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That’s always been my place, hasn’t it?

On the edge of the fire. Never stepping in.

But always watching it burn.

DK’s got one hand on her throat now, tilting her head back so she can’t hide the expressions on her face–so we can all see them. Her eyes flutter, her mouth is slack, her body riding every brutal thrust. For the first time he lets her go all the way, allowing her to come.

And fuck if it isn’t beautiful. Grotesque. Holy. Different from the gritty anonymity of Noir Sanctum.

This was a ritual made of flesh and sound by two people bound by something bigger than all of us.

I stand there in my darkened corner, still as the stone behind me, pulse hammering, every nerve lit up as I try to control thethrobbing want, wondering, for the thousandth time, if watching this closely is the same as being touched.

Taking a deep breath, I barely register as Arianette rises from DK’s lap, her breath still ragged, legs unsteady. Her shorts are nothing now, just tattered fabric clinging to her thighs, pretending to be the last remnants of modesty.

She doesn’t adjust them, doesn’t fix her hair.

There’s no need.

The crowd watches her like she’s untouchable, as she walks toward me.Straight across the crypt, bare thighs lit in the firelight, Damon’s seed glistening on them. My breath stills in my chest. I don’t move. I can’t.

She stops in front of me, looking up through dark lashes, lips still parted from the sounds she made from his hands.

“Can I touch you?” she asks.

Not breathy. Not shy. Just honest. Ritualistic.

Like she knows what this is. Like she understands what I’ve been doing from the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

And I should say no.

But I don’t. Not this time. Not with the Bliss running through my bloodstream, or the erection rock solid against my inner thigh. Not with the opportunity to be part of it, instead of just passively sitting by the side. DK won them over tonight in the ring, but we’re brothers–in this together– they need to see my power as well.

I nod and she kneels.

Obeys.

Her breath is still uneven, her lips slightly swollen from where she’d been biting down on them, and the fabric of her ruined shorts brushes her thighs as she lowers herself betweenmine. Her fingers are sure, reverent, as they undo me, belt, button, zipper, all while holding my gaze.

I’m already hard, a fucking hair-trigger away from blowing like a rocket. It takes everything in me not to go off at that first touch.

Jesus Christ.

She wraps her fingers around me, her touch confident, slow. The warmth of her hand is nothing compared to the heat that pours off her. She strokes me once, then again, a lazy drag from base to tip that makes my breath hitch. My thighs tense, unaccustomed to the sensation of a woman’s hands.

Then her lips part.

She lowers her head, tongue flat as she licks the underside of my cock from base to tip–slow, deliberate, not missing a thing. Like she’s mapping me with her mouth. I bite the inside of my cheek to stay still, to keep my grip tight on the edge of the stone and not her.

And then she takes me in.

It’s not her first time sucking a man’s cock. Damon claimed that too, but this time it isn’t about leverage and betrayal. There’s no blood on her hands, not tonight. There’s no teasing. No fear. Just deliberate rhythm, like she instructed Damon during the fight. Her lips stretch around the head, then down further, warm and slick and obscene. Her mouth is wet heat, the pressure perfect. She doesn’t stop until I hit the back of her throat, and then she pulls back, dragging her tongue along the underside with that same steady rhythm that Damon set in her earlier.

Every movement is deliberate. Ritualistic.