Chapter 11
ELEVEN
HANNAH
I shake my head, then remember it’s pitch black and he can’t see. “Neither option.”
“You are not a child,” he growls. “Choose. See what lies below or return above and kneel.”
What kind of choice is that?
My heart pounds frantically. He can’t be serious.
His silence suggests otherwise.
Another absolutely horrifying scream echoes from the depths.
Nope.
I spin around and race back up those endless stairs, taking them two at a time when I can manage it.
The slippery stone steps are treacherous under my bare feet, but I don’t care.
Each step carries me away from whatever horror lurks in those depths, back toward the promise of light and warmth above.
The exhilaration of escaping whatever nightmare waits below mingles with the pure joy of feeling my hair streaming behind me as I run at full speed. Me. With my own strong legs and no mechanical assistance, no crutches or braces or careful calculations about energy expenditure.
The rough stone walls flash past as I climb, my hands brushing against the increasingly smooth masonry as I ascend toward the civilized levels of the castle.
The air gradually grows less oppressive, less thick with ancient dread, and eventually I can see the first threads of blessed daylight filtering down from far above.
It’s wild and intoxicating—this sensation of pure, unrestrained movement.
Until the sharp stitch in my side reminds me I’m still discovering this body’s limits, and sprinting up what feels like ten flights of medieval stairs might be pushing the boundaries of even my magically enhanced endurance.
By the time I burst back into the magnificent great hall, gasping for air beside his imposing throne-like chair at the table’s head, dropping to my knees on that velvet cushion doesn’t feel much like surrender.
I’m completely exhausted, after all, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath in the comparatively warm air of the hall. The morning sunlight streaming through those tall Gothic windows feels like a benediction after the absolute darkness below.
But by the time I’m back upstairs and he’s feeding me from his leather-padded fingers, each piece of surprisingly good meat skewered by those sharp, sharp claws, I’m ready to blame him again.
It feels like taking bites off the tip of a knife.
I glare up at him after chewing through an especially juicy bite. My chin’s a mess. I need a napkin—except, newsflash, there aren’t exactly napkins in the Monster Manor. I try to swipe with my forearm, but before I can, he lets out a low, disapproving growl.
Then he leans down and licks my chin clean himself.
I freeze. Too stunned to even breathe.
Then, as if nothing happened, he spears the next bite on his claw tip and holds it out.
And me? I… eat.
I briefly consider going on a hunger strike. Very rebellious. Very heroine-in-captivity chic.
But what would that get me? Another march down to the basement, where those screams came from?
Hard pass.
Besides, being on my knees might feel a little humiliating, but hey, at least I’m not wearing that heavy collar and leash anymore. That counts as progress, right?
Not that I’m actually na?ve enough to think I can trust him. Please. I’ve experienced enough to know better. Nobody is truly kind. Not really. Not when it matters. Every time I’ve given someone the benefit of the doubt—believed the best of them—I’ve been let down.
So no, I don’t believe a word of his promises. But I can play along. I’ve always been good at that—playing the sweet people pleaser.
The trick is balance. Push back just enough to keep him interested, but not enough to actually piss him off. Because this beast…? He seems to like it when his prey squirms.
And he’s clearly keeping something that is screaming in that basement. That’s not mercy. That’s not kindness.
Maybe he only has enough “kindness” to want his so-called consort wet and willing.
After letting me drink water from the heavy glass he holds to my lips, he spears another dripping piece of meat. “Eat and suck the juices off my fingers.”
He holds it suspended above my mouth, high enough that I have to rise up to reach. When I do, he pulls it back, teasing.
I glare up at him, and I swear I hear a rumble of a chuckle in his chest before he finally drops the morsel into my mouth.
But he doesn’t remove his thumb.
“Suck,” he orders.
And God help me, I do. My lips close around the rough pad of his thumb, tongue sweeping the salt and meat juices from his skin.
Buzz. Between my legs. Immediate. What the hell.
I just decided this guy’s a serial torturer with a flair for theatrics. So why the hell am I turned on? Is it just the memory of last night?
His wings twitch. They’d been slack at his sides while he sat feeding me, but now? Now they flare, fluttering madly.
“Now I will reward my consort,” he says, voice thick. “When she does well, rewards follow.”
Before I can swallow my bite, he scoops me up by the waist and plunks me onto the table. The plate clatters to the ground, shoved away with a sweep of his wing.
Reward?
Oh. Oh no. He doesn’t mean—
Oh yes, he does.
In one unceremonious tug, he spreads my hips wide, and since I’m still completely naked, I’m immediately bared to him.
“Hey!” I squeak, grabbing his horns as his mouth dips lower. “Wait a—”
He pauses, eyebrow arching like a devil who knows exactly what game he’s playing. “Do you not want your reward? I promise it is far nicer than my punishments.”
“Punishments?” My voice squeaks on the word.
The light in his eyes burns hotter. “Yes.”
And then his long, leonine tongue is on me.
My elbows slam back against the table as shock jolts through me. His tongue—oh God—his tongue isn’t just long. It’s strong. Snuffling, plunging, curling inside me like he’s starving.
I moan something obscene, not even sure what I say. My head feels like it’s floating off my body, not from wanting to escape but because I can’t believe how good this feels.
It shouldn’t feel this good.
I shouldn’t be shuddering with every messy lick.
But he’s devouring me. Motorboating my pussy. Tugging my ass off the table so he can bury his face deeper. He’s relentless, wild, sloppy—worshipful.
And the worst, most disloyal thought crashes through me: this was the part of me that disgusted Drew.
Drew, who said women “smelled funny.” Who refused to go down on me. Who complained if I didn’t shave myself smooth. Who made me feel like my entire body was flawed.
But this monster?
He can’t get enough.
My spine arches. My thighs quake. His teeth never hurt me; he keeps them sheathed, his gums pressing into me instead while his tongue scrapes, plunges, and strokes everywhere.
And then he finds it. My clit. His nose snuffles, and his strong, muscled tongue licks deep inside, and I see stars.
The G-spot I thought was a myth?
Yeah. Not fiction. Not with him.
“Oh God—oh-oh-oh!” I scream as the volcano inside me erupts.
I clutch his horns and ride his face, my body convulsing, my toes curling to the ceiling as orgasm tears through me.
He doesn’t stop. Not until I’m a broken, wet, trembling mess on the table.
Only then does he rise, swipe his forearm over his slick jaw, and declare with brutal finality:
“Good meal. Now we fuck.”