Chapter Nine- Role Playing
Thorne
The asshole killed me. He actually managed to do it!
I carry Harrow’s limp body from the Northwoods, exercising a strengthening spell that I’ve had to use on multiple occasions while growing up in order to defend myself from Aleksander. As a result, carrying Harrow is no different than carrying a sack of potatoes.
Except this sack of potatoes just killed me but somehow I still want him with an aching need that rivals all reasonable thought. The hum from our matching arms is a livewire between us as the taught muscles of his abdomen tighten and contract over my shoulder while I carry him.
Still, he must pay and I need answers. This little thing we’ve got simmering between us is fun but he has shown his hand.
This is no longer a dance between us, but a deadly rivalry.
And our lives have just been linked together.
I have a sneaking suspicion that my mother has something to do with this.
Another troubling thought is that somehow he’s learned what even Aleksander hasn’t figured out: my immortality is fragile under the crescent moon.
“Prince?” A servant asks as I storm through the palace hallway with Harrow over my shoulder.
“No worries here, Martha,” I wave her off.
“Oh, so it’s a fun thing?” She winks at me, gesturing to the man over my shoulder. Martha is no stranger to the amount of people who have frequented my bed chambers over the years.
“Yeah!” I feign a smile. “Just some role playing.”
She grins and sketches a small bow, mercifully ignoring my reddening cheeks. At least she won’t raise any alarms about the situation.
Kicking my bedroom door closed, I wish like hell I was taking him in here for other reasons. Either way, he will become acquainted with the chains in my wall.
I take a moment to admire him sprawled out on the floor, helpless beneath me. My murderous ideations take a backseat to the fact that our lives are now linked. Cursed Titans.
His limp body offers little resistance against the shackles and there’s a part of me that doesn’t want this.
I want the tender parts of him, the longing glances he gives me, and his soft moans that I can still recall from our night together.
I want to ask him about his time in the Venomwoods, about the matriarch that raised him, and the mother he lost. I can’t help but shake my head. Such things are not possible.
Once he’s secured against the stone wall, I push his hair out of his face tenderly, wishing this was different. That somehow the Titans dealt us different fates. The thought sobers me up.
With a taunt, I kick him in the ribs. “Wakey, wakey.”
He doesn’t so much as stir. I frown.
Fine, if he wants to be The Serpent so badly, I will gladly play the role of Executioner. With that thought, I carefully summon a torrent of frigid water and grab a bucket for the long night ahead of me.