Page 54 of Cursed
She opens her mouth, likely to deny it, but I don’t give her the chance. I pull my mask down and capture her lips. The kiss is a little depraved, my teeth grazing her lower lip as I press her back against the wall. Her initial resistance melts as her mouth opens under mine, her hands fisting in my hair.
I pull away from her, savoring the flush on her cheeks and the dazed look in her eyes. My hands slide down to encircle her throat, not squeezing, just holding—reminding her who she belongs to now.
“It’s time to bathe,” I say, releasing her throat to trace my thumb across her lower lip. “We don’t want to be late for the feast.”
Her brow furrows. “What feast?”
I smile, enjoying the way she hangs on my every word now. How quickly things have changed between us. Just days ago, she was nothing but data on my screens—patterns to analyze, weaknesses to exploit. Now she’s flesh and blood and mine. The possessiveness that surges through me is almost painful in its intensity.
“The feast is the next stage,” I explain, guiding her toward the steaming bath. “The Hunt has four phases—hunt, orgy, feast, and finally the claiming ceremony.”
I slide into the water, pulling her with me. The heat makes her gasp, and I catalog the sound, storing it away with all herother reactions. My hands move over her body methodically, washing away the evidence of our activities while deliberately leaving my marks on her skin. The contradiction pleases me—cleaning her while ensuring she remains visibly mine.
“You enjoyed the orgy room, didn’t you?” I ask. “You’ll enjoy the feast, too. I’ve made certain arrangements to ensure it.”
The way she tenses tells me she understands the threat beneath my promise. Good. She’s learning to read between my lines, to anticipate the darkness I’m capable of. I press my lips to the bruise on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, little butterfly,” I murmur. “I won’t let anyone else touch what’s mine.”
I slide deeper into the bath, pulling Sadie between my legs, her back against my chest. The warm water laps at our skin as steam rises around us like a veil, isolating us in our own private hell—or heaven. I’m no longer certain of the difference.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” My hands slide soap across her shoulders. “The bathing is usually separate. But I find I don’t want to let you go just yet.”
My fingers trace the curve of her collarbone, dipping lower to cup her breasts. She tenses, then melts against me with a whimper that shoots straight to my core. That sound—half surrender, half protest—is becoming an addiction.
“You’re marked everywhere,” I observe, tracing a bruise on her inner thigh. “Everyone will see you are claimed.”
The water ripples as I pour warm water over her skin, washing away the soap while my other hand slides possessively across her stomach. Her head falls back against my shoulder, exposing the column of her throat.
“I should be repulsed by you,” she admits. “Why am I not running?”
I laugh softly against her neck, teeth grazing the tender skin there. “Because you recognize a darkness in me that matches your own.”
My hands move with a tenderness that surprises me. I’ve never bathed anyone in this way before. In previous hunts, it was quick, rushed, and not thorough. The intimacy of the act is unexpected and more penetrating than our coupling in the orgy room.
When she whimpers again as my fingers brush between her thighs, I feel a fundamental shift that I don’t have words for.
“Tell me to stop,” I challenge.
Her response is to press herself more firmly against me, another broken sound escaping her lips. The surrender in that simple movement is more intoxicating than any words could be.
I pour warm water over Sadie’s shoulders, watching rivulets cascade down her back. My fingers trace each mark I’ve left on her skin. The act of cleaning her feels significant, as if I’m both erasing and reaffirming my claim with each touch.
“Turn,” I command, rotating her to face me.
She complies, eyes downcast. I lift her chin with my finger, forcing her to look at me as I continue.
After ensuring she’s thoroughly clean, I quickly wash myself, aware of her eyes tracking my movements. When we’re done, I stand and step out of the bath, water streaming down my body. I reach for her, lifting her from the water as if she weighs nothing.
She gasps, hands instinctively gripping my shoulders for balance. I set her down gently on the marble floor, reaching for one of the plush towels stacked nearby.
“Stay still,” I murmur, beginning to dry her, starting with her hair and working my way down.
Her expression shifts as I attend to her—confusion, wariness, and an emotion I can’t quite name passing across her features.
“Why did you choose me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Was it just because I am... damaged?”
The question catches me off guard. I continue drying her arms, buying time as I consider my response.