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“Is that so, sweetheart?” Before I have a chance to react, his hand slides up the back of my neck and grips my hair. He holds it so tight, I whimper in his grasp. Roman lowers his face to align with mine. “What happened to what you said the other night? About most of it being true?”

I want to deny it. I want to tell him I lied at Sanguivita, and that I’d betray him again if given the chance. That I’d make him fall for me and destroy him all over again. I want to be able to say all of that, but I can’t.

Because I wouldn’t.

If I got to do it all over, I’d tell him the truth while he held me in his arms in the quiet of his darkened bedroom. He’d stripped away parts of me, undressing me to see the mental illness underneath, and he hadn’t been afraid. I should have allowed him to see it all. If not then, I’d tell him at Last Drop when he made a promise with my blood. When he sacrificed his power over me to make me his equal.

If I would have told him the truth and he killed me for it, at least I’d be put out of my misery.

His mouth hovers dangerously close to mine, and I know the question on his lips is a killshot, but hope flutters low in my belly anyway. Because he remembered what I said, and it has had an impact. My nostrils sting, and my lip trembles.

He laughs when I can’t reply, and the cruelty in it feels like a promise of what’s to come. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my body betrays me. Tears sneak past my lashes and begin to roll down my face. And once that emotion breaches containment, the rest of the feelings I’ve buried deep rush to the surface to take its place. Everything feels tight and my stomach turns as the dark creatures inside me try to burst forth. It’s all sorrow and remorse and shame until words I swore I’d never say tumble out of my mouth. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, Roman.”

He lets go of me and takes a step back. He says nothing. His temple twitches as he clenches his teeth. I sniffle and wipe away the tears, angry with myself for allowing my feelings to get the better of me.

“I don’t believe you.”

He takes off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch. I haven’t seen most of his tattoos in weeks now, and my eyes are greedy as they trace the twisting snake up one arm. And then I count the petals of each flower I can see on the other. I’m starved for each detail, and when I finally look him in the eye, I’m surprised by what I find.

Because he’s watching me in the same way. Searing, the heat of his attention moves up my exposed legs to my thighs then to my stomach. From my breasts to my face. Despite the oversized t-shirt I wear, despite his hatred for me, he wants me. His nostrils flare and he wets his lips, and I can tell he’s ravenous.

Roman has dreamed of killing me—more than once. He’s talked about fucking me in the ass while he slices me open and ends my life. My breath catches in my throat, and I realize I’venever wanted anything more. I want his brutal touch. The taste of him I’d had inside Sanguivita wasn’t nearly enough. The way he’d gripped me and fucked me had seared itself onto my skin. He’d been so fuckingalive, pure kinetic energy. So different from what I want for myself. But still,I long for his violence and his embrace, for his simmering hatred and his fire.

Maybe he needs to do as he’d fantasized. Maybe he’d grant me this single favor if I granted him use of my body. It’s not exactly a hardship to offer myself to him for sex and sacrifice.

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask, and I step closer.

“You can’t,” he says, so quiet and restrained that I know it’s taking every ounce of his control.

“Nothing?” I ask, and before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my shirt over my head.

HIs eyes narrow, but he doesn’t drop eye contact. A smirk tips up one side of his mouth. “A warm, wet mouth might go a long way.”

I huff a laugh as Roman steps closer. He’s close enough to reach out and touch my skin, but he doesn’t. I’m wearing comfortable boy shorts and nothing else, and he can do whatever he wants. I have no limits to what I’ll allow him to do to me, but I don’t know how to verbalize it.

“I’d like to try to convince you,” I offer.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and those deep brown eyes dart all over my face. I’m not sure what he sees, but he’s all indecision until something in him snaps.

“Show me then.” A quick jerk of his chin as he reaches for his belt tells me all I need to know. “Down on the ground, I want you to show me how much of a whore you are for my cock.”

I lower myself to my knees.

I wince when my skin finds a hidden shard of glass, left behind by the shattered balcony door. But I don’t adjust or wipeit away, thinking that maybe it’s only fitting that I suffer while I bring him to pleasure.

He steps closer as he undoes his belt, pulling it off and throwing it onto his jacket.

“Consider it your confession and atone,” he says, unbuttoning his pants. He slides his boxer briefs down his biteable, muscular thighs, and out springs the heavy weight of his desire. I’ve always been a size queen—girth, specifically—ever since I knew what it meant to be one. To be filled, to be stretched, to feel nearly torn apart by someone as they slide their thickness inside my desperate body.

Saliva pools on my tongue when I think about taking him into my mouth. There’s just something so carnal about shoving an enormous cock down one’s throat, opening wide and swallowing deep, trying to take everything.

And Roman’s everything isa lot.

I reprimand myself when I wax poetic about his length in my mind, but it’s truly a beautiful specimen. As he steps closer, I grasp him in hand. His skin here is so soft, such a contrast from everything else about him. His pretty, pink tip glistens with a bead of precum. Dipping forward, I flick the drop of liquid with my tongue, and he hisses a tortured breath.

“Would you have killed me if I told you sooner?” I ask, eyes on him as I place the head of his cock on my tongue. I don’t move, simply sitting on my heels, tongue out and mouth open wide as I stare up at his handsome face.