Chapter 11 Possessive Darkness #3
Then he's gone.
Vanished.
Dissolved into shadows or mist or whatever medium Fae princes use for dramatic exits, leaving nothing but the ghost of his presence and the lingering sensation of his kiss.
Shadow tendrils strike where he stood.
They erupt from darkness I didn't notice accumulating, void-black appendages that move with lethal speed toward a target that no longer exists.
They slam into the wall behind where Koi was standing, finding nothing but stone and frustrated emptiness, writhing with obvious agitation at having missed their prey.
I blink.
Then look up.
Cassius stands in the library's doorway, and gods—
His eyes glow with darkness so absolute it seems to drink the surrounding candlelight.
Not the silver I'm accustomed to, not the warm grey that softens when he looks at me, but void—pure, absolute, consuming darkness that speaks to aspects of his Duskwalker nature usually kept carefully contained.
His shadow tendrils multiply as I watch, spreading from his form like wings made of night itself, each one carrying the particular weight of being seriously, fundamentally pissed off.
The bond mark on my neck burns.
Burns with intensity that makes me gasp, his claim responding to his emotional state with sympathetic intensity that borders on painful.
The sensation carries his feelings directly into my nervous system—jealousy, possessiveness, the particular fury of someone who has found another man's lips where his belong.
I try to act like this isn't the hottest thing I've ever seen.
Try.
Fail spectacularly.
Because watching Cassius consumed by jealous rage, shadows writhing with barely contained violence, those void-dark eyes locked onto me with intensity that promises consequences...
Fuck.
"Hmm," I begin, trying to gather thoughts that have scattered like leaves in a hurricane. "Either I'm totally horny for you, thirsty, or you're just really hot when you're a possessive asshole."
The words emerge with confidence I don't entirely feel, bravado covering the very real arousal that's making my thighs press together beneath the table.
He rolls those void-dark eyes.
The gesture should diminish his intimidating presence.
It doesn't.
Then he moves.
Duskwalker speed carries him across the library faster than my vampire perception can track—one moment in the doorway, the next right there, hand closing around my throat with pressure that demands attention without restricting breath.
His grip forces me to stillness, to complete surrender of movement, and then his lips slam against mine.
Oh.
Oh gods.
The kiss is nothing like Koi's brief claiming.
This is conquest.
His mouth demands rather than requests, takes rather than asks, claims territory that his bond mark has already declared his with the particular aggression of someone reasserting ownership.
His tongue sweeps against mine with movements that make me moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his ongoing assault on my senses.
I let him have control.
Let him dominate the kiss with the particular intensity that his jealousy demands.
Because I understand what this is—not punishment, not anger, but need. The need to reclaim, to reassure himself that I'm still his despite whatever he witnessed or sensed, to remind both of us that the bond between us carries weight that no stolen kiss can diminish.
He doesn't break the kiss until I'm literally fighting for breath.
Oxygen has become a distant memory, my lungs screaming for air my mouth can't access while his lips continue their claiming. Stars dance at the edges of my vision—actual stars, lack of oxygen creating fireworks behind my eyes—before he finally, finally pulls back enough to let me gasp.
"Little mouse," he warns, voice carrying harmonics that vibrate through my bones.
His grip on my throat tightens fractionally.
"You just like to be punished, don't you."
It's not a question.
My smirk returns despite—or perhaps because of—the compromised position.
"Well, if it gets me draped across your lap and fucked silly, yes," I manage, voice rough from the intensity of his kiss. "But if you're actually mad, I'll be a good girl and sit in the corner."
I pause, letting the silence stretch.
"Naked, if it adds to the thrill and gets me fucked senseless afterward."
His huff carries exasperation and hunger in equal measure.
But I can see it in those slowly-lightening eyes—the darkness receding as arousal replaces anger, void giving way to the silver I know so well. The hunger that replaces the fury is somehow more dangerous, more focused, more promising of consequences I very much want to experience.
We share a look.
The kind of look that communicates volumes without requiring words, that speaks to the particular intimacy of bond mates who have learned each other's needs across trials that should have destroyed them.
"Are you okay?"
The question emerges softer than his earlier aggression, genuine concern surfacing through the possessive display.
"Yes," I assure him, meaning it. Whatever Koi stirred up, whatever confusions the morning has produced, I'm okay. Fed. Informed. Perhaps more confused about my heritage than ever before, but physically, emotionally... okay.
He nods, accepting my assessment.
Then his expression shifts into something that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Then I'm gonna punish you senseless," he declares, voice carrying promise that makes my thighs clench with anticipation. "And then we're talking."
The giggle that escapes me carries genuine delight.
"Oh, I love to be punished."
His eyes darken again—not with void this time, but with the particular intensity of desire that has nothing to do with Duskwalker nature and everything to do with the man who has claimed me body and soul.
The library around us fades into irrelevance.
The feast on the table, the floating candelabras, the books that contain knowledge I'll eventually need to access—none of it matters in this moment.
Only him. Only us. Only the particular dance of dominance and submission that we've perfected across countless encounters, each one building on the last, each one teaching us more about what we need from each other.
Grim reappears at the edge of my peripheral vision, tiny form hovering uncertainly as if trying to determine whether intervention is required.
"Greeee?" The inquiry carries obvious concern.
"Out, Grim," Cassius commands without looking away from me.
"Gree."
The little reaper vanishes with the particular wisdom of beings who understand when they're not needed.
Smart creature.
Cassius's hand shifts from my throat to my hair, fingers tangling in the elaborate style that Koi's magic had crafted.
The pins begin to fall as he deliberately destroys the arrangement, silver strands tumbling free around my shoulders, his possessiveness extending even to the way another man had chosen to present me.
Mine, the gesture declares.
Every part of you.
Mine to style, mine to claim, mine to punish as I see fit.
I shiver with anticipation.
Because yes—I'm horny for my Duskwalker.
Desperately, achingly, thoroughly aroused by his jealous display and the promises his darkened eyes contain.
And this is probably going to be one of our only chances to enjoy each other properly before the grand finale of our final trialing year.