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Swallowing, I look between his amber eyes, remembering all too clearly the same eyes glaring back at me during the Royal Cleansing. Wishing so badly they wouldn’t, my eyes begin welling. “You’re the biggest bastard I’ve ever known,” I say, clamping down on the urge to cry, scream, or hit. “I hate you so fucking much, I could—”

I don’t actually see it coming.

One second, I’m consumed with the need to hurt him, and the next, his mouth is slamming into mine.

The sound I make is barely human, fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt as his tongue delves between my lips. His hand cinches around my wrist, wrenching it up over my head. I drop the tea, the paper cup hitting the floor with a thunk, warm liquid splattering my ankles.

It’s not that it feels good because it doesn’t. These are not the tender, sensual caresses I just saw the Barons bestowing on their woman. He winds a fist into my hair, yanking my face up to him, and it stings. All of it does. When he palms my breast, tender for days now, it’s all I can do not to shriek into his mouth.

Instead, I strike back. Reaching up, I jab my fingers through his hair, pulled back into his tidy bun, and rip it free from the elastic.

Lex grunts, pushing his hips into mine.

Only then do I lurch back, my shocked gaze locking on his. The hardness against my hip is as hot as a brand. “Are you… high?” I ask, my voice a mixture of fascination and horror. “Lagan.” That’s who’s boxing me in against this door. Not Lex, but his feral, ruthless alter ego. “Don’t do this.”

A fist slams against the door, two inches from my head. “Don’t ever call me that!” he roars.

I flinch, sensing that I’m wrong. His eyes are dark, but they’re not the eyes of the crazed man who forced me over that table during the cleansing. They’re two shades darker. I’ve seen it before. He’s a man chasing a high—nothing will come between him and his next fix.

Which means he hasn’t had one yet.

I tell myself that’s why I surge back to him, taking his mouth in another hard, bruising kiss. But it’s only half true. The other half has something to do with the gritty sound he makes, hands grabbing at me like a man possessed. One of them slides roughly under my short skirt, where he teases me through my panties. There’s no warmth or tenderness in his motions. He’s the silent beast that fucks me in his sleep—except here he’s awake. He knows what he’s doing. He just doesn’t give a fuck.

This is not about want.

It’s about need.

He chews his next words through clenched teeth, pushing them into my throat. “Fucking knew it. You’re soaked. You walk around all day like that, don’t you? Dripping wet, waiting for one of us to find you?”

“Fuck you,” I growl, the anger belied by a sudden moan when he fists the gusset of my panties, yanking them down. His knuckles drag against my clit, and I chase the pressure, releasing a long whine when he slides two thick fingers inside me. He pumps them in and out, the shoulder blocking my vision, shifting and flexing as he draws me to the edge. My hand twists in his hair, and I‘m panting, embarrassingly desperate to feel his cock inside. Like he reads my mind, he pulls his fingers out, loosens his buckle, and shoves down his pants.

I think I understand what’s happening when I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the sound of his tense, rapid breaths as he jostles in closer, but it’s too murky through this sudden fog ofwet-hard-needto really register.

Not until his big hand suddenly hooks beneath my knee, hiking it up around his waist. Faster than I expect, the head of his cock is shoving through, spearing into me with a slick, powerful thrust. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, that I don’t want this—or him—but his teeth bear down on my neck, sharp and painful, piercing my skin as he drives inside.

If I had a moment to think, I might consider how insane this is. How fucked up it is that we’re doing this in the hallway. I hate this man. He hates me. We’re bound by nothing but an archaic, deranged obligation.

Butgod, it feels good.

That’s all I can think about as his hot breath washes over my neck. My cry bounces off the walls of the stairwell, but he’s lost, an animal unleashed. His hips are relentless, pounding deep, meeting that spot that makes my legs weak. I struggle for tighter contact, feeling every muscle in his body flexing and bending in an attempt to fuck me deeper, harder. He holds me up, my body limp as a ragdoll, and I drag my nails over his neck, holding on tight.

The way I meet his thrusts with my own whimpers and grunts, hips grinding against his, might just be the first time my body has felt likeminein months.

This, the way he fucks into me, the shockwaves that follow every brush over my clit, my nipples hard, grazing over his chest. This body feels familiar. And as fucked up as it may be, when the orgasm crashes over me, it feels so right.

His spine immediately goes rigid, strands of his hair hanging in his eyes as they clench shut. My pussy clamps around him, and his mouth covers mine, a groan escaping as he comes, pinning me to the wall.

For a brief moment, it’s just our hard breaths and the all-encompassing scent of him, clean and spicy and unmistakably masculine. If I had my wits about me, I might make some comment about him being a day late and a dollar short—I’m already pregnant. An ‘organic’ deposit is wasted on me.

But before I can, he’s shoving away—violently—his hair wild as he tucks his cock back into his pants. “Your body doesn’t belong to you, Verity. It belongs to me and my brothers. To East End.” As I struggle to find my footing, the warm trickle of his cum dripping down my thigh, his shuttered eyes drop to my stomach. “It belongs to our baby. Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”

* * *

Tossingthe cum-stained tissue in the trash, I fish out my phone and shoot off a text.

Vivarium:Beware the rose's thorns; a shadow dances among the petals.

Instar:??