Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
LARA
I came upstairs to find Ivrael, to make sure he was okay, to make sure he wasn’t upset after what he’d done to the baron. I should have known Ivrael wouldn’t be bothered by taking off a man’s finger—should have known better if only because I’d watched the whole thing from behind the door between the kitchen and Adefina’s chamber.
Svalkat never had a chance against the duke.
And neither do I.
My heart pounds against my chest, but I’m not fighting him anymore. I should be—every rational thought screams at me to push him away. Instead, I arch closer as Ivrael presses me against the wall, his body hard against mine as he whispers my name.
“Ivrael,” I breathe out, hating how needy I sound but unable to stop myself. His masculine scent—that intoxicating mix of winter frost and spiced vanilla—floods my senses until I can barely think, only aware of how unbelievably male he is, how his body feels against mine.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer .
“I have tried so hard not to do this,” he murmurs against my neck, his voice rough with restraint. “Tried so hard to stick to the plan.” His lips trail fire across my skin, heat burning a path back toward my mouth, and I shudder. God, I should stop this. I know better. But when his mouth hovers over mine, that blend of scorching heat and bitter cold radiating from him, my resistance crumbles.
I moan, my body betraying me completely as I stare into his eyes. The raw need I see there steals my breath—and my sanity. My fingers curl into his hair of their own accord, dragging his mouth to mine. I kiss him frantically, desperately, as if I can somehow satisfy this maddening craving for him if I just get closer, taste more of him.
“Every moment of every day since that first morning in the Trasqo Market.” His breath flutters against my skin, as hot—and as cold—as his mouth, and I no longer even know what he’s talking about.
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist without hesitation, letting out a small sound of surrender as my dress rides up. I should be mortified by how eagerly I’m responding, but I’m too far gone to care. My back hits the wall and I barely register the cold seeping through the fabric—not when his hands are leaving trails of frost and fire everywhere they touch.
“This last year has been torture,” he groans, and I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria.
“I hate that I want you,” I confess raggedly. “After everything—God, Ivrael, I should despise you. But I can’t stop. I can’t.”
His mouth claims mine again, cutting off my babbling, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to think anymore. Thinking is dangerous. Thinking means remembering all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me, all the cruel things he’s capable of. Don’t want to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I just want to feel.
And when he slides his hand up to cup my ribs, his fingertips brushing the underside of my breast, rational thought scatters. I gasp as his thumb flicks over my nipple, arching into his touch, my body demanding more even as my mind weakly protests.
The roughness of his stubble scrapes against my palm as I cradle his face, sending shivers of awareness through me. I can’t get enough of touching him. My other hand roams his chest restlessly, desperately, as if mapping his body might somehow calm this frantic need.
He pulls away and his mouth hovers over mine as I wonder at the mixed cold and heat of him—an Icecaix with a molten touch.
“You cannot want this,” he says against my mouth. “Want me.”
A harsh laugh tears from my throat. “Of course I don’t want to want you.” My voice sounds raw, broken. “But I do. God help me, I do. Every time you’re near me, every time I catch your scent or hear your voice...” I hate the honesty spilling from my lips, but I can’t seem to stop. “I crave you. And I hate myself for it.”
His mouth claims mine, swallowing anything else I might try to say, his tongue sweeping across my lips, wiping away anything else I might even try to think.
I moan into his mouth, and he growls—actually growls—and pushes me hard against the wall. He places one hand against my midsection to hold me back against the wall, then grips the neckline of my dress with the other hand and tugs, ripping my bodice open.
The sound of tearing fabric should shock me back to my senses. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through me. When his mouth closes over my breast, I cry out, clutching his head closer. Cold air rushes over my exposed skin where his mouth isn’t, raising goosebumps, but I’m burning up everywhere he touches me.
I moan at the fever streaking out from my nipples and through my entire body, the heat of his mouth a point of burning sensation.
The contrast of sensations—scorching heat and bitter cold—drives me wild. Sparks seem to dance between us wherever our skin meets, as if even our bodies recognize this impossible chemistry. I can’t think past the pleasure coursing through me, don’t want to think about anything except the way he makes me feel.
I trace the line of his pectoral muscles as he moves up to nip at my bottom lip. His hands play across my shoulders, and electricity seems to arc off his fingertips, setting me aflame. Deep in his eyes, similar sparks swirl, his gaze golden and hot enough to scorch me.
I wrap my legs tighter around him, shameless in my need. His eyes capture mine, and I’m lost in those swirling depths. The raw hunger I see there should terrify me. Instead, it makes me desperate for more. His hands slide up my thighs, leaving trails of frost in their wake, and I shiver—not from cold, but from wanting.
“Please,” I hear myself beg, and hate how wrecked I sound. But I’m beyond pride now, beyond anything except this burning need to have him closer, to feel more.
The elastic of my underwear snaps as he tears it away, and that small violence should frighten me. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through my veins. His icy touch should freeze me solid, but instead it makes my blood run molten.
I’m lost, drowning in sensation, and I don’t want to be found. His touch leaves patterns of frost spiraling across my skin—a physical reminder of everything he is, everything I should fear.
But I can’t fear him. Not now. Not when every cell in my body screams for more.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my throat, even as his hands continue their maddening exploration. It’s almost cruel, asking me to be the one to end this when we both know I’m too far gone.
“I can’t,” I confess, the words torn from me. “God help me, I can’t.”
My head falls back against the wall as his mouth traces a burning path along my collarbone. I should be ashamed of the sounds I’m making, of how desperately I’m clutching at him, but shame seems to have burned away in the wake of this overwhelming need.
Electric sparks dance wherever he touches me, as if his magic recognizes something in my blood. The thought skitters through my mind and vanishes before I can grasp it, lost in the haze of sensation. His hands brand me with alternating heat and cold, marking me as his in ways that should make me angry.
But I’m beyond anger. Beyond thought. Beyond everything except this frantic need to get closer, to have more.
His fingers trace patterns across my skin—ice and fire intertwined—and I arch into his touch like I’m spellbound. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the only explanation for why I can’t make myself stop, why I’m clinging to him and begging wordlessly for more.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with need, and I force my eyes open. The gold in his gaze has almost completely overtaken the ice blue, turning his eyes molten. Something wild and ancient seems to stir in their depths, calling to an answering wildness in my blood.
“I should hate you,” I gasp out, even as my body betrays me further, straining closer. “After everything you’ve done?—”
“But you don’t,” he says, cutting me off—and it’s not a question. His certainty should infuriate me. Instead, it sends another wave of heat through my veins.
“No,” I admit, the word catching in my throat. “God help me, I don’t. I can’t.”
He makes a sound deep in his chest—triumph and need and something darker—and claims my mouth again. I surrender completely, letting the last fragments of my resistance shatter. Tomorrow I can hate myself for this weakness. Tonight, I’ll let myself burn...
Or freeze.
And then his fingers are back under my dress, stroking my skin. My pulse flutters beneath his touch, rapid as a hummingbird’s wings, and when I jerk and whimper as his knuckles brush against my clit, he makes a guttural sound deep in his throat.
“I never meant to feel this way,” he says, pressing in close and murmuring in my ear as he caresses me.
I want to ask what he means, but he takes me by the waist and lifts me even higher. When he has me where he wants me, he grinds out, “Put your legs over my shoulders.”
Shivering, I follow his instructions, and he steps in even closer. When he buries his face against me, I no longer resent the loss of my underwear.
He begins with tiny circles of his tongue, and I lean my head back against the wall as he teases me with his touch—until finally, he gives me what I want.
What I need.
With long, sure strokes, Ivrael licks and sucks, tasting me until I writhe beneath his tongue. The feel of his mouth against me leaves me wet and panting, the ache at the center of my being demanding more .
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screams that this is madness. That I’m letting the monster who bought me, who terrorizes his household, put his hands on me. But that voice grows fainter with each passing second, drowned out by the thundering of my pulse and the desperate sounds I can’t seem to hold back.
I lose myself in his touch. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding his mouth to me as if he might try to escape—though we both know he’s not the one who should be running. My other hand roams restlessly across his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I can reach, memorizing the feel of him.
Heat and cold pulse between us in waves, like his magic can’t decide whether to freeze or burn me. Or maybe that’s just me, caught between the ice of rational thought and the fire of blind need. Each brush of his fingers leaves frost patterns blooming on my skin, but I’m burning up from the inside out.
“Mine,” he growls against my hot folds, and something inside me rebels at the possessiveness in his tone.
“No,” I gasp, even as my body arches into his touch. “I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue because in this moment, I am his—completely, utterly his—and we both know it.
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against me where we’re pressed together. “Your body says otherwise, princess.” The old nickname, usually so mocking, comes out like a caress.
I want to deny it, to hold onto some shred of dignity or resistance. But when his mouth lands on my clit again, any remaining rational thought melts away. I let my head fall back against the wall and push my hips forward, giving him better access even as broken sounds escape my throat.
“Please,” I hear myself beg, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. More? Less? For him to stop? To never stop?
His response is to grip my hips tighter, and I know there will be bruises tomorrow—evidence of this madness that I’ll have to face in the cold light of day. But right now, I welcome the marks. Want them. Want anything that will prove this wasn’t just another fever dream.
The world narrows to sensation—the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, the alternating heat and chill of his touch, the way my skin seems to come alive wherever he touches me. My dress hangs in tatters, and I should care about that. Should care about a lot of things. But I can only focus on the way his hands map my body like he’s claiming territory.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his mouth muffled against my damp folds. The words vibrate through me, and I shudder. “Tell me you want me.”
“You know I do,” I gasp out, the confession burning my throat. “God help me, you know I do.”
My nails dig into his shoulders as another wave of need crashes through me. I’m drowning in sensation, in the scent of him—that intoxicating blend that’s haunted my dreams for months.
I’m trembling, my body strung too tight, desperate for something I can barely name. Every touch winds me higher, pushing me closer to some precipice I both crave and fear.
“Please,” I whimper again, not even sure what I’m begging for anymore. Everything blurs together in a haze of need.
My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else, but somehow his voice cuts through everything, rough and demanding. “Say it again.”
“Please,” I gasp out, past shame, past pride, past everything except this burning need. “God, Ivrael, please.”
His growl of satisfaction vibrates through me where we’re pressed together. I should hate how easily he can reduce me to this—mindless, desperate, begging. Should hate him for having this power over me. Instead, I arch closer, seeking more of his touch, more of this maddening blend of fire and ice that dances between us.
Cold pulses in the air around us, making my skin tingle everywhere we touch. It feels ancient, primal. The sensation should frighten me—one more reminder that he’s not human, that this is all kinds of wrong. But I’m beyond fear now. Beyond thought. Beyond everything except the desperate need to get closer, to have more.
He adds his fingers, slipping them inside me, and I gasp as he matches the rhythm of his mouth, thrusting in and out to the circling and flicking of his tongue around and across my clit. When he curls his fingers forward, pressing against my inner walls, my orgasm takes me by surprise.
The hot and cold flashes that throb between us reach their peak, electric and wild, making my skin tingle everywhere we touch, pulsing through me in flashes, my entire body tensing with the release.
The world fragments into pure sensation. I cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me, my body arching against his. Stars burst behind my closed eyelids, and for a moment I’m weightless, untethered from everything except the feeling of his hands on me, his mouth against my pussy.
This feels ancient, primal, like something dark awakening in my blood. My fingers clutch his shoulders as aftershocks shudder through me, leaving me trembling and weak.
The rest of my senses slowly creep back into my awareness.
But then, the moment Ivrael’s tongue leaves my body, reality comes crashing back like a bucket of ice water.
My legs slip from his shoulders, and I stumble, my knees weak and shaking. The wall behind me is the only thing keeping me upright as waves of revulsion crash through me, washing away the lingering echoes of pleasure that still pulse traitorously between my thighs.
Oh, God. What have I done?
My stomach heaves as memories flash through my mind in brutal succession—the boy’s neck snapping at the gallows, Roland counting out the coins Ivrael paid for me, being paraded through the Trasqo Market like livestock. And yet mere moments ago, I spread my legs for him. Begged for his touch. Wanted it.
Wanted him .
Acid burns in my throat and I press my trembling hand to my mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit. My skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off my body everywhere he touched me. Not because it felt wrong—God help me, it felt incredible—but because I let it happen.
No. More than that. I encouraged it. Lost myself in it completely.
What kind of person does that make me? What kind of twisted, broken thing am I becoming that I could forget, even for a moment, exactly what he is? What he’s capable of?
When Ivrael reaches for me, I flinch away so violently I bang my shoulder against the wall. His expression shutters, those mesmerizing golden sparks in his eyes dimming to cold, silvery blue. “Lara?—”
“Don’t.” The word scrapes raw in my throat. “Don’t touch me.”
I scrabble desperately at my dress where it hangs in tatters from my waist, trying to pull the torn bodice up to cover my exposed breasts. My fingers shake so badly I can barely grip the fabric. When Ivrael moves as if to help, I stumble sideways, putting precious distance between us.
“Stay back.” The words come out as a half-sob, half-snarl, more animal than human. Maybe that’s what I am now—some feral, broken creature ruled by base instincts rather than reason or morality.
He goes completely still with his hands raised, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.
The icy lord of the manor reduced to placating gestures. Any other time it might be satisfying to see him off-balance. Now it just makes me feel sick.
The torn dress won’t stay up no matter how I clutch at it. My skin burns with shame, with lingering arousal, with self-disgust. Every brush of fabric against my sensitized flesh is a reminder of how eagerly I surrendered to his touch mere moments ago.
I inch toward the door, keeping my eyes locked on him like the predator he is. The predator I’ve always known him to be, even as I spread my thighs and welcomed him between them.
Fuck . I watched him casually maim a man’s hand tonight, listened to the bones crunch and splinter. And then I let those same hands caress me, allowed that cruel mouth to taste me, to make me?—
A groan of pure horror tears from my throat.
“Lara, please.” His voice is gentle now, almost tender. The dramatic shift only highlights how easily he wears different masks. “Let me explain.”
A harsh laugh bubbles up, edged with hysteria. “Explain what? How you bought me like a piece of meat? How you murdered that boy in cold blood? How you’re planning to go back and buy my baby sister too?”
“Explain that—” His voice trails off, and for once the composed duke seems at a loss for words.
But I don’t wait to hear what lies he might spin. I’m already running, fleeing across the house and down the stairs, desperate to escape him.
To escape myself.
To escape the sickening knowledge that some dark, twisted part of me is already aching to go back.
And so I race toward the kitchen, to the closest thing I have to a sanctuary in this frozen hell. Behind me, I hear him call my name, his footsteps following.
I slam through the kitchen door and throw the bolt, knowing it’s futile. Ivrael could unlock it in a heartbeat. He is, after all, the lord of everything he surveys here.
But I need that barrier between us, however flimsy.
My legs give out and I slide down the door, still clutching my ruined dress to my chest. The rough wood catches at my hair, but I barely notice.
Footsteps approach from the other side. The door pushes inward then stops as Ivrael encounters the lock. I tense, waiting for the click of a key, or of magic—whatever will render my pathetic attempt at self-protection useless.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, I hear a soft thud as he leans against the other side of the door.
We sit there, back to back with only the wooden barrier between us, our breaths somehow syncing despite everything.
“Let me talk to you,” he says, his voice muffled by the door but still too intimate, too close.
I press my hands over my ears, not wanting to hear whatever justification he might offer. Not trusting myself not to believe him, even knowing what he is. What he’s done.
What does it say about me that I gave myself so willingly to someone capable of such cruelty? That even now, some treacherous part of me wants to unlock the door, to let him in, to believe whatever beautiful lies he might tell me?
Maybe I’m not so different from him after all. Maybe that’s why I could forget his crimes so easily in the heat of passion—because I’m becoming just as corrupt.
I think of Kila, of how often I planned to leave her behind in all my plans to escape, how simple it seemed to abandon her in order to save my sister. Of how easily I’ve learned to lie since coming here, how readily I’ve adapted to this world of casual cruelty and calculated betrayal.
“Go away,” I hiss through the door, hating how my voice shakes. “Please, just...go away.”
For a long moment, there’s silence. Then I hear him sigh, the sound heavy with something that might be regret. Might be manipulation. I don’t trust myself to know the difference anymore.
“As you wish,” he says softly, and I hear him stand. Then he pauses. “But Lara? What happened between us... it wasn’t a lie. Whatever else you may believe of me, believe that.”
His footsteps retreat down the corridor, each one an echo of my thundering heart. Only when they fade entirely do I allow myself to break down, tears streaming down my face as I curl into myself.
I don’t know how long I sit there, shivering despite the kitchen’s warmth, before I finally drag myself to my feet. My legs are still unsteady as I make my way to the basket holding my clothes.
But my jeans and sweater are being washed, so all I have is the second dress Adefina arranged for me to have.
Another house uniform, when the last thing I want is to be associated with Ivrael in any way.
As I dress, I catch sight of myself in the polished copper bottom of a pot hanging nearby. My lips are swollen from his kisses, my neck marked where his mouth claimed me. I look thoroughly debauched.
And thoroughly broken.
What kind of person lets a monster touch her like that? What kind of person enjoys it ?
I close my eyes against my reflection. I came to this place believing I was strong. Believing that I was a good person.
But now?
Now I’m starting to wonder if Ivrael didn’t buy me in that market because he recognized something in me. Something dark. Something like him.
The thought terrifies me more than anything else that’s happened today.
Because if that’s true—if I am becoming like him—then how can I trust myself to protect Izzy?
How can I trust myself at all?