Page 11 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Every Stroke. Every Groan.

Rayze

A heavy heat slicks between my thighs. A sharp inhale. A whisper of a breath at the base of my neck.

I stare into the dark void of Nowhere. The realm between all realms.

At the corners of my vision, electric hues of color swim forward. They spiral and twist before me, soothing against the bridge of my nose.

I spread my arms, my body half-submerged in dark waters.

Waterfalls crash in the distance and yet the only movement in the water is my own.

I prop on my elbows and stare across a landscape of never-ending black waters.

I swirl my finger along its gentle current, and it ripples silver, sparkling with faint power.

Rayze . Warrick’s deep voice wraps around me in a tight embrace.

I shiver and push to my feet, the water sloshing between black and silver as I follow the soft tug of our Bond.

Then I see him.

Warrick lies in the center of the dark lake. Threads of Fate tangle around him with furious energy, the long, spinning wisps of color flicking around his bare torso and thighs. His eyes are closed, face soft with sleep.

A careful sweep of my finger over his wrist, and my touch falls through him.

I circle him. My heart pounds. “Warrick?” I whisper.

His body vanishes against the water, and I waver.

Then a strong hand reaches around me, grabs my chin, and a hard chest aligns with my back. My vicious , his voice rumbles down my spine, a small echo marking his true distance. He isn’t here. Not really.

He runs translucent fingers down my cheek. So beautiful. Magic pulses from his words and touch, his intention to have me making him more corporeal.

My lashes flutter shut at the feel of his lips against my ear.

So perfect.

My thighs squeeze, and I flex my hands.

He strokes a hand through my hair, his touch there and not. So desperate to feel me.

I shake my head with a heave of my chest.

He hums low, his chest vibrating against my shoulders. Then he settles the ghost of his hands on my hips. What is this place?

“A dream.” My chest caves.

If this is a dream, then tell me the price to never open my eyes.

I sway, and his fingers brush the bottom curves of my breasts.

A kiss?

“I don’t kiss.” My voice shakes.

I never said it was on the lips.

Water plinks as he shifts to his knees behind me. Silver twinkles outward in fine ripples.

Then his hands scrape down the curve of my hips.

“Warrick,” I breathe.

Let’s make that louder. He skims my legs. Grabs them. Kneads sore, damp flesh. Spread these pretty thighs and bend over.

“This isn’t real,” and I don’t know if I’m saying it to stop him or to cage my guilt.

Dreams can come true with hard work.

His pierced tongue drags up my thigh and—I can’t breathe.

My knees shake. A moan builds in my throat. “This dream can’t come true,” I promise, biting it back.

Let’s see if you say that once I demonstrate my work ethic. He gives my calf a playful pinch, and I jump.

His dark, deep laugh winds around me. If you won’t bend over, then sit back and let my tongue be your throne. Either way, I earn your taste.

“Never.”

I’m not a patient man.

“It’s time to make you one.” It takes everything in me to step away, my core throbbing.

A phantom hand grazes my bicep, but my focus drifts to the pinpoint of white light in the distance.

Soft whispers swim toward me.

Then they scream.

ANGEL OF SIN. DAUGHTER OF FATE —

* * *

I lurch awake with a pained gasp, eyes flying wide as I scan the dim-lit room. The bed is empty beside me, the shower hissing beyond the bathroom door.

My fingers dig into the duvet, and I rake in panicked breaths. A dream. It was just a dream .

But thick, ruinous need pours through me, and the Bond wrings tight. Warrick . Each breath he takes in the next room shudders across the threads binding our souls.

He’s touching himself. Or trying not to.

Pressure builds. There’s no stopping it, only controlling how it explodes.

My lips part, dry with need. The ache between my legs demands to be sated. My clit begs for friction. For release.

For him.

With a ragged breath, I sink into the cushions and shove my fingers between my thighs, fast and rough. The Bond keens in pleasure. It coils between my legs. Writhes under my skin like a live wire crackling to explode.

I feel him.

Every stroke.

Every groan.

The way he’s grinding into his fist, biting back sounds that might give him away.

Gods, he’s starving. For me. For touch. For relief.

I want to scream his name.

No .

I won’t give him the satisfaction. I don’t crawl, I don’t beg, and I don’t need a man to make me come.

I don’t.

My hips jerk. I slide my fingers through the mess he caused, every nerve screaming. I circle where I throb the worst, and the Bond pounds.

A strangled sound breaks from my lips.

I shove two fingers in. Three.

My legs twitch. My teeth snap around a groan. My back arches.

It’s too much. Not enough.

More.

Harder.

Faster.

I fuck my hand like he’s watching. Like I’m taunting him with the one thing he wants most.

Then it hits.

I come with a shameless moan, collapsing from the high.

Through the Bond, he snaps. Distant and muffled, but there. The sound he makes is hoarse and wrecked. The kind of noise a man makes when he’s lost a war and loved every second of dying.

I pulse around my fingers, soaked and shaking.

I need to be rammed and filled. Taken and branded. I want my skin whipped, my teeth in his flesh, and his cock splitting me apart.

I want to take . Everything. Anything.

I wrench up in horror and shove to my feet.

Pain slashes through my leg, stabbing and immediate. I groan, lips pressing tight as my ankle stings in protest and my pussy weeps from my denial, my body pleading to sink back into the Bond’s heat.

Fate save me.

I hobble to the edge of the bed, gripping one of its wooden posts as the room tilts. Dizziness blooms behind my eyes. A clock arm cranks on the far wall, tolling the sound of late afternoon.

Three days in Warrick’s presence and I’m panting like a bitch in heat.

That was an orgasm. A small one but a real one. I’ve tried hundreds of times, but that was my first since—

My gaze snags on the door.

Liquor. I need to drown this. Now.

I half-hop, half-drag myself into my underwear and tank top, grimacing but having nothing else to wear. I work my way toward the small dining set. Then I grab one of its two chairs, lift it overhead, and slam it down onto the table.

It splinters and cracks. Fractures into jagged pieces.

I cringe, waiting for the bathroom door to whip open and to be met with urges I won’t be able to resist.

Nothing.

I release an uneasy breath and eye two shards of chair, dragging them into a single, long stick. The kitchen drawers cough up a dull knife— useless . I hop to the bed and try sawing at the canopy’s chiffon anyway, cursing under my breath before I toss the blade across the room with a clatter.

Fuck it. I yank the chiffon between my teeth, and a loud rip slices through the room.

Again, I blink at the bathroom door.

Again—nothing.

I knot the strips around the splintered chair pieces, shoving the makeshift crutch under one arm and leaning into it with a sigh. Then I limp to the front door, tear it open, and head straight for the old woman guarding the pleasure rooms.

I don’t glance back. Don’t wonder if he follows. I don’t care .

“Penelope,” I remember, flashing a grin. “What’s it take for a girl to get a drink with no coin?”

The tavern’s owner gives me a once-over. The crutch tucked under my arm. My ankle, swollen to hell. Sand-caked underwear, chafed thighs, and grimy tank top. My face—fuck, I don’t even want to know what my makeup looks like at this point.

Penelope gives a huff of dismay. “Bruce is the barkeep. Tell her Penelope gave you choice of song.”

My brows lift.

She gestures toward me. “I don’t sell bodies that belong to Heirs, but I’ll let you dance for a drink. Just make sure some of those bastards toss you a tip.” With a grunt, she pulls an iron lever, and the grated gate rattles upward.

My stomach twists at her assumption that Warrick purchased me, but I shove my anger down. “Will a drink be strong enough to take my mind off the swelling?” I nod to my ankle.

Penelope’s dark eyes crinkle with amusement. “Oh, honey, you’re in Rathem. One swig’ll knock you on your ass.”

I limp through the thick curtains into the chaos. “Perfect,” I grumble.