Chapter 12 Possessive Darkness Part I
Possessive Darkness Part I
~CASSIUS~
Just the idea of this foreign man kissing what's mine makes my tainted blood burn.
I don't care what association he has with my Little Mouse. I don't like it. Not because I don't mind sharing my woman—that isn't the problem.
The problem is this being potentially being more superior than me.
I feel the power nestled in his being, tucked away like some alter ego on the layer of insanity, and unlike my peers, I see right through it.
I know how wicked this man can be without him showing his true colors, and it scares every ounce of being in me because the woman I love's heart is on the line.
That heart of hers that is big enough to love whoever is deserving, and maybe that's the true problem—that he's deserving of her after whatever captive solitude he's been within for us to land in this predicament.
But right now, I can't think about any of that, because I want to eat her up with how far she likes to push my buttons.
I kiss her possessively, growling with how good it feels to kiss her.
Her taste alone satisfies a need that I've been ignoring this whole while as we fought to survive, and I'd be lying if I said every battle doesn't turn me on even more when it comes to her, 'cause it shows how strong she fucking is.
Anyone would have cowered in such situations.
Been consumed by the wickedness, and somehow she just excels and grows—something I can appreciate immensely.
I break the kiss when I know her lungs are begging for oxygen, pulling back just enough to watch her chest heave, those crimson eyes—dilated with a mix of defiance and desire—locking onto mine like she's daring me to take more.
Her lips are swollen from the force of my claim, glistening with the shared essence of our hunger, and it takes every ounce of my Duskwalker restraint not to dive back in and devour her completely.
The bond mark on her neck pulses under my fingers, a living tattoo of shadow and starlight that responds to my touch, sending faint tendrils of void curling up her skin like possessive smoke signals.
"Little mouse," I warn, my voice carrying harmonics that vibrate through her bones, low and resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder echoing through the Infernal Realm's crimson skies.
My grip on her throat tightens fractionally, not enough to bruise but enough to remind her who's in control here—enough to feel her pulse flutter against my palm, a rapid drumbeat that mirrors the chaotic storm building in my chest.
"You just like to be punished, don't you."
It's not a question. I can see it in the way her body arches ever so slightly toward me, even in this compromised position, her confidence shining through like the unbreakable core of magic that's carried her through every trial Wicked Academy has thrown at us.
She's no fragile thing; she's a queen in the making, softened only for those she's chosen, and right now, that softness is laced with the kind of bold challenge that makes my shadows writhe in anticipation.
Her smirk returns despite—or perhaps because of—the compromised position, those full lips curving in a way that's equal parts playful and provocative, her silver hair tumbling loose around her shoulders like a cascade of starlit silk.
"Well, if it gets me draped across your lap and fucked silly, yes," she manages, her voice rough from the intensity of my kiss, husky and unapologetic, carrying that innate confidence that turns every word into a command wrapped in velvet.
"But if you're actually mad, I'll be a good girl and sit in the corner. "
She pauses, letting the silence stretch, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she holds my gaze without flinching, her body language screaming that she's mine but on her terms—softened for me, yes, but never truly tamed.
"Naked, if it adds to the thrill and gets me fucked senseless afterward."
My huff carries exasperation and hunger in equal measure, the sound escaping me like a puff of shadow-mist that curls around her throat, teasing the edges of my grip.
Damn her for knowing exactly how to push me, how to turn my jealousy into fuel for this fire between us.
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 she very much wants 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.
In her eyes, I see the reflection of every battle we've survived—the Infernal Realm's scorching flames licking at our heels, the shadow armies parting before her power, the way she's risen from ashes time and again, her magic blooming like defiant roses in a wasteland.
She's softened for me in this moment, her confidence a gentle glow rather than a sharp blade, trusting me to lead this dance because she knows I'll always catch her when she falls.
"Are you okay?"
The question emerges softer than my earlier aggression, genuine concern surfacing through the possessive display, my thumb tracing a tender circle along her jawline, feeling the faint hum of her hybrid magic responding to mine—vampire blood pulsing with crimson heat, witch incantations flickering like golden sigils beneath her skin.
"Yes," she assures me, meaning it, her voice steady and warm, that softened persona reserved for her bonded ones shining through as she leans ever so slightly into my touch.
Whatever that foreign prick stirred up, whatever confusions the morning has produced, she's okay.
Fed. Informed. Perhaps more confused about her heritage than ever before, but physically, emotionally.
.. okay. Her hand comes up to cover mine, a gentle squeeze that grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of my shadows' rage.
I nod, accepting her assessment, the tension in my shoulders easing as her words sink in like a balm over my frayed nerves.
Then my expression shifts into something that makes heat pool low in her belly—I can scent it, that sweet, heady arousal mingling with the floral remnants of whatever magic lingered in this library before I arrived.
"Then I'm gonna punish you senseless," I declare, my voice carrying promise that makes her thighs clench with anticipation, the words laced with shadow-essence that curls around her like invisible restraints, teasing the edges of her senses. "And then we're talking."
The giggle that escapes her carries genuine delight, light and musical, cutting through the heavy air like a spark of starlight in the void, her softened side blooming fully now as she looks up at me with eyes that hold both challenge and affection.
"Oh, I love to be punished."
My 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 her body and soul.
The library around us fades into irrelevance—the towering shelves groaning under the weight of ancient tomes pulsing with forbidden spells, their leather bindings etched with incantations that glow faintly in the dim light; the feast on the table, steam still rising in lazy spirals from dishes infused with ethereal aromas of roasted meats and spiced fruits, each bite seemingly woven with threads of restorative magic; the floating candelabras drifting like lazy fireflies, their flames shifting from gold to silver in rhythmic pulses that mimic a heartbeat none of us can hear.
The books that contain knowledge she'll eventually need to access—volumes on Fae lineages, hybrid magics, the chalice's ancient secrets—none of it matters in this moment.
Only her. 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, his tiny form hovering uncertainly as if trying to determine whether intervention is required, his miniature scythe glinting with void-energy that mirrors my own shadows, black smoke puffing from his robes like a concerned sigh.
"Greeee?" The inquiry carries obvious concern, his void-eyes darting between us, the little reaper's protective instincts flaring as he senses the charged tension.
"Out, Grim," I command without looking away from her, my voice a low growl infused with shadow-command, the words rippling through the air like dark waves that gently but firmly usher him away.
"Gree."
The little reaper vanishes with the particular wisdom of beings who understand when they're not needed, his form dissolving into wisps of black smoke that blend seamlessly into the library's dim corners, leaving us truly alone.
My free hand moves then, fingers extending as I run a single nail—sharpened by shadow-magic into a claw-like edge, dark and glistening with void-essence—along the fabric of the dress that cloaks her flesh.
The material is exquisite, midnight-black woven with threads of gold that shimmer like captured starlight, transparent panels revealing tantalizing glimpses of her curves, the whole thing humming with residual Fae enchantment that makes my skin crawl with jealousy.
It's not her style—not really—but it hugs her body like a second skin, accentuating every line and swell in a way that screams possession by another hand.