Page 62 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

PAIN RECEDES FROM MY LIMBS, retreating like a tide. In its place, a deep-seated hunger takes root like a hot, tangled network spreading through every inch of me.

The moment Cage’s blood touches my tongue, all hesitation is gone. My refusal fades, eclipsed by the overwhelming pull of my blood witch heritage.

I sink my fangs into his skin, just outside the cut, anchoring myself while I suckle on the sweet, molten nectar from his body.

I seal my lips on the wound and suck hard. It isn’t enough. The void inside me only grows, and I whimper with both desperation and frustration.

I sit up slightly, leaning into his arm. My eyes flutter shut. I feel my body tingling, alive again.

Then Cage pulls me back against him. His soaked cotton shirt clings to my skin as my spine meets his chest.

“That’s enough. Let go. I need to check your back.”

He pulls his arm away. My fangs drag against his skin, and I whine, my lips parting in protest. The ache inside me remains unfed.

“Lean forward,” he says. “You can have more.”

More. Gods, yes. I want more. I obey instantly.

I curl my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as my chin rests on top.

His calloused fingers trace my back, sending little jolts of sensation where they brush softly along my sides.

“Are they healed?” I peek over my shoulder and catch a flicker of something on Cage’s face, anger maybe. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by the same cold neutrality.

His fingers trace small patterns along my back. “Not all of them. Some things never seem to heal, do they?”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

My gaze drops to the blood dripping down his arm. I want it so badly, need it. My mouth waters, and my gums ache as my fangs throb with the urge to feed.

“We have matching scars,” he says. “Your back is Nora’s work, but you have far more than I do. So tell me, what did you get from those lessons in the end?”

“Power,” I reply. “Power that I deserved. Power for which I have paid the price.”

He snorts. “Vague answer, princess.”

His finger runs through the blood on his arm, coating it before lifting it between us. “Turn and face me.”

My eyes stay locked on the dripping red as I turn without thinking. I kneel, my hands gripping my thighs to keep them from pouncing at him.

The water sloshes around us, now resting just below my breasts. I feel exposed, hungry. He’s my prey, and he’s bleeding and injured.

He leans forward, holding his bloody finger out. My eyes dart to the blood on his finger, but it’s the scent that hits me first, sharp and sweet.

“Give me a better answer,” he says, smirking, “and I’ll feed you more, my little blood addict.”

I snap forward, aiming to grab his wrist.

I won’t be baited, not by him. If I’m going to feed, I’ll take what I want.

He catches my wrist before I can reach him.

“Predictable,” he murmurs. “Though I’ll admit you’re a lot stronger when you feed.”

He tightens his grip, firm, but he doesn’t seem hurried. His thumb strokes softly along the inside of my wrist, a stark contrast to how forcefully he pins me.

With one hand, he presses both of mine down onto my thigh. His palm engulfs them entirely, anchoring me.

Then his bloodied finger drags across my lips, painting them in crimson.

I part my lips without hesitation, tongue darting out to taste the smear. He watches me, still. His eyes have gone darker, hungry.

He lifts the finger, slices the tip, and offers it again, pushing it past my lips.

I take it greedily.

The flavor is rich and uniquely smoky. I suck hard, my groan muffled by the motion. My desire surges, my breasts tighten with an aching need, and a deep throb coils between my thighs. Every pull of blood feels like it tugs straight to my core.

He withdraws, then pushes it back in.

The rhythm is unrelenting. He forces his finger deeper, but I don’t gag. I’m far too gone. The taste drives me, consumes me to drink it all.

“Fuck, Millicent,” he rasps. His voice cracks with restraint.

I shift, and water splashes around us. My arousal spikes as I feel the heat blooming beneath the surface of my skin.

“I got you.”

He leans in, releases my wrist, and takes one of my hands. He guides it down, slow and deliberate.

I moan softly as my fingers find that achingly sweet place. He doesn’t let me move on instinct. He controls every motion with his hands. He presses my fingers to the seam of my heat, guiding them lower. He parts them, circles them, but never enters.

I whine, biting softly at his finger as I feed. My body clenches, desperate for more and protesting his delay. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s driving me mad.

“I almost want to make you beg,” he mutters, jaw tightening as he guides my fingers upward. He circles my swollen nub, and my knees draw together. My body is coiling from the flood of sensation.

I’m hypersensitive. My eyes flutter from every nerve stretched thin. I moan, breath hitching as my fingers, still puppeteered by him, pull me closer to the edge.

He drags my hand lower again and presses one finger inside. The slick heat almost welcomes it, and a tremor rocks through me. Another moan escapes me before I can catch it.

“Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?” His voice cracks, sounding like a half-curse, or rather a confession. “What I want to do to you? The only thing stopping me is your drugged state. And even then, that isn’t stopping me enough, Millicent.”

There’s heat in his words, frustration, almost hateful—hateful for the way I undo him—but his eyes are reverent.

I’ve never felt so wholly seen, desired, or devoured like his eyes are doing now.

“Keep looking at me,” he growls. “You’re getting so tight. I want you to remember who made you cum, even in this state.”

His own voice is now drenched with the same fire burning low in my gut.

Another finger pushes in. I gasp at the sweet stretch, the way my walls tremble and tighten from his relentless thrusts.

He raises my thumb, circles my clit again, matching the rhythm of the finger in my mouth. The mirrored motion sends lightning through my spine.

It’s too much. Too good.

I cry out. Walls shatter as release crashes through me like an unstoppable wave.

And I can’t look away.

“That’s it. Keep looking at me.”

He removes his finger from my mouth once I release it, then grips my cheeks. He angles my face so I can’t look away.

My eyes flutter

Pat, right to the side of my face, sharpening my focus on him.

“Eyes on me,” he scolds.

He slows the motion of my hand, guiding me through the aftershocks until I stop trembling. Then he finally releases me.

“You tasted me,” he says, lifting my hand. “I think it’s my turn now.”

He sucks my fingers into his mouth. My eyes widen, caught between amusement and intrigue as I watch him savor each one.

When he pulls them free, it ends with a soft pop .

“Delicious,” he murmurs. “Just as I imagined. You taste like a horrible idea—my favorite.”

“You can have more,” I purr, shifting closer and letting my body speak for me, “if I can have more, too.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, but the smile that touches his lips is colder now.

“As enticing as it is to play with that delectable little body, if you’re only offering it for more blood, I’ll pass. I don’t stoop that low. Not today.”

His sharp words slice clean. The insult is clear to me.

“I didn’t want your blood in the first place,” I growl.

“And yet, here you are, letting me eat your pussy for dinner just to bleed me dry.”

I slap his chest with a wet smack, disgusted—and done with his bullshit. I rise from the tub.

“Shut the door on your way out, witch!” He shouts after me, laughter echoing through the chamber.

I grab a towel, drying myself quickly. With no clothes of my own, I settle into a plain tunic and cotton trousers from his wardrobe.

For once, I’m grateful we don’t share this wing with anyone else. No one needs to see me like this.

I reach my room quickly and find Ollie waiting patiently on my bed, only his head, wings, and arms visible beneath a pile of blankets.

He teleports to the door and lands on my shoulder.

“Me Misses! You are home, finally! A bath is drawn, and wine is ready.”

“I already bathed, Ollie, but wine sounds perfect.” I curl up with him on the couch, burying myself in a large fluffy blanket.

A BOTTLE OF WINE—AND a long-winded story later—Ollie is fully caught up.

He lounges in the corner of the couch, both hands wrapped around his tiny wine goblet.

“Me Misses still is on top,” he declares confidently, wiggling his toes.

“Oliver,” I sigh, amused, “out of everything that’s happened, how am I on top?”

“Do they know why Me Misses is here? No. Does silver eyes wants you sexually? Yes. Easy to manipulate.”

He sips again, barely pausing. “They put Me Misses in a collar. Thinks that means you can’t break it.” He laughs hysterically, splashing some of his wine onto his oversized belly. “As if! As if Me Misses can’t rip off the collar and then all their heads. So stupid. Idiots . Flea rat pea brains.”

I’m not even going to ask what a flea rat pea brain is after the day I have had.

He’s right.

“A wolf in sheep skin,” I murmur contemplatively, tracing the rim of my glass.

His wings flutter with excitement. “And when the time comes, you will be victorious. Powerful. Perfect.”

His words inflate my ego, but they swell something warm in my chest. I never doubted I was all those things, but after half bleeding out…and whatever that post-blood lust shame spiral was, it’s nice to have someone else say it. Someone who sees me.

“Bed?” Ollie bounces up, the cushion beneath him springing slightly. Thankfully, his glass is empty.

I follow him to the bed.

“Give me a moment,” I call softly, pausing at the balcony

As always, Nora’s owl awaits.

I relay everything I remember—our findings, the attack, the Edax, and the hive mind. As I speak, I make a mental note to get with Iris. The scent of the Carnium Edax mirrors the Creptius Vox. They are definitely related.

I don’t mention Cage—or what happened after. That part is mine.

When I finish, I return to the bed and slip beside Ollie. He gently hums that familiar song as his finger strokes my scalp in slow circles. Our nightly routine.

Sleep comes easily, carried by wine, whispered affirmations, and the promise that I am not yet finished.