickness I don’t know how to cure.

My fingers flex, digging into the carpet. I should feel satisfied. I should feel like a man who has taken everything he wanted, leaving nothing behind.

Instead, I feel restless.

I stand, crossing the room slowly. The wooden floor creaks, but she doesn’t stir—not even when I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

My hand hovers over her thigh. I don’t touch her, but the temptation is there, gnawing, whispering in my ear.

Mark her again.

But for once, I hesitate. Because this time, I don’t just want to take.

I want to keep .

The thought is foreign to me. I am not a man who keeps things. I take, I use, I discard. That has always been enough.

But watching her now, in the aftermath of what I’ve done, a strange feeling inside me tightens, coiled low and deep and unfamiliar.

I’ve never cared about being feared. I’ve never cared what people whisper about me.

I am a monster, and I have never once lost sleep over it.

My eyes drag over her sleeping form.

I should take her to bed.

That would be the rational thing to do. It’s sure as fuck not chivalry. It just seems like the sensible thing to do, not to leave a naked girl sprawled across the chaise lounge of my library.

Especially not one who is my fucking wife .

But I don’t move. I can’t.

I’m too enraptured by the sight of her, spread across the chaise like an offering, her skin marked with the signs of my claim. The dim firelight highlights every angry raised bruise, every sharp bite, every place where my hands and mouth have been and conquered. My stomach clenches as I look, heat curling low in my gut.

I kneel beside her, fingers trailing up her thigh, ghosting over the marks I left. The moment my fingertips skim the tender flesh, she shifts slightly, a soft breath catching in her throat. I smirk darkly.

Even asleep, her body remembers me.

I palm her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, feeling the warmth of her beneath my hand. This is what true ownership looks like—her bare, ruined body, branded, resting where I left her.

Hunger surges again, sharp and unrelenting. I shouldn’t. But then, have I ever been a man who denies himself?

Slowly, deliberately, I spread her legs.

She murmurs softly in her sleep, body pliant. I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, my lips dragging over her heated skin, enjoying the way her breath catches.

I move higher, pushing her thighs wider apart to reveal her pretty pink pussy.

Fuuccck .

It's still swollen and tender from my cock breaking through her virginity and making her mine. There’s still evidence of that on her inner thigh—a bit of dried blood to go with the pinkness of her lips and the bruises on her hips and thighs.

Some of my cum is still dripping out of her.

My cock hardens as I lean in and slowly, deliberately, drag my tongue up her pussy.

Fuck, she tastes good.

Lyra whimpers softly in her sleep, shifting slightly as my tongue soothes the ache my dick left behind. I lick up her lingering arousal, my cum, her blood—the mix of our flavors swirling on my tongue as I push deep to get every drop of her.

I take my time, lapping over the sensitive flesh, my hands gripping her thighs, keeping them apart as I devour her.

Lyra writhes, her head tilting side to side, a quiet whine dropping from her lips. She doesn’t wake, but her body responds, her hips shifting toward my mouth as her breathing grows more erratic. I don’t stop or ease up. I work her with my tongue, my fingers slipping inside her, coaxing her higher and higher until she’s trembling beneath me.

And then, with a soft whimper, she shatters.

A choked moan escapes her, body arching, hands fisting the cushions of the chaise even as she sleeps. I watch, mesmerized, as she falls apart for me, pleasure written on every inch of her body.

After the tremors subside and her body finally stills, I wipe my mouth against the inside of her thigh and slide up onto the chaise beside her. I tuck myself against her, my arm draped over her waist possessively, my face buried in her hair. I don’t know why. Maybe her warmth, her softness, the way she feels like she belongs here, pressed to me.

Her breathing is steady, slow.

But just as I start to drift, I hear it.

A whisper in the silence.

I almost don’t catch it. But then I lean over her, turning my head so that my ear is near her lips as they murmur again.

“ You’re a monster .”

My body goes still, my fingers freezing against her skin.

“ How do you live with yourself? ”

My breath dies in my throat.

For the first time in years—maybe my entire life—I feel cold.

It shouldn’t matter. I’ve been called worse. And I’ve truly never once cared. Never even flinched .

But this?

My hand retreats from her skin like I’ve been burned.

I stare at her, searching her face for an explanation. But she’s still lost in sleep.

My jaw clenches. My stomach twists, an unfamiliar sensation clawing at my insides.

I stand abruptly. The need to be anywhere but here grips me, pressing frantically on my ribs.

Then I’m gone.