Page 10 of Blood Court (Cursed Darkness #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

LYSITHEA

I wake up trapped. Not by chains, but by bodies.

A fortress of heat and shadow. Dathan’s warmth is a furnace at my side, his breathing a low rumble.

Verik is a dead weight at my feet, a silent guardian.

Evren’s hand is a cold brand on the small of my back, right over the real one.

The air is thick with their power. My skin crawls.

But the panic that should be clawing at my throat is silent. Exhausted.

The Soul Scar is a dull ache, a quiet threat. It’s waiting. We all are.

I slide out from under Evren’s hand, careful not to wake them. The floorboards are cold against my bare feet. I move through the gloom of my room. They don’t stir. They trust me not to run. I trust them not to let me. It’s a fucked-up balance.

In the bathroom, the mirror shows a stranger.

Pale skin, bruised eyes, and a mouth that remembers how to kiss like it’s a declaration of war.

A scream from the void. The book’s words echo.

I look for a seam, a crack, some sign that I’m not real.

There’s nothing. Just a girl who is tired of being a victim.

I reach for the taps and turn them on as the door opens. I look over to see Dathan slip inside. He doesn’t say anything, neither do I. His intent is clear from the bulge in his pants. It’s fine. I’m not running. Not anymore.

We don’t need words as he moves in behind me, cupping my tits, squeezing the nipples to two hard peaks.

I watch his gaze in the mirror, a reflection of my own growing desire.

I shudder inside as he slides one hand between my legs.

The urge to push him away rears up, but I ignore it.

I have nothing but this, nothing but them.

If they want to fuck me, I’m going to let them.

If I want to fuck them, they will let me.

We are a fucked up, twisted group of trauma and pain that is being prodded at by a book who claims to be a god.

Scratch that. It is a god. It created me, didn’t it?

Dathan pinches my clit gently, twisting it until I gasp.

My pussy soaks his fingers, making him groan softly as he pushes two inside me. I grip the sink, keeping my gaze on him. I don’t want to look at myself being fucked. Being used. But he knows this. He smiles. It makes my blood run cold.

“Look at yourself, Lysithea. See yourself how I see you right now, creaming all over my hand like you can’t get enough of me.”

I shudder again, right down to my soul. I hate it, but he’s right.

My body betrays me. It always does around them.

His thumb finds my clit, circling, pressing, a relentless assault on my senses. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, the coppery tang of my own blood sharp on my tongue as the wetness pools between my legs.

“Let go, Thea,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Just for a second. Let me have you the way he had you.”

The words are a poison I drink willingly. He . Evren.

My hips rock back against his hand, an involuntary movement that screams my need. The woman in the mirror is a wanton stranger, her face flushed, her mouth slightly open. A puppet. His puppet.

My orgasm hits without warning. A silent, violent tremor that racks my body. My vision whites out, and my knees buckle. He catches me, his arm a steel band around my waist, holding me up as the waves crash over me.

He doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, stroking through my slickness, drawing out the aftershocks.

When my vision clears, I’m staring at my own reflection again. Wrecked. Undone.

“See?” he whispers, his voice a possessive rumble. “That’s mine.”

He withdraws his hand, leaving me cold and aching. His silver eyes burn into mine in the mirror. There’s no triumph in them. Just a raw, terrifying hunger.

This wasn’t about pleasure. It was about possession. Another brick in the foundation of our fucked-up throne. And I just handed it to him.

I remain motionless as he unzips his pants, pressing his cock to my pussy.

I stay silent when he roughly rams it inside me.

I grip the sink tighter as he buries himself as deep as he can get, pulling my hips back so he can drive even deeper.

He grunts, a guttural sound of satisfaction.

He doesn’t move, just stays buried inside me, letting me feel his size, his claim.

The woman in the mirror has tears in her eyes.

I don’t know if they’re from pain or pleasure. Or maybe just despair.

Then he fucks me. Hard.

There’s no rhythm, no care. It’s a punishment. A branding. Each thrust is a reminder of my place. My purpose. I am the book’s creation. I am their weapon. I am their fuck toy.

He pounds into me, my arse slapping against his thighs. The sounds are obscene, wet and raw. I close my eyes, unable to watch the puppet in the mirror any longer. But he won’t allow it. His free hand grabs my jaw, forcing my head up, my eyes open.

“Watch,” he growls, dropping his hand around my throat and squeezing tightly. “Watch what you do to me.”

His pace quickens, his hips slamming against me with brutal force. My body arches, a traitorous bow of pleasure. He’s pushing me toward another orgasm, and I hate him for it. I hate myself for wanting it.

My legs shake, my bottom lip quivers. My nipples are so tight with pleasure, they are aching. I want to come again. I want to come all over his cock. I want to see the look in his eyes when I soak him. I grab his hand and move it over my pussy.

He growls and pinches my clit again. I shiver, gasping as lust tears through me.

I shift my eyes back to him. He lets me.

He lets me see what I’m doing to him. His silver eyes are almost white with desire.

He pounds into me, playing with my clit until my body convulses.

My pussy clamps down on him, making him grunt.

I never take my eyes off him. He is in the height of pleasure.

All because of me. As the blood rushes straight to my pussy, I open my mouth and cry out, cracking the mirror.

Dathan shudders behind me, his climax a raw, guttural roar that vibrates through my bones. He spills his heat inside me, a final, branding act of possession. The pressure on my throat vanishes, and he rests his forehead against my back, his breathing ragged.

I stare at my fractured reflection in the cracked mirror. A dozen broken Lysitheas stare back, all of them looking hollowed out. He pulls out slowly, a final, possessive slide of flesh. I don’t move. I can’t.

He zips up his pants and is gone, leaving me alone with the still-running tap, the scent of sex, and the shattered pieces of myself.

I step under the shower, turning the water scalding hot. It’s not enough to burn away the shame. It’s not enough to erase the feeling of his hands on me, his cock inside me. Or the chilling truth that a part of me, a dark, broken part, needs it.

Minutes later, when I walk back into the room, it’s empty. The grimoire still sits on the desk, but the guys have left. Good. I don’t think I can face them. I have fucked all three of them, which makes me either desperate or on the verge of insanity. Neither option is appealing to me.

I stare at the grimoire. My creator, my god and inhale deeply before exhaling slowly. “Are all Nox Sirens yours?”

It flips open, and I cross over to see the one single word scrawled on the page.

Yes .

“We are designed by you specifically to complete you?”

Yes.

Of course. My entire species is a line of sacrificial lambs bred for one purpose. And I’m the last one standing. The final, desperate attempt. The thought should make me feel hopeless. Instead, it hardens something inside me into a diamond-sharp point of rage.

I am not a tool. I am not a sacrifice. I am its fucking end.

I get dressed, pulling on a black dress that has somehow been washed and dried in the last day. Verik, probably.

I stare at my fractured reflection, at the girl who has been fucked, broken, and remade in the last twelve hours before I turn my back and pick up my bag.

I leave my room. I walk towards the dining hall, the grimoire’s truth a cold weight in my gut. I’m a key, designed for a lock I’ve never seen, to open a door that will probably lead to hell.

The dining hall is a cacophony of noise and power. I scan the tables, my eyes landing on Reena. She’s standing in line for the blood dispenser, like a normal vampire on a normal day. She must feel my gaze on her, and she looks up sharply and then smiles, showing me her fangs.

“Hey,” she says as I move in next to her.

“Hi.”

“I’d ask how things are, but…” She rakes her gaze over me. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and then I just blurt it out. “What did you mean about being a queen on a contested throne?”

She frowns and steps up to the blood dispenser, grabbing a to-go cup and straw before she shoves the cup under. The blood gurgles into the cup, a thick, dark red. Reena doesn’t look at me. She watches the liquid rise, her expression carefully neutral.

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” she says, her voice low. “This academy, this ground, is not a monarchy waiting for a ruler. It’s a battlefield, and you just walked into the middle of it holding the biggest fucking bomb.”

She pulls the cup away and snaps a lid on it, the plastic click unnaturally loud.

“The opposition,” I say. “You know who they are.”

Reena finally meets my eyes. “I know they believe some things are better left erased. Some gods are better left dead.” She takes a long, slow sip through the straw.

“And they see you as the key to bringing back the worst of them all.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes.

“Your guard dogs are about as subtle as a hellfire explosion, by the way.”

I don’t need to turn around. I can feel them. A wall of possessive, murderous energy lurking among the pillars at the edge of the hall.

“Are you part of this faction?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not directly.” She moves away and gestures with her head for me to follow. She leads me to my usual table and takes a seat. I sit opposite her, still gripping my bag.

“What does that mean?”

She sighs. “It means my dad is, but I’m not.”

“Your dad,” I say slowly, feeling the intense need to run and hide.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any intention of hurting you or turning you in. I don’t play sides.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”

She smiles, a flash of white fangs against her dark lips. “Smart girl. Never trust a vampire, especially one whose father wants you dead.” She leans forward, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “But I’m not my father. He sees a threat. I see an opportunity for a little chaos.”

Her casual admission sends a chill down my spine. “What do they want?”

“To maintain the status quo,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

The finality in her voice is absolute. She knows. She knows what my creator is capable of.

“A world without the Absolute Truth,” I mutter.

She grins. “She’s learning.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I press.

“Because my father’s side is boring,” she says with a shrug.

“And because I think you’re more than just a key.

I think you’re the bomb. And I want to be there for the explosion.

” She stands, tossing her empty cup into a nearby bin.

“A word of advice? The opposition thinks you’re a puppet. Prove them wrong.”

She gives me a final, knowing look before turning and disappearing into the crowd, leaving me sitting alone with the weight of her words.

A bomb. That’s what I am. A weapon of mass destruction in a war I never chose.

But it begs the question of if the opposing side doesn’t want the absolute truth coming to pass, what are they hiding? What secrets are they protecting?