Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Knuckles hit my face and I stumble back, slamming the door closed. The back of my skull hits wood and the taste of copper instantly fills my mouth.
Haide flexes and shakes her hand out. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t look sorry.
“You locked me in,” she says, almost pouting.
I brace a palm against the door and push off as a mixture of laughter and a growl escapes me. “I told you to wait. The fact that you tried to leave proves why I needed to fucking lock you in.”
“So you had your brother tie the leash!”
“I prefer cages,” I say, and then my hand is around the back of her neck, forcing her back. I’ve moved without thinking and she’s moved to meet me.
This is the part of us that makes more sense than breathing. The part where skin is the argument and our mouths are the only weapons we need.
Her forearms land on my chest, not to push away, but to brace herself. Her spine hits the old stone behind her with a thud.
I growl as my hands land on either side of her head, caging her in. I like her like this. Defiant with nowhere to run.
Her chin tips up like a challenge. “Don’t,” she says.
“Say it,” I breathe. My forehead touches hers, and her pulse beats like a hard drum. Mine matches. “Say it. Mean it.”
Her breath rubs my mouth. “Fuck you.”
I shove my knee between her thighs and pin her. Her gasp burns steady now.
Be careful. Be cruel. Be what she wants.
“You lock your jaw, throw a punch and think that’s a no?” My voice drops. Carefully. This is the wire we live on. “You want me to stop—say it.” The corner of my mouth twitches. “See if I listen.”
Her hand slides into my hair and tightens. Pain prickles like an honesty that no one has ever given me before. A second of silence. “I—”
I crush my mouth to hers.
It’s not sweet. It’s a collision. Teeth-clash kind of collision. She punishes me back with the kind of violence she most likely fights with.
Hands. Where? Everywhere. Her shirt is soft—fucking wrong. I want her in knives and leather. I grab the hem and bunch it, not kind, not gentle. She slaps my wrist and drags it lower, greedy as I am. A silent fuck you and a fuck me in one cruel little tug.
I grin against her mouth because I can’t help it. She tastes like salt and something that could be an addiction if I let it.
“I should leave you locked in here,” I murmur into her, words against tongue. “See what kind of carnage you unleash when you don’t get what you want.”
“Do it,” she says, kissing me between the words. “And I’ll leave claw marks over every single thing you touch.”
My hand finds the line of her throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just feeling the slick beat under my thumb. Mine. The word lights up my nerves like a current. My brothers are fucking liars. Whatever bullshit they’re thinking, they’re wrong. This time, they’re wrong.
I drag my mouth to her jaw. To her ear. “Mine.”
“I am not your—” It comes ragged. Stops when I circle my tongue beneath her ear. She shakes, her fight giving out. “Legend.”
I hiss, circling my hips into her. “Say that again.”
“Legend.”
Fire races down my spine, burning the ache and fatigue. My magic that’s been sulking for so fucking long leans toward her like a pet.
I kiss her again and this time I take my time. Not slower. Just precise. She squeezes the back of my neck and my cock hardens as I slowly grind against her.
She bites my lip and then sucks the hurt back like she can’t decide if she wants to punish me or soothe me. Good. Same.
My hand slides under her shirt and I hiss through my teeth at the heat of her skin. She’s fever-sweat hot, like a forge. Like a blade fresh from the quench. She bows into my palm like she wants closer and then shoves me like she wants distance. The friction of both is perfect.
“You hit like you mean it,” I murmur against her throat, licking the pulse, my energy tingling from the high of having her in my arms like this. “Next time don’t telegraph the right.”
“You deserved it,” she says, breath chopping on the last word.
“Probably.” I scrape my teeth down the tendon. “Do it again and I’ll bend you over the desk to teach you why we don’t throw hands at kings.”
“Try it,” she says. The half laugh breaks. Her fingers fist in my shirt. “Don’t stop.”
Yes. That. The plea that pretends it isn’t. I anchor a hand at her hip and push her higher up the wall. She’s strength and heat and mean—and I love her for all of it.
My other hand slides down, rough and claiming, yanking her thigh up to hook around my waist. I grind into her, hard and deliberate, the friction a fucking inferno. Her gasp claws the air, and I swallow it, thrusting against her with a rhythm that’s all dominance, all need, her body arching into every brutal press.