Page 8 of Blood Court (Cursed Darkness #2)

There’s no tenderness. We don’t need it. I don’t want it. I want a savage fuck that I chose. His fingers find me, slick and ready, and he shoves my knickers aside with a brutal lack of ceremony. He grips his cock and presses it against my clit, a hot, hard promise of oblivion.

Then he slams into me, pinning me to the gargoyle. The impact is a shockwave that jolts through my entire body, a beautiful, violent agony. My head thuds against the unyielding stone, and a raw cry is torn from my throat, which makes the stone tremble. This is what I craved.

He fucks me like he’s trying to stake a claim, to brand me with his heat, and I meet every punishing thrust with a desperate, hungry need of my own. My nails dig into the hard muscle of his back.

The Soul Scar on my skin glows with a simmering heat.

The book is still watching. Still winning.

But right now, under the gargoyle’s empty gaze, as Verik groans my name like a prayer and a curse, I don’t give a fuck.

He pulls out almost completely, the air a sharp shock against my wet skin, before slamming back in, deeper this time.

A broken sound tears from my throat. This is a battle.

His body against mine, my will against the book’s.

The stone gargoyle bites into my back, a cold, hard reality check.

I am here. This is happening. And I chose it.

His rhythm is brutal, a punishing tempo that pushes me closer to the edge. I meet him, rocking my hips, my legs clamped around him like a vice. His hellfire seeps into me, a welcome burn. This is not a violation. It is an exorcism.

My climax hits like a lightning strike, a white-hot explosion that rips a scream from my lungs.

The gargoyle at my back cracks and crumbles, but Verik’s grip on me keeps me in his arms. My pussy soaks him and clamps down like it never wants to let go.

Verik roars, unloading into me with a shuddering wave that floods me with his heat.

He presses his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged. We’re a mess of torn fabric, sweat, and defiance. For a single, breathless moment, I feel free.

Then my gaze falls on the grimoire, lying on the path. Its eye is open. Watching. Waiting. The hope shrivels and dies. This wasn’t a rebellion. It was just the next move in its game. And I played my part perfectly.

The Tenebris Vinculum wants intimacy. It wants us laid bare in front of each other, stripped of our defences, our walls.

Allowing Verik to fuck me, has flown in the face of everything that made me who I am.

All of these men have ripped at the castle I’d built around myself, and allowing their touch makes me loathe myself even more than usual.

He pulls out of me slowly, the withdrawal a sharp, cold shock of reality.

I slide down him, my legs trembling, barely able to hold my own weight.

He doesn’t let me fall. His hands grip my waist, steadying me.

His hellfire eyes are dark, stormy, searching my eyes.

I look away first. I can’t stand the question I see in them. I don’t have an answer.

I push his hands off me, my strength returning on a wave of shame. I pull the ripped edges of my dress together. It’s a useless gesture. I’m exposed in ways fabric can’t cover.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice a low rasp.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He scoffs, a humourless sound. “Like what? Like I just fucked you against a gargoyle because you asked me to?”

The bluntness of it is a slap. It’s what I wanted. It’s what I got.

“It was a mistake,” I mutter, turning away and grabbing the grimoire from the path. Its cover is cold, indifferent.

“Was it?” he challenges, grabbing my arm, forcing me to face him. The heat from his hand is a brand. “Or was it the only sane reaction to this whole fucking shitshow?”

I stare at him, at the hellfire burning in his eyes. He’s not asking for an answer. He’s telling me it’s okay to break. It’s okay to use him to put myself back together, even if it’s just for a moment.

But it’s not okay. Because the book won. It got what it wanted. Another wall breached. Another bond forged in trauma and defiance. I wrench my arm free.

“I need to be alone,” I say, and this time, he lets me go.

I walk away, the book clutched to my chest. Every step is a retreat. I didn’t win a war. I just chose my battlefield, and I’m not even sure if I lost or was victorious.

Verik follows me, and I growl, the sound cracking the stone under our feet.

“I’m not letting you walk back to your room alone,” he states.

“Fine,” I spit, the word a shard of glass. I don’t want his protection. I don’t want his presence. But the thought of walking through these empty grounds without him is worse.

We walk in silence. His heat is a furnace beside me. I can still feel him inside me, feel his cum sticky on my inner thighs, the memory a brand hotter than the one on my back. My body betrayed me again. Or maybe it just told a truth I didn’t want to hear.

When we reach my door, the silence stretches, a wire pulled taut between us.

“Lysithea,” he starts, his voice rough with things I don’t want to hear.

“Don’t,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “Just… don’t.” I don’t have the energy for a post-mortem on our shared act of self-destruction.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, I think he’s going to argue, to force his way past my walls. But he just gives a sharp, angry nod. He turns and walks away without another word, a storm of hellfire and frustration swallowed by the corridor’s shadows.

I slip inside my room and lean against the door, the wood cool against my bare back. The space is cold. Empty. The grimoire removes itself from my grip and lands on my desk with a heavy thud.

Its eye opens. It’s always watching. Always waiting for the next move.

My move.