Page 8 of Realms of Swords and Storms (Empire of Vengeance #3)

Septimus caught my wrist as my fingers traced lower, his grip tight enough to bruise. For a moment, I thought he would push me away—that whatever moment of honesty had just passed between us had frightened him back behind his walls.

Instead, he pulled me down roughly, his other hand tangling in my hair. "Don't be gentle," he whispered against my ear, his voice raw. "I need to hate this tomorrow."

Something inside me cracked open at those words—the admission of what this was to him, what I was to him. A sin. A transgression he could only permit himself if it was brutal enough to justify his self-loathing afterward.

"As you wish," I growled, wrapping my hand tightly around his cock.

His back arched off the bed, a strangled sound escaping his throat. I stroked him roughly, watching his face contort with pleasure and shame.

"Look at you," I said, voice low and cruel. "Just lying there, letting me do whatever I want to you. Writhing under my touch. You’re pathetic.”

His eyes flew open, dark with a mixture of arousal and anger. "Shut up."

"Make me," I challenged, tightening my grip.

He tried to flip our positions, to assert some control, but I was stronger—had always been stronger. I pinned him easily, one hand pressed against his chest while the other continued its torturous pace.

"That's not how this works," I reminded him. "You don't get to pretend this is anything but what it is. You surrendering to me."

"I hate you," he gasped, even as his hips bucked up into my touch.

"I know,” I said, as I leaned down, my lips sliding over the head of his cock, tasting the salty bead of moisture that had already gathered at the tip.

“Fuck!”

I took him deep into my mouth, savouring the way his entire body tensed beneath me.

His hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white with strain.

I knew what he wanted—to grab my hair, to control the pace—but he wouldn't allow himself that intimacy. The power I held over him in these moments was intoxicating—this proud, hateful man reduced to incoherent gasps and pleas beneath my touch. I pulled back, denying him release, watching his face contort with frustrated need. I kept my eyes on his as I shifted position, straddling his chest, my hand running over my hard shaft. His gaze didn’t meet mine, instead he watched the movement of my hand, his tongue sliding over his lower lip.

“Now, I'm going to give you my cock and you’re going to take it like a good boy. If you please me, I’ll fuck you.”

A flash of defiance crossed his face, but it quickly melted into that familiar mixture of shame and desire.

When he parted his lips, the surrender in that simple action made my cock throb painfully.

I shifted forward, pressing the tip against his mouth. "Open wider."

He complied, his eyes closing as I pushed inside, feeling the wet heat of his mouth envelop me.

"That's it," I hissed, one hand bracing against the wall above the bed, the other tangling in his hair. "Take it deeper."

He gagged slightly as I thrust forward, but his hands came up to grip my thighs, pulling me closer rather than pushing me away. The sight of him beneath me, eyes watering, lips stretched around my cock, sent a surge of possessive heat through my body.

"You're good at this," I taunted, voice rough with pleasure. "Had much practice serving huge Talfen cocks, Septimus? Or is it just mine you crave?"

His eyes flashed with anger, but he couldn't respond with his mouth full. The vibration of his muffled growl sent shocks of pleasure up my spine.

I pulled back, allowing him to gasp for breath. His lips were red and swollen, a thin line of saliva connecting us for a moment before breaking.

"Answer me," I demanded, gripping his jaw.

"Only you," he spat, the words sounding like they'd been torn from him. "Gods damn you, only you."

Beneath the hatred, beneath the shame, there was need so desperate it bordered on devotion. In these moments, with his defences stripped away, I could almost believe there was something more between us than just this brutal physical connection.

I thrust deeper, watching him struggle to take me, his throat working around my length. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t complain.

"That's it," I murmured, watching him take me deeper. "Show me how much you hate this."

His eyes flashed with anger, but he didn't stop. If anything, the taunt spurred him on, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked harder. I tangled my fingers in his hair, controlling his movements, using him for my pleasure while he glared up at me with those burning eyes.

Gods, it was intoxicating—the power, the submission, the knowledge that tomorrow he would despise himself for this moment of surrender. And yet he gave himself to me completely, pulling me deeper into his throat until I had to pull back or risk finishing too soon.

"Enough," I growled, sliding down his body, feeling my cock wet with his saliva rub against his. He let out a frustrated groan.

I turned him over roughly, pressing his face into the mattress.

He struggled briefly, instinctively, before yielding with a shudder that ran through his entire body.

I ran my hands down the muscled plane of his back, feeling him shiver beneath my touch.

I reached for one of the vials of oil already on the side table, coating my fingers liberally.

I traced one slick finger down the cleft of his ass, circling his entrance teasingly.

His whole body tensed, caught between the urge to push back against my touch and the need to maintain some illusion of resistance.

"Beg me for it," I demanded, pressing just slightly, enough to make him feel the intrusion without giving him what he truly wanted.

"Fuck you," he gasped, his face half-buried in the pillow.

I leaned forward, my chest against his back, my lips at his ear. "No, Septimus. I'm going to fuck you. But only when you admit how badly you want it."

My finger pushed inside him, just to the first knuckle. He bit back a moan, his body clenching around the intrusion.

"Gods," he choked out. "Just... do it already."

"Not good enough. Tell me what you want. What you need."

He was trembling now, whether from anger or desire I couldn't tell. Probably both. I watched the struggle play out across what I could see of his face—pride warring with desperate need.

"Please," he finally whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.

"Please what?" I pressed. He didn't answer, but his breathing quickened as I worked him open, adding a second finger, then a third. When I curled them just right, he let out a strangled moan, his hips pushing back against my hand.

"Look at you," I whispered, leaning over him, my chest pressed against his back. "So eager for it. So desperate."

"This is what you need, isn't it?" I whispered as I prepared him, perhaps more carefully than my words suggested. For all our brutality, I would never truly hurt him. "To be dominated. Controlled. Used."

He made a strangled noise into the bedding, neither confirming nor denying.

"You can pretend it's just about the pleasure," I continued, working him open with methodical precision, finding that spot inside him that made him jerk and gasp. "But we both know it's more than that. You need to submit, to surrender. To give up control to the very thing you claim to despise."

"Shut up," he hissed, but there was no force behind it. Just desperation.

I withdrew my fingers, positioning myself at his entrance. I leaned over him, one hand gripping his hip, the other tangled in his hair, pulling his head back.

"Say it," I demanded, the head of my cock pressing against him. "Say what you are."

He struggled against my grip, a token resistance we both knew was meaningless. "I'm nothing," he finally gasped.

"No," I said, pushing in just slightly, enough to make him feel the stretch. "You're mine. Say it."

The word hung between us, dangerous in its implications. This wasn't just about domination anymore—it was about possession. About connection.

For a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far. That the thin thread connecting us would snap under the weight of that demand.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it: "Yours."

I thrust into him in one fluid motion, burying myself to the hilt. He cried out, his body clenching around me as I established a punishing rhythm. Each thrust drove him further into the mattress, the cheap wooden frame creaking in protest.

"That's right," I growled. "Mine to use. To take." My words were punctuated with each thrust, each one driving deeper than the last.

His only response was a series of broken moans, his body responding to me even as his mind fought against it. I could feel him trembling beneath me, caught between pleasure and self-loathing.

"You hate this," I taunted, voice rough with exertion. "You hate how much you love being taken by a Talfen. By a monster."

"Yes," he gasped, but his body told a different story, pushing back to meet each thrust. I angled my hips, finding that spot inside him that made him see stars. When I hit it, he let out a broken sound that was nearly a sob.

"There," I growled, hitting it again and again. "Right there. The spot that makes you forget all your hatred. That makes you nothing but a whore for my cock."

I grabbed his hips, jerking him up so I could wrap my hand around his throat and pull him back against me. He whimpered as my other hand reached for his hard length, stroking in time with my thrusts, feeling him harden further in my hand.

"Don't hold back," I commanded, sliding my hand slick with oil over his flesh. "I want to hear exactly how much you hate this."

I could read his body now as easily as a familiar text—knew exactly how to touch him, how to move inside him to bring him to the brink and hold him there, desperate and pleading.

"Not yet," I commanded, slowing my pace, my hand squeezing the base of his cock to deny him. "Not until I say."

He let out a strangled sound, half-frustration, half-plea. "Tarshi—"

The sound of my name on his lips sent a shock through me. He rarely used it, as though naming me would make this too real. Would acknowledge me as a person rather than just a body, a means to an end.

"Again," I demanded, angling my hips to hit that spot inside him that made him whimper. "Say my name again."

"Tarshi," he gasped, no longer able to maintain even the pretence of resistance. "Please, Tarshi, I need—I need— Please let me…"

I cut him off with a particularly deep thrust, feeling his entire body shake with need. "Let you what, Septimus? Say it clearly."

"Let me come," he finally managed, voice breaking on the last word. "Please."

The plea undid something in me. For all our hatred, all our violence, there was something achingly vulnerable in that desperate request. I increased my pace, hand working his cock in rhythm with my thrusts.

"Then come for me," I growled in his ear.

His body tensed beneath mine, a tremor running through him as he spilled over my hand with a broken cry that might have been my name.

The sound of my name on his lips as he came triggered my own release, and I buried myself deep inside him with a final brutal thrust, marking him in the most primal way possible.

For a moment, we stayed frozen like that, connected, panting, the boundaries between us momentarily dissolved. These fleeting seconds after climax were always the most dangerous—when the masks slipped, when the pretence of pure hatred couldn't be maintained.

I pulled out carefully, watching as he collapsed onto the bed, his breathing ragged.

I should have left immediately. Should have maintained the distance between us.

But something kept me there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the vulnerability in his posture that he would never show me when fully conscious.

I moved to the washstand, dampening a cloth with water from the pitcher.

When I returned to the bed, he flinched slightly as I cleaned him but didn't pull away.

"You don't have to do that," he muttered, his voice muffled against the pillow.

"I know," I replied simply, continuing anyway.

Once he was clean, I dealt with myself and slowly dressed.

The silence was heavy with everything unsaid.

There was a sense of intimacy in this moment, a vulnerability that neither of us were accustomed to revealing.

I stood by the bedside, unsure of what to say next, my heart heavy with conflicting emotions. I met his gaze as he looked up at me.

"I should go," I said quietly.

He nodded. “I won’t say anything. About the meeting.”

Relief filled me.

"Thank you."

He nodded wordlessly, understanding passing between us without the need for further explanation.

I lingered for a moment longer, wanting to reach out, to offer comfort in a way that words could not express.

But I held back, knowing that he wouldn’t want that from me, and instead, I left him there alone.