Lovely Venom (Empire of Kings #3)

Prologue

CHANTEL

Rough words. Steady hands.

A dark, addictive scent that wraps around me and doesn’t let go.

Those details are imprinted on me, and three years later, I still can’t erase the lingering ache of our final night together.

The memory lives inside me, haunting me in my dreams and loneliest hours.

It was supposed to be simple. No names. No attachments. Clear rules. But nothing about my time with him was simple, and when the memories come rushing back, they consume me.

“Do you remember what I told you, dea?”

The weight of his hand settles on my throat, tipping my head back as his voice brushes against my ear.

There’s something so possessive about the way he touches me. It sends lightning through my veins and makes it hard to breathe at times.

Of course he knows.

The efficiency with which he’s learned to read my reactions is as terrifying as it is fascinating. He’s observant, calm, composed, and he speaks with the quiet kind of authority a man can only be born with.

It makes sense that he chose Bran the Blessed as his alias because the watcher sees everything.

He knows when I need his control and when I need my own. He recognizes when to push and when to give. Nothing is forced. He leaves the door open and allows me to surrender on my terms.

And with him, surrender has become inevitable. My body reacts to him almost instinctively when he directs me now, and somehow, he calms the chaos inside my mind. It’s liberating, but also confusing.

A dynamic like ours can only work if I risk the free fall, knowing he’ll be there to catch me. But trust isn’t something I give easily, or in most cases, at all. I’ve spent years forging this armor around me, and it’s been impenetrable until him.

With every fear he strips away, he dismantles another piece of my defenses, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. Paradoxically, I can handle dysfunction because my nervous system recognizes it, but these moments of safety?

They unravel me.

Tonight, it’s so much more intense than anything else we’ve done. Beneath the blindfold, all I have to rely on are my senses. But even without sight, he’s there when I close my eyes.

Large, masculine hands. Dark hair. The smooth, well-carved lines of his jaw, and the steady pulse in his neck. The only mystery remains obscured beneath the matte black half-mask, but I know his eyes would be as devastating as the rest of him.

He’s all man—a fortress of muscle and bone, with the kind of protector energy that feels nothing less than primal.

That presence swallows me whole as I sit on his lap.

I’m familiar with the brush of his immaculate suit when he touches me, but tonight his chest is bare.

It’s become a ritual for me, drinking in the sight of him as he enters the room, methodically removing his cufflinks and loosening his tie.

When he takes off his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, my mind conjures up the most unholy thoughts I’ve ever had.

But seeing that broad expanse of olive skin for the first time, the ridges of muscle along his abdomen, and that faint dusting of dark hair that disappears beneath his trousers? My brain short-circuited.

“Peak male evolution” isn’t a strong enough description.

The pull of his masculinity triggers a primitive urge to lay myself bare for his pleasure.

If only he’d let me.

I often wonder what’s in this arrangement for him. He’s a man built to claim, and I’m certain he’d have plenty of willing subjects. But here he is with me, patiently working through these exercises in trust as he gives me pleasure and never takes any for himself.

It’s not an even exchange, and it’s difficult for me to accept that. But he tells me what pleases him most right now is watching me surrender, and I believe him.

Why else would he still be here?

“Answer me.” The steady cadence of his voice brings me back to the moment.

His earlier question hangs heavy in the air, and I remember what he told me because he says it every time.

“I’m safe with you,” I whisper.

The disturbing thing is that it feels like it’s true.

When I’m surrounded by him, drunk on the way he handles me, another barrier erodes.

And every time I lean into that feeling, an emotional catastrophe looms on the horizon.

But when he directs me with that quiet dominance in his voice, my mind switches off, and I just… exist.

“That’s it.” He eases me against him as my body gives way, melting into his. “I’ve got you now.”

Those words envelop me in warmth, soothing old wounds and feeding my growing addiction for his approval.

The heat from his chest penetrates my back, a first for us. Skin to skin, touching without purpose or desire—but simply to let go.

I close my eyes, allowing myself a new type of pleasure as he massages the tension from my shoulders. It feels…good. So good, I fall into a suspended state of stillness, disarming my usual defenses.

His hands sweep along my arms, and goosebumps follow in their wake.

I don’t know what to expect next, and my breath hitches when he lifts my arm, draping it over his shoulder.

My palm settles on the back of his neck, and I focus on the steady pulse of his heartbeat as he trails his fingers down the length of my ribcage.

As his fingers roam, I breathe in the cocktail of chemistry unique to him. It’s an intoxicating high, and I know when I go home tonight, that scent will cling to my skin.

I let myself drown in it as he touches me everywhere, the slow slide of his hands taking me to a place I’ve never been before. It’s blissful, weightless, and feels far too much like somewhere I could belong.

Like home.

We linger in that moment for an eternity, my heartbeat slowing to a crawl as I nearly drift off.

His palm settles over my chest, the solid weight anchoring me to him. It’s intimate, but I can’t deny that I like it.

“Tell me who hurt you.” The warmth of his voice caresses my ear.

My lips part as something inside me whispers that it’s okay.

I’m aware he’s a dangerous man, even without knowing who he is or what he does. I recognized that quiet lethality in him the first time we met. I understand if I give him a name, he’ll make the problem disappear.

There’s an undeniable temptation in that, and for a moment, I get caught up in the fantasy.

This version of me wants to trust him with the most broken parts of myself. But then I remember what happened the last time I trusted someone.

Tears.

Betrayal.

Cruel hands.

He’s not going to save you, sweetheart. He was the one who offered you to me.

The echo of his laughter hollows out my chest.

“Breathe,” Bran murmurs, dragging me back to the present. “You’re safe with me, dea.”

Those words leave a catastrophic wound.

It’s a pretty lie, and I almost let myself believe it. But trust is an illusion, and I promised myself I’d never fall into that trap again.

That thought has me in a chokehold as I scramble out of his grasp, offering him a lie of my own.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m done.”