33. Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
“You know…” His voice dragged over her skin, warm breath raising goosebumps in its wake. His lips followed, grazing a path from the slope of her shoulder to just beneath her ear. “You really are a bit unhinged.”
She didn’t answer right away. His fingers had already found the edge of her sleeve, tugging the white linen down.
His other hand drifted lower, tracing the dip of her spine as each button gave way under the press of his fingers.
Old-fashioned closures—she’d always cursed them, hated how Isolde insisted on tradition over practicality, banning anything as useful as a zipper.
But now, with his knuckles brushing the bare line of her back, each touch unhurried and careful, it might be the only time she’d ever thank that woman for anything.
“I’m supposed to be getting ready for the ball, Deyric.” Her head tipped back onto his shoulder, her voice just a touch breathless. “Not… whatever this is.”
He paused, hand resting against the last button. His mouth hovered at the curve where her neck met her shoulder. “Do you want me to stop?”
She reached back without warning, fingers tangling hard in his hair. “Not unless you want to piss off a crazy woman.”
Twisting, her teeth scraped his jaw, biting hard, just shy of breaking skin. She needed to feel him tense under her mouth, needed to know he was here, solid, letting her have this—letting her have him. His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her in even closer.
“Are you sure?” His voice came rougher now, half-lost against her neck. “We might miss the show if we delay too long.”
She laughed, low and dark, the sound buzzing between them. “Tempting.”
He was right. She did want to see the culmination of their efforts.
After Ursula had swallowed Caelith’s lifeless body in shadows and went to sweep the scene clean, Emmaline and Deyric slipped back into the castle.
While Deyric kept watch, she tucked Allistair’s murder trophies into Lady Isolde’s jewelry closet.
No one had looked twice at another servant in uniform, not with the whole castle in chaos that morning, scrambling through last-minute ball preparations. But…
Deyric’s hands were still on her, tracing slow lines down her sides, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric.
She turned in his grip, her dress sliding lower with the motion. “Isolde will get what she deserves,” she whispered, drawing her teeth along his jaw again. “What about what we deserve?”
Before she could pull him closer, his fingers dug in at the base of her skull, twisting her hair just enough to lock her still. He didn’t rush. He hovered just above her, close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting over her lips, but not the kiss she wanted.
The air between them thickened.
Then, his mouth fell down on hers, teeth catching her lower lip with enough bite to make her gasp.
And the moment her lips parted, he took her—tongue sweeping past hers, claiming the space without hesitation.
His fingers wrung deeper in her hair, tilting her head exactly where he wanted, leaving her no room to shift, no chance to take control.
Softening against him, she raked her nails down his chest, leaving faint lines behind in the fabric. It was the only resistance she had left.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmured.
The words hit like a hand around her throat—desire, panic, and need all tangled so tight she couldn’t tell one from the other. She was already reaching for him, searching, before her mind caught up.
But before she could answer, Deyric pulled her closer as the dress crumpled at her feet, forgotten, crushed under their steps.
Looking up at him, her pulse hammered in her throat as his green hair fell loose around his face, wild and damp from the rain they’d run through to get from the castle to his small cottage.
His hand found her hand, lifting it over his chest so her fingers rested above his heart.
She could feel it pounding hard and fast, and something inside her stumbled to match it, like her body recognized the rhythm and had always known it.
“Yours?” Her voice cracked. It would be so easy to just take what he offered. But she couldn’t. Not yet. “Do you really want that after everything I’ve done? Because if you do, there’s no going back. It will be for always.”
He pressed her palm harder against his chest, holding it there like he was afraid she’d pull away.
“I probably shouldn’t, should I?” His lips skimmed her forehead, too soft compared to the grip around her wrist. “If I had any sense, or any real instinct for self-preservation, I’d run.
” His mouth found hers, just a brush, a tease, before pulling back.
“But the Goddess chose well, Emmaline.” His fingers threaded through hers.
“Because even thinking about leaving you rips me apart from the inside out. My feet won’t move. My soul’s already planted.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just a single uneven breath trapped halfway up her throat. How the hell was she supposed to match that?
“Damn it, woman. Just say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
“Ob—obviously,” she stammered, brows raising. “Obviously, I’m yours, you stupid man.”
The words slipped out, and her stomach dropped, like stepping off a ledge blindfolded.
His eyes darkened, heat rolling off him in waves. “Good.” His hands shot to her hips, yanking her up against him. And she jumped without thinking, her thighs wrapping tight around his waist, every inch of him ready, and pressing hard between them.
“Why are you still wearing clothes?” She tore into his shirt, wrenching it up and over his head, baring the corded muscles lining his arms and chest.
Instead of answering, he tightened his hold on her legs and spun them both, slamming her back against the nearest wall.
“Ahh!” The plaster bit into her bare skin, but his mouth was already on her throat, teeth nipping at her pounding pulse. He kicked off his boots without stopping, then pushed away from the wall, carrying her to the bed. One step, two steps, three—until the backs of his knees hit the frame.
Then he turned in a slow circle and lowered her onto the rough sheets, his touch almost careful. Bending over, his fingers traced the length of her spine in a slow drag as she settled, like he was mapping the contours of her flesh, unable to decide whether to worship her or tear her apart.
“What’s taking so long?” She pushed up to her knees, hands already reaching for the worn cowhide belt at his hips. “Or are you planning to just stand there and stare all night?”
Fingers sliding beneath his waistband, she worked the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the rigid length of him. She didn’t bother being delicate, yanking at the buckle and the buttons at the same time, trying to strip him down and free him all in one motion.
“I’ll take as long as I want.” He pushed her back down by the shoulders.
She landed with a bounce, the mattress dipping hard beneath her, every thread steeped in the scent of leather and fire-warmed skin, wrapping her in him before he even touched her.
Pushing up, her hair fell wild around her face, her mouth halfway to a snarl before she saw him.
His hands rested low on his hips, and his pants were already shoved halfway down his legs as he slowly—too slowly—worked the leather further down.
Her mouth went dry as his hand closed around his cock, stroking slow from base to tip, his skin flushed dark and tight in his grip.
“Is this what you want?” His eyes locked on hers, deep emerald swallowing the whites, like the man she knew had stepped aside for something far more dangerous.
“Fuuuck.” The word slipped free, half moan, half prayer, as she sank back to the mattress.
“Such a foul mouth.” His hand moved slow, another long stroke as the pants hit the floor with a soft thud.
She started to crawl toward him again, but the look he gave her stopped her cold—a slight tilt of his head, the barest lift of his chin, an unspoken command that sent heat pouring down her spine. Whimpering, her hand slid down between her thighs, fingers already searching.
“No.” His voice snapped out. “That’s mine.”
Her fingers curled into a fist as she yanked her hand back and her thighs pressed together, soaked with need.
“What do you want?” Her breath came fast, every word ragged.
“You know.” His eyes followed the path her fingers left, heavy-lidded and dark. “Don’t make me say it.”
“You asshole.” The words ripped out between gasps. She did know. The big bastard wanted her begging.
He pursed his lips like he was considering her insult. And her punishment.
“Fine.” She ached—wet, swollen, and empty—the kind of need that turned every breath into torture. “Please, Deyric.”
“And?” His brow lifted, but his cock twitched in his grip.
She pulled in one hard breath, then let it out slow, wickedness carving its way across her mouth. He wants to play? I’ll fucking play.
“Please, Deyric. Please take me.” She crawled up to her knees, gripping her breasts before slipping her hands lower.
“Take that big fucking cock and ruin me with it. Break me open and fill me so full they’ll have to scrape your name off my ribs.
Fuck me so hard they’ll hear it all the way down in the Gloam, and when I walk into that godsdamned ball, they’ll know—every single one of those polished, preening assholes will know exactly who I belong to, and exactly how you made me yours. ”
She brought her fingers back up to her mouth, licking them clean, watching his chest rise and fall faster, and faster. Watching as his fingers tightened around that delicious, throbbing manhood just a little too hard.
For once, Deyric was the one losing his composure—the faintest flush crawling up his neck before hunger swallowed it whole.
“Please, Deyric.” She leaned in, tongue flicking over the flushed head, licking just enough moisture from him to shine on her lips.
She held there, breath warm against his skin, so close he could feel every shallow exhale, but she never took him fully into her mouth.
Her cunt clenched on nothing, so wet she could feel it dripping down her thighs, but she held his gaze, daring him to lose control.
“Just fuck me already,” she begged. “Make me yours.”