Chapter 20
TWENTY
Shawn doesn’t deserve this.
He doesn’t deserve me standing on his doorstep in a dress that clings like sin, with lips painted the color of blood and a smile I don’t mean. But I give it to him anyway. The night air is cold against my skin, but my body hums with something hotter. Something crueler.
When he opens the door, confusion flickers across his face, followed by interest. His eyes drag down my body, lingering on the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips, the hem of my dress. He’s predictable, which makes him easy.
“Lillien?” he asks, cautious, like he’s not sure whether to be flattered or afraid.
I tilt my head and soften my voice. “Hey.”
A smirk begins to form as he leans against the doorframe, the confidence returning to his posture. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I bite my lip, lowering my lashes just slightly, enough to draw him in. “I wanted to apologize for last night.”
That gets his attention. His eyebrows lift, surprise mixing with curiosity. I take a step closer, slow and deliberate, until I can reach out and trace my fingers down his chest. His heart beats faster beneath my touch, and I know I have him.
“I think…” I let my voice drop to a whisper. “I’m ready.”
For a moment he just stares at me, breath caught between disbelief and desire. Then I reach behind me and slide the zipper of my dress down an inch. That’s all it takes. His doubt crumbles.
He pulls me inside quickly, shutting the door behind us. His hands are everywhere—clumsy, eager, already shaking with need. I let him lead me down the hall toward his bedroom, my heels clicking across the floor.
When we reach the bed, his mouth finds mine in a messy, hungry kiss that tastes like whiskey and arrogance. He tugs at my dress, dragging it down my shoulders as if unwrapping something he thinks he’s earned.
But when he goes for his belt, I stop him. My hand slides down his chest, pausing at his stomach before moving lower. I make it slow, deliberate, an act of control disguised as invitation. When I finally free him, I smile and step forward until his legs hit the edge of the bed.
“So impatient,” I whisper, pressing my hands to his chest and pushing him down. Then I climb into his lap, straddling him, lowering myself onto him in one smooth, unhurried motion.
He groans, hands gripping my hips with bruising force, trying to take control. But I don’t let him. I grab his wrists, pinning them to the bed as I roll my hips slowly, deliberately. His breath catches. His muscles tense.
Then I lean close—so close that our mouths almost touch, so close he can feel the warmth of my breath against his skin.
And I whisper, “I fucked them.”
He goes rigid beneath me.
I grind against him again, letting the words slide from my mouth like a spell. “The guys from the woods.” I let out a soft, taunting moan. “It was… transformative.”
His jaw tightens, his chest rising and falling faster. I can feel the anger building in him, thick and electric, and beneath it—lust.
He tries to shove me off, but I don’t move. Instead, I press closer, my lips brushing his ear. “So… does that mean your bet is forfeit?”
His whole body locks. “Lillien, get the fuck off me.”
“Because I may be fucking you right now,” I purr, my nails dragging down his stomach, “but I’m not a virgin.”
“Lillien, stop,” he demands, his rage immediate. It ripples through him, violent and alive. But anger and lust are twin flames—and both burn the same. I feel the shift before it happens. His fury curls into desire, and I take it.
I feed.
The moment his energy flares, I drink it in, drawing on his heat, his arousal, his pulse. He tries to resist, but I keep moving, grinding my hips until his strength becomes mine. His hands slip from my skin. His breathing turns ragged, shallow.
The first time he comes, he shudders. The second, he shakes. By the third, his face is pale, his body trembling. I can feel his pulse weakening beneath my hands, but the hunger is relentless. I can’t stop.
When I finally look at him—really look—his eyes are glazed, his mouth open, his body limp. And then, just like that, he’s still. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. I’m the only thing alive in the room.
I slide off him slowly, every nerve alive with power, my skin slick with sweat. My breath comes hard, uneven. I glance down at him, at the hollow shell of what used to be Shawn. There’s no horror. No remorse. Just disappointment. He should have lasted longer.
I run a hand through my hair and straighten, my body humming with energy, with life that isn’t mine. Then I feel it—heat, pressure, the crackle of power in the air. Deimos.
He fills the doorway like a shadow come to life, eyes burning with something between fury and fascination. His presence is a storm: violent, charged, and far too aware.
I don’t turn immediately. I let him look. Let him take in what I’ve done.
When I finally face him, his voice is low and dangerous. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I glance at Shawn’s body on the bed, pale and empty, then back at Deimos. My voice stays calm. “He tried to rape me last night,” I say, pulling my dress up, fastening it slowly, methodically. “He would have, if you hadn’t intervened.”
Deimos’s jaw tightens, his fists curling at his sides. His control is fragile. Good.
“Besides,” I add, “he was only with me because of a bet.”
He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, frustration etched deep into his expression. “But I did rape you last night,” he says flatly. “Are you going to kill me?”
I grin, slow and sharp, stepping closer until I can smell the smoke on his skin. “I already stabbed you.”
His eyes flicker—something caught between surprise and dark amusement.
I rise onto my toes, bringing my lips to his ear. “Besides,” I murmur, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, “I wanted you inside me.”
His breath catches. The faintest smirk tugs at his mouth before he crushes it under a scowl. “You didn’t need to kill him.”
“No,” I agree. “But I wanted to.”
Something changes in his face. Something slow and violent.
“I don’t appreciate having to clean up after you,” he mutters, the words sharp as knives.
I laugh softly. “Burn it or something.”
I start to walk past him, but his hand shoots out, catching my arm. His grip is firm, possessive, a silent warning. “Go back to the house, Lustling,” he orders, his tone low and commanding. “While I clean this up.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, his lips curve. “Looks like we’re going to need rules. Like not killing ex-boyfriends.”
I roll my eyes, tugging my arm free. “Whatever.”
Turning away, I walk out, feeling the heat of his stare trace the curve of my back as I leave. Behind me, I hear him curse under his breath, the scrape of his boots against the floor as he pulls out his phone—probably calling one of his brothers.
But I’m not going back. Not yet. The night still feels hungry, and so do I.