Page 10 of The King of Hearts (The Raven Group #1)

CHAPTER SIX

HER

M y obsession with dark romance books has taught me several things about myself. Inconsequential, I learned that my love for reading as a child didn’t lessen as I grew older, my tastes just matured and turned dirtier.

Slightly more interesting is that it opened up a whole new world of artistic talent. My drawings before were serene and innocent, beautiful and full of life and color. Now, more often than not, my art is black, white, and gray. Except when there’s blood involved. That’s always a vivid, bright red.

When I draw a scene from one of my books or sketch something from one of my hazy dreams, the flow of my pencil against paper comes much easier. The details are clearer and more precise, the lines more crisp and straight. Drawing erotic art comes naturally to me.

The biggest thing I learned about myself, the thing that has me still wondering if something is wrong with me, is that… I want to be taken.

I want to be used and abused, and ravaged.

I want to feel the pain of those acts. To be manhandled and forced.

Have my will taken away. To have my hair pulled as a man forces his cock down my throat.

His hand around the column of my neck when I’m disobedient, cutting off my air supply.

Have him force me to crawl on my hands and knees like he’s my Master and I his pet.

To bite my flesh until crimson flows and watch as he licks up every drop.

I want bruises in places they shouldn’t be, from rough hands on my thighs and waist and around my neck and all over my soft breasts.

I want a man who wants me so much that it drives him insane at the thought of not having me.

One who would burn the world down for me and slaughter anyone who dared hurt me.

I want to consume his thoughts so thoroughly that I’m the only thing he thinks about, the only thing he needs to breathe, the sole reason for his existence.

I want obsession and possession and jealousy to the point of madness and irrational thought.

Up until this moment, I haven’t let those thoughts fully develop in my head, and now that they have, they spook the hell out of me.

Like, I’m seriously concerned for my mental health.

Should I tell someone I’m having these thoughts?

Would they commit me to the psychiatric ward in Hollow’s Medical Center?

Would Mom, Dad, and my brothers look at me as if I was crazy?

Surely they would at least be concerned.

I look at the devil in front of me and barely suppress a shiver. Fear is still very much alive inside me, but that emotion manifests a much more lustful one. One I want to deny and run away from, but it’s just too strong.

I’ve learned through reading my books that fear can be a strong aphrodisiac. I never really understood that concept, but I certainly do now.

Boy, do I ever.

Moisture pools between my legs, and the slickness fills me with disgust. I should not be turned on right now.

I. Should. Not. Be. Turned. On.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

Why am I not screaming? Despite his warning. Why am I not clawing at him to get away? Why am I just standing here like an idiot, anxiously waiting for whatever he has planned for me?

He dips his head closer, and I get a better view of his mask. The thing looks sinister, and I know deep in my gut that the wearer is just as evil.

His breath coming from the mouth hole slithers across my cheek. “I can smell your arousal, vicious little angel.”

There’s no way he can actually smell the need seeping from between my legs. That crap only happens in books. Unless he’s some preternatural creature with heightened senses, which those things don’t exist in real life.

“No, you can’t,” I reply breathlessly. That’s what this man is doing to me.

Steals my breath without even touching me.

At first it was by fear, but now it’s from something altogether different.

There’s no need for him to wrap his hand around my throat.

He’s confiscating my air with only his proximity and words.

“You’re so fucking soaked it’s saturating the air.”

There’s no part of his body touching mine, but it feels like his hands are all over me. From the soles of my feet to the top of my head, I feel his phantom caress.

I hate myself because the fucked-up part of me wants his hands on me. Hands that were once covered in Patrick Arlington’s blood. Ones that cut out a man’s heart and delivered it to me as some sort of sick gift.

I keep waiting for him to strike. To reach out and grab me again. To rip off my cami and thong, press his body against mine, and have his way with me.

Would I fight him? I honestly don’t know.

He doesn’t move any closer. He just stays right where he is, his body inches from mine and his head tipped down so close I can almost see past the hollow holes where his eyes are. I keep my head tilted back, way back, so I can see him.

“What are you going to do to me?”

What I should be doing is begging him not to hurt me, not curiously waiting to see what pain he’ll inflict.

“Whatever the fuck I please.”

Oh Jesus.

Why, oh why, does that make me wetter?

“Eventually,” he continues. “But for tonight, I want to watch you sleep.”

Wait. What? He wants to watch me sleep ?

That’s good, right?

It should be good.

So, why do I feel like deflating with disappointment?

Because you’re a sick fucking bitch, Savina , my inner voice says with an eye roll.

He steps back, taking away his scent and his warmth. I barely stop myself from reaching out and snatching him back into my orbit. I want him close. I want his skin against mine. I want his scent surrounding me so I can breathe it in and memorize it.

“Get on the bed, Savina.”

My stomach swirls when he says my name in that deep voice. How would it sound if he growled it in my ear as he fucked me from behind?

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I said so. Now be a good girl and do as you’re fucking told.”

He moves back another step, leaving me enough room to move around him. My knees are weak and my steps are unsteady as I slowly walk around the bed. I keep him in sight, as if afraid he’ll pounce on me if I don’t. He watches me just as closely.

He stays at the end of my bed, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

The stance appears too casual for the situation.

Here I am, my body as stiff as a board and my mind ramped with dark and dirty possibilities, while he looks like he’s merely waiting at a bus stop or in line at the grocery store.

Just as I slide back the duvet, he orders, “Remove the clothes.”

I want to tell him to fuck off, or rather, I should tell him to fuck off, but it’s like my body has a mind of its own.

My hands release the duvet of their own accord and automatically move to the hem of my cami.

They shake as I slowly lift the silky material.

I keep looking at his shadowed form until my view is interrupted when I slide it over my head.

It’s only for a second, but I half expected him to be closer once I can see him again.

He’s not. He’s still at the end of my bed.

I drop the cami to the floor and slip my fingers under the strings of my thong around my hips. I’m just as slow removing them. Once both items are gone, I shift nervously on my feet. I’ve never been naked in front of a man before.

I bite my lower lip, and my toes curl in the plush carpet. Again, that voice in the back of my head, the rational side of my brain, is screaming at me to do something. I fight so hard to follow that impulse, but my treacherous body won’t follow through.

A flush coats my cheeks as I stand there fully nude and on display.

I can’t see the devil’s eyes on me because it’s too dark in the room, plus the mask he wears, but I can feel them.

They’re like little caresses along my skin.

My nipples pebble painfully, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cool air wafting in from the balcony doors or knowing his gaze is pinned on them.

I want to jerk my eyes away from him in embarrassment, but it’s like we’re the opposite ends of magnets, and I can’t pull them away.

The muscles in my stomach tighten, and I press my legs together.

I’m ashamed at the slickness that’s slowly coating my thighs.

It’s wrong on so many levels to be this aroused, given the situation.

A normal woman would be freaking out about now.

Correction—she would have been freaking out long before now.

“Utterly fucking stunning,” he rumbles, his tone full of gravel.

I dip my head so my hair falls over my shoulders, but keep it up enough to still see him through my lashes. Irrationally, it pleases me that he finds me so beautiful.

“Get on the bed, Vicious,” he commands.

I immediately comply, if for no other reason than to cover myself and put myself out of this insane misery.

When I reach for the sheet and duvet, he stops me once again. “Leave it off.”

I frown. “What if I get cold?”

“You won’t.”

My frown deepens. He’s right, I won’t get cold. I’m a hot sleeper, but how could he possibly know that?

I lay back against the pillows on the center of the bed, my body tense.

My arms lay by my sides, my hands fisted, and my head is tilted down so I can keep watching him.

I wonder if he can see the evidence of my arousal.

My legs are pressed together, hiding that part of me, but when the breeze coming in through the balcony doors blows across my skin, I can feel the coolness of my juices on my thighs.

I watch him as he continues to stare at me.

I wish I could see his eyes. Maybe they’d give away what he’s thinking.

There’s no way in hell I’ll actually fall asleep with him standing there.

It feels weird, and I’m still strung tight, wondering what he’ll do.

Does he really only want to watch me sleep?

Or is he waiting to attack once I drift off?

I don’t want to think about it, but the thought still slams inside my head.

Somnophilia is another of those pesky little curiosities I’ve developed since I started reading dark romance. That particular trope is quite popular, and I’ve sought it out quite frequently.

“Why do you want to watch me sleep?” I ask timidly.

“Because you look so fucking innocent, and I want to witness that look for a little longer before I destroy it.”

My mouth goes dry, and I run my tongue over my lips to wet them.

“How do I know you won’t touch me while I sleep?”

“You don’t.”

Fuck me. I’m in so much fucking trouble here.