Chapter 39
INFERNO
Poppy
“Ijust sat through hours of watching you and Emi swoon over a vampire hunter setting out to slay Dracula, and you’re still denying being a vamp girl?”
“Technically, the Belmonts hunt monsters, not just vamps.”
Bronte waves me off, grumbling to himself as he boxes completed projects for orders that are slightly overdue.
I wander through his cold, odorous studio.
My nose slowly becomes blind to the smell as I feather my fingers over the jars above the slop sink.
I tap the glass, noting the thick consistency.
“What is this?”
Bronte glances over his shoulder. “Paint for sprayed edges.”
“It’s slightly congealed.”
“Been sitting there for a while.”
I grab a jar and unscrew the lid, catching a whiff of saccharine rot—
“Don’t!” He swoops over, snatching the jar and tightening the lid with a scowl. “Cats and curiosity don’t mesh well, Petit Diable.”
My eyelids slit. “That’s not paint.”
“It is.” He places the jar back on the shelf. “It’s just…homemade.”
“What’s your secret ingredient? Blood?”
“Oui, blood.”
I open my mouth and close it. “You’re not kidding.”
Bronte sighs a cloud of mist. “No. The blood is mixed with a few sterilizing chemicals. Now will you stop touching things and park it? I’ll be done soon.”
I throw my hands up in surrender and carefully perch on his workstation, idly swinging my crossed ankles. “So, where’s my book?”
“Hm?”
“You know, the book I was destined to decorate with my flawless skin.”
“Your skin isn’t flawless, Poppy.”
“Rude.”
He snorts and flicks a knuckle against my tattoo. “You’re tainted.”
“That’s not any better.” Beneath my breath, I utter, “Fucking prick.”
“You should be nice to me if you want your Valentine’s present.”
“My what?”
Bronte tips his head toward the hall leading to the tannery. “Take a look.”
Eyebrows pinching, I hop down and wince when my stitches pull a little. He trails behind me like a looming shadow, seeming almost…apprehensive.
I flick on the light and proceed to stare at the festively wrapped package sporting an obnoxiously large pink bow resting atop his logbook on the workbench.
“What is it?”
Bronte leans a shoulder against the wall. “Open it.”
I obey, gingerly lifting the package and ripping the festive paper. “By the fucking stars…this is a masterpiece.”
It’s my copy of Inferno, bound in a charcoal hide.
Scales are etched into the skin with painstaking precision, painted with cosmic hues that sparkle like stars even under the dim fluorescence.
A draconic skull made entirely of pearlescent bone is centered in the front face.
Glass reptilian eyes, blue as glaciers, peer back at me.
A single silver tear is carved down its razor-sharp cheekbone.
The rest is immaculate: glittering gemstones embedded in the hide, edges sprayed with that galactic paint, a quote from within inscribed into the back cover.
“‘E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle,’” I recite, swallowing a knot in my throat as I gape at him. “How did you know it’s my favorite?”
“There were years’ worth of tear stains bleeding the ink.” He shrugs, averting his gaze to the floor. “Made an educated guess.”
My thumb glides over the scales. “Whose hide is this?”
“It’s a patchwork. If you look closely enough, you’ll see the seams. Your greatest hits since we met are in there: Sebastian, Vladimir, Malakai…and Scull. Dante helped with the bone. That’s his specialty; not mine.”
I stare at the treasure he’s just gifted me. He may as well have handed me his heart and told me his soul is mine, too.
A second ticks by.
Two.
Ten.
“If you don’t like it—”
“Damattero,” I snap. “Don’t say another fucking word.”
His jaw wires shut.
“You escaped the darkest abyss life had to offer and found your haven here.” Gently, I set the book aside and step toward him.
“This city is your home and hearth, far away from your personal hell. Until I came along and tipped your life upside down. Yet you’re standing here, giving me the most thoughtful gift that you made with your own hands. ”
Bronte bends his stiff neck. I flatten my palms on his chest and tip my chin up, holding his gaze captive.
“Do you want to know what I got you?” He nods, and I tut. “Use your words, mon ange.”
“Oui,” he murmurs, his lips flirting with mine. “I want to know.”
Grinning, I lead him over to the stack of hide beside the chest freezer. “Sit.”
Watching him obey my command is an aphrodisiac more potent than any drug.
“Good boy,” I purr, fingering his top layers. “Take these off.”
His jacket and shirt form a pile on the floor.
Fuck, those muscles could feed an entire army.
“Free yourself.”
Bronte goes rigid. “You’re hurt, Poppy. We can’t; not yet.”
I flick my knife open, pressing the blade to his throat. “That wasn’t a request.”
Hazel eyes flaring with fire, he unbuckles his belt and tugs himself loose. I salivate as beads of gleaming precum slide from his broad head and down the steeled length of his thick, swollen cock. Its curve is deliciously wicked. A weapon of pleasure.
“Fuck yourself, mon roi.”
Bronte leans back on his elbows and pumps himself with long, slow strokes. A feral grin curls my mouth up. He groans like a starved animal.
I remove my top. My hair slips over my peaked nipples as I sink to my knees. He takes care to adjust his feet so my joints are cushioned by his boots.
“Such a gentleman.”
“Only for you.”
My smile widens, nails raking his powerful thighs. “I’ve been wondering if you’d feel like velvet or silk on my tongue.”
“Only one way to find out.”
I lick my lips. “Let me taste you.”
Bronte obliges, fisting himself at the root and nudging my lips. I kiss his crown then lick a single line from his knuckles to the seed leaking from his slit.
“Fuuuuck, ma reine.” His hips buck, his hands curling into my hair. I suckle on the tip, and his head kicks. “Mmm, your mouth is fucking divine.”
I groan, taking him deeper and swallowing him down my throat. He grips me tighter, his tenderness gone. My hand delves under my waistband, fingers circling my clit. I’m lapping him up like I’m the desert and he’s the rain. He’s panting, gripping my nape, and pinching my nipples between his fingers.
He’s close, but I don’t want him to go without me.
I tap my blade against his neck, and he immediately lets me up for air. “You come when I say you can come.”
“I can’t just—” I bite his dick, and he growls, “I don’t come until you say so.”
“That’s my good boy, Scythe.”
He visibly freezes, and it takes me a moment too long to realize why.
Scythe. His old alias. It just slipped off my tongue as easily as his name.
“Kuso. Forgive me, I—”
“Say it again.”
I blink. “Scythe?”
“No.” He winds a strand of my hair around his finger. “Like you want me to leave my mark on you.”
“Why?”
“I want to own my past, not cower from it. Not while I breathe the same air as the woman who embraces her own history and what it’s forged her to be.” He leans closer, murmuring against my lips, “I want to show you my darkness, as you’ve shown me yours.”
Blinking away unshed tears, I climb atop him and straddle his lap. My legs sink onto the hide of dead criminals. I should be disgusted, but it only turns me on more. In his ear, I whisper, “Scythe.”
He shivers as his arms close around me, his mouth seeking mine. Each kiss is deeper, longer, hungrier than the last. I push my waistband below my hips and grab his cock, feeding his length through my seam.
His muscles lock. “Poppy—”
“Shh, relax.” Careful not to move too quickly, I roll my hips. Flames spark in my veins, and a whimper claws out of me. The feel of his flesh is fucking inebriating. “Just a taste.”
Bronte groans, an innocent man before a noose. He kisses me like he’s on death row and I’m his last meal. Palming my ass, he pulls me over him. My wet lips fold around his slick cock, and I swear I feel every pulsating vein.
We writhe, reduced to beasts consumed by lust. He tastes like cherry smoke and midnight sin. He feels like devilry and decadence and the darkest fantasy. He sounds like a demon uncaged.
“More,” I plead, shameless. “Scythe, more.”
“So fucking sexy when you beg.”
His teeth clamp around my neck, his hot tongue chasing my pulse.
Stars blotch my vision as pain entwines with pleasure. Euphoria torches my blood. My eyes roll as my head falls back. My pussy clenches his cock, suctioning greedily.
Galaxies burst behind my eyes.
“Bonne fille,” he growls around my nipple. “Such a good girl you are, coming all over me.”
“Time to return the favor.”
My knife scrapes his jugular, and he gasps as he explodes. I hum as he spills between us, coating my cunt in his spend. His groans are gravel, grinding my sanity to dust. I ride his throbbing length, mewling into his mouth as I come undone again.
Bronte breathes French curses against my chest as gravity drags us down from the stars. I dip my blade in our cum, catching his eye as I lick it clean.
“You taste like candy, mon roi.”
“Candy.” He chuckles, resting his brow on mine. “I’m dead and sitting in hell with Lucifer’s daughter.”
“Morgenstern does translate to Morningstar…”
A warm droplet drips from the corner of my delirious smile. He snags my chin, lapping the spill. I lick his tongue then bite his bottom lip, letting it snap back into place.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re fucking lucky I can’t retaliate without ripping those stitches.”
I wink. “Happy Valentine’s, mon ange.”
Bronte presses his cheek to mine, breathing me in. “Does this mean you like the book?”
“I just spent the last half hour showing you how much I like it.”
“Thank fuck. That thing took decades off my life.”
I giggle, kissing his scar. He gently switches our positions and cleans me up before tending to himself. He’s quiet as we dress, tossing me lighthearted grins when we catch each other staring. But I know how much it means to him what I think of his gift.
I don’t like it.
I love it.
And that scares me more than death itself.