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A blade.

The dagger is small, curved, with a black handle wrapped in worn leather. I've seen it before–under his pillow, kept there just in case–the same way Ares sleeps at the foot of my bed. The edge catches the firelight. He holds it up, just for her.

Her eyes dart back to me, the two of us are already bonded by the tip of a blade. I don’t think DK wants to hurt her, but I know she’ll let him if he wants. I lift my chin.Let him.

“Be still, sister,” he tells her, and then he slices the strip of fabric covering her pussy clean through–slowly,deliberately. My mind wanders, thinking that one jerk of his hand, oneflinch, and the tip of the blade would slice into the sweet flesh of her sex. Blood spilling where he could lap it up, tasting the very essence of her. I exhale and shake the thought away, the throbbing in my cock painful.

Everyone else in the room stills, but no one gasps. No one reacts. But they’re watching.Everyone’s watchingas he saws away that final thread, her pussy unharmed, and beneath?

Lush dark curls, wild, just like she is.

Arianette doesn’t move to cover herself, her hand lifting to his mouth to toy with the ring in his lip. She doesn’t close her legs, the Phantom Bliss erasing any modesty. I feel the same, running my palm over the hard line of my erection as she lets the ruined fabric fall open like petals, breath hitching. It’s not from fear, but from knowing this is hers now–this attention, this moment, this throne.

DK drops the blade beside them on the velvet, lazy and smug. He looks out over the room, all arrogance and heat, then right at me.

He holds my gaze.

It’s not a challenge. Not a threat.

An ask for permission?

No.An invitation.

I stay where I am, letting the hard stone cut into my shoulder blades. Allowing the Bliss to settle in my blood like a quiet song. I don’t move.

I watch.

And it feels like power, just to be here. Just to witness my brother and our Baroness, caught in a moment of pure intimacy. No fear or threats. Nothing but the primal urgency of lust. My eyes are focused just past the way her shorts hang open, ruined, but she doesn’t flinch. Unlike the girl we chased in the forest, this woman doesn't hide. She spreads her legs a little wider over his thigh like she knows–this isn't just for him. It’s for all of us.

DK shifts beneath her, slow and deliberate. One hand knots in her hair, yanks her head back–not brutally, but not gently either. It’s a show of possession, raw and real. Her throat arches. Her lips part. His other hand slides down her stomach, fingers splaying wide like he’s laying claim. The crowd’s fallen quiet. All eyes on the throne. On them.

He doesn’t undress her the rest of the way. Doesn’t bother with softness or pretense. He keeps her straddled on one thigh and just pulls himself free, the sound of his zipper loud in the hush. My jaw tightens at the sight of him, blistering red, the silver piercings glinting against the darkness of her thighs.

I should look away. I don’t.

Arianette gasps when Damon yanks her hips hard against his thigh–not slow, definitely not tentative. Her body jolts, grinding down on the thick muscle of him, and the sound she makes isn’t soft. It’s wrecked. Wild. High and breathless like her lungs forgot how to hold air.

And Damon–

Damon looks like a victorious god in the taking.

He can’t fuck her. That rule is non-negotiable, but the scene in front of us doesn’t feel one bit less of a claiming.

One arm crushes her to him, the other tangles in her hair, dragging her head back so the whole crypt can see her neck bared, mouth parted. He doesn’t kiss her, instead dragging his teeth down the column of her throat. He gives her that thing he loves to hold just out of reach, that teasing release that she begged for that night in her room. DK reaches between them, toying with her clit. He watches her come undone, face set like stone, like every twitch of her hips is a desperate chase.

It’s not sweet. It’s not love.

He doesn’t thrust. He commands. Drives her over and over onto the hard press of their thighs like she’s some holy instrument meant to be played until she breaks. Her hands clawat his chest, gripping the edge of his open shirt then sliding lower–under the fabric, then lower still, until her hand finds him at the place where they meet.

He growls. Low, guttural, possessive.

Not in pain. In power.

The throne creaks with the motion of her grinding down and him growing harder beneath her touch. Her pace picks up, one of her legs twitching, her whole body flushed and shining in the firelight. He watches her fall apart while stroking himself in her hand–slow, brutal.

The sound of her panting matches the distant bass. And when she cries out, sharp and raw, the crowd doesn’t cheer–they go silent–any and all questions of Damon and Arianette being worthy of their titles vanishing into the thick, smoky air.

And me? All I can do is watch, hands balled at my side, clenched. My body is heat and tension, a scream behind my ribs I don’t let out. There’s a part of me, dark and familiar, that drinks this in. That doesn’t want to touch. Only witness.