Chapter 56
FOREVER
Poppy
“You have lived a life anything but quiet,” I say as I trail the tip of my butterfly knife over Jonas’s shoulders flecked with as many scars as pinup tattoos on his thick arms.
He doesn’t reply. He’s still out cold.
“Did you give him too much fentanyl, Petit Diable?”
I lob a scowl at Bronte beneath my pink skull mask covering half my face. “Don’t blame me. You prepped the dose.”
“You didn’t need to use the whole damn syringe.”
“Look at him. He’s enormous.”
“He’s smaller than me.”
“Literally everyone is smaller than you.”
He winks from beneath his own half-faced mask. “Good answer.”
I whip him off. He chuckles, sinking back into the shadows of the private lounge beside a solemn Jezebel.
Voodoo the ethereal being that visited and commanded me to kill her.
Tonight, though, I’m seeking solace in bloodshed with the man I chose to share my throne and spend the rest of my life with. His half-sister is a damn good therapist, but there’s nothing quite as cathartic as torture.
When my victim is awake, that is.
Huffing a steaming cloud, I draw a syringe of adrenaline from my pocket. “How soon is too soon to shoot him up with this, mon roi?”
“Patience, ma reine. That’s only for if we lose a pulse before we’re ready to let the reaper take him.”
I scoff but pocket the needle. Briefly marvel at the ring glinting on my finger. Signaling to the world that I’ve been claimed, and I’m all his.
My blade skims over Jonas’s shoulders again. This time, his muscles twitch in response.
A corner of my mouth kicks up. Finally.
I fist his greasy bleached hair at the root, forcing his neck back and holding my knife against the edge of his…smile? Is he enjoying this?
Oh, fuck no.
My hand lifts. Snap!
Jezebel slinks forward.
Jonas’s smile vanishes.
My hand lifts, two fingers poised. “Make it hurt, sweet girl.”
Snap!
The big cat pounces, shredding skin like wet paper. Jonas screams like the infants he killed. His bones audibly crunch, his tendons snapping like wishbones. Fangs pierce an artery, and blood sprays the room.
Snap!
Jezebel reins in her bloodlust, licking her maw as I let her out the door. Jonas is a heap of tattered meat. He’s still breathing, though.
But he certainly isn’t smirking.
“Won’t be long now, mon amour.”
Bronte looms at my back, his serrated KA-BAR dragging up and down my throat. His hunger for me is insatiable. As if he’s lived his entire life deprived of life’s darkest indulgences, and he’ll never get enough.
Already, Jonas is fading. I draw the adrenaline and jam it into his heart. He gasps, his body convulsing as if possessed.
“You have sixty seconds, Scythe. Make them count.”
Bronte understands his assignment. He herds me toward the mangled murderer and bends me over the chair. My palms brace the arms as my leather pants are pulled down past my ass. I gasp as he slaps a cheek with the flat of his blade.
Jonas’s shit-brown eyes widen, his gurgling wails turning desperate.
Such a fucking turn on.
Bronte grabs my hips and thrusts the entire length of his thick cock into me.
I cry out as he fucks me harshly overtop the dying sinner.
His strikes hit deep, so deep that I feel something in my chest loosen—a gnarled knot of anxiety that’s been building within me, within us, for months.
Chiseling away at the memories of the night we could’ve so easily lost each other and so much more.
I’ll never forget the expression he wore when he found me in that crypt. He’s worn the same expression every time we make love or fight or just lie in each other’s arms. Like he doesn’t believe what his own senses are telling him until all of them are filled with me.
I wonder if my own face radiates the same relief as he replaces the fear of uncertainty with the promise of inevitability. No matter where our lives go from here, we’re in it together.
Pressure coils in the base of my spine, tightening into a painful twist of pleasure and agony.
Bronte groans, hauling me up and glancing down as my core throbs.
The muscles in his arms visibly flex around me as he pulls out a single inch from my tightening channel.
The veins in his cock bulge with his own impending end.
“Putain, Poppy. Your tight little cunt is so perfect, I swear you were made for me.”
“Or you were made for me.”
“Semantics.”
Bronte slams himself into me with a mighty thrust that rattles the chair. I gasp, euphoria lining my vision with constellations. I choke it back, needing him to plunge with me. He does it again, barking in my face, “Stop holding it, Poppy. Come for me so I can fill you. Now.”
I couldn’t even defy his command if I wanted to.
My climax barrels into me, and I cry out his name like I’m flinging my heart at him. He catches it eagerly, chasing my moans with heady kisses that threaten to throw me over the horizon again.
“One more, mon amour. If you want my cum inside you, I need you to fall for me one more time.”
I do, and then he’s growling French curses in my ear. Liquid heat bursts inside me, thick as honey straight from the comb. The mewls that escape me are pathetic, but he loves them, groaning as he laps the noises from my tongue and grinds his hips until nebulas are bursting across my vision.
“Stop,” I plead through the rapture heightening to an unbearable euphoria. “Mon ange, please.”
“Later, ma reine,” Bronte murmurs against my lips, his kisses slowing and turning tender as he eases the pressure off my sore and hypersensitive clit, “when I’m fucking your delicious little ass and you’re using that dragon cock on your pussy, the s word doesn’t exist.”
I try to scowl but end up smiling instead. “Only if you promise to let me use the dragon cock on your ass, mon roi.”
“Be careful when making deals with devils, Petit Diable. The wrong one just might steal your soul instead.”
Never. I will never get enough of this man.
A good thing never lasts just as long as forever.