Page 43 of Blood and Thorns

I wonder what she’d say if I told her I was thinking about her the entire time. How I imagined how soft her skin would feel beneath my hands, and how much I wanted to mark it. How I planned to make her cry as I fucked her throat and then stretched her tight little cunt until she could take the entire length of me.

As I stalked closer, she stumbled back, her arm knocking the portrait in her panic. Arabella tried to catch it before it fell, but I was there, grabbing her wrist as it clattered to our feet, enjoying how her pulse spiked and her lips parted with a gasp.

Those fucking lips.

I’d spent hours painting them, only to not get them right. I scowled down at her, and a flash of fear settled in those large, brown eyes. It sent a jolt down my cock, and I swear the prick was already prepping for round two.

But not yet.

So I dipped my head forward, forcing her to lean back at an awkward angle. “Get out,” I whispered, and her entire body jerked as if she’d been electrocuted.

I released her wrist suddenly, and she barely caught herself from falling before she twisted past me, her hair a flurry as she ran. My blood heated at the possibility of a hunt, of catching her as she screamed and fought, and then finally surrendering as I sunk my cock into her willing body.

But I held back, violence still too close to the surface.

If I fucked her now, I could end up hurting her. And while hurting my partners made my cock hard, I didn’t want to break her just yet. She needed to beg first.

My cock twitched, but ignoring it I headed towards the canvas she’d been touching. Picking it up I placed it back on the easel, brushing my fingers over the frayed edges where I sliced it diagonally three times.

It had been a stunning piece, her face painted in various shades of grey and red, only for me to lose my temper and destroy it. Just like I destroyed everything that was breakable. Pulling out my phone, I placed it on a ledge, flicking up the app for the cameras and swiping until I found her room.

She was already there, laying across her bed in my fucking T-shirt. Her dark hair was sprayed out across the pale sheets, her eyes closed and her cheeks still that pretty pink colour.

Looking away I grabbed a pack of cigarettes, lifting one to my lips before lighting the tip. Throwing the portrait against the others, I grabbed a fresh canvas, the oil paints still scattered on the floor where I’d left them.

Normally after a fight I could sleep, but for some reason my demons were howling, the nightmares threatening to tear at my control.

So I’d paint. Until I was too exhausted to dream, or until morning light broke. Whichever came first.

Taking a drag, I released a billow of smoke before returning to my phone, only to pause. Arabella was still there, but her back was arched, her legs bent up on the mattress. Taking the cigarette out of my mouth, I balanced it beside my phone, leaning closer to get a better look.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, lips open in a silent cry. The hem of the T-shirt had risen, and her fingers were stroking between her thighs.

I immediately brought my phone closer to my canvas, the paintbrush moving in my hand while my eyes remained glued to the image. Her fingers rubbed, diving inside her pussy as she writhed against the sheets, the black T-shirt rising up until her other hand could brush across her breast.

Fuck.

My Arabella was a fucking temptress, and it made me want to mark her soul in the same darkness that stained mine.

Because until I grew bored, she was mine to use.

Mine to own.

Mine to fucking destroy.

Chapter 22

Sebastian

Leaning against my bike, I took a moment to glance up at the building, the dark brick three stories high.Baron Financial Consultancy and Accountancywas nestled in the heart of Kensington, polished to perfection and as ‘legit’ as any business built on corruption could be.

What pretentious prick uses his title as part of the name of his business? Oh, that would be my uncle. He seemed to forget the Baron title was hereditary and was given to him just because he was the eldest and only son.

It wasn’t earned, and it meant nothing in a modern time where royalty and aristocracy had almost zero power, and contributed nothing meaningful to society other than to a small circle of elite. So his title was pointless.

But Alexander Ackworth still paraded around like he was more important than he actually was, just because he’d been the only male sibling.

Along with the title, he’d inherited the family fortune, my grandfather purposely leaving my mum nothing. Not that there was any fortune left, as my grandfather was a notorious drunk who used every last penny on sex workers and any drugs he could get his old, wrinkled hands on.