Page 12 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Utter Fucking Torture

Warrick

The bathroom roars around me.

Steam hisses through a cracked vent in the ceiling. The pipes groan like dying animals. The shower still spits hot water onto cracked tile, pounding like fists. Somewhere beyond the thin, warped wall, the tavern howls with laughter, shouts, and a fiddle sawing itself to death.

But I hear none of it. Not really. Not over the thunder of my own breath, the hammering in my chest.

I brace both hands against the edge of the sink. My arms shake, locked in place. My head hangs low, face flushed, chest heaving. Sweat clings to my spine. Cum slides from the head of my cock in slow, pulsing drips. All of it’s evidence of a climax that left me more furious than relieved.

I fell asleep in the shower, and then— her . Gods. Utter fucking torture. Naked and perfect but a dream. Nothing more.

Until I woke up and felt her fuck herself so sweetly.

The Bond glows white-hot in my chest, overrun with echoes. The sounds she made. The taut, pulsing ache of her want. The way she shattered like she wanted me to feel every second of it.

And I did.

Fuck, I did.

My knees nearly gave out. My vision blurred. I wanted to tear the wall between us down with my bare hands, just to get to her. Just to touch her.

Instead, I stood here, fists clenched, cock in hand, trying not to rip my heart out.

She came for me, but I didn’t get to touch her. Didn’t get to hear her. Didn’t get to have her.

I am not patient. Not kind. Not gentle. It took everything not to storm out there and fall to my knees between her thighs.

Any other girl, and I would have, but the Bond—it’s fucking with my head, because is this real ?

Any of it? I don’t lust after women. I blink and they fall in my lap.

Men, too. Sex has always just been sex . No emotion. Only need and release.

This is different.

This is everything.

Teeth gritted, I peel away the soaked bandages of Rayze’s trench coat only to find I’m still bleeding. Worse than I thought, too. I tear through the cabinets until I find a rusted box wedged near the back and pop the latch.

Ale. Sutures. Bandages.

I brace against the sink, count to three, and drench the gashes left by Ruel’s spiked shots with alcohol. A hard hiss peels from between my teeth, and I lean harder into the counter as I thread a needle and knit the first hole closed.

My shallow breaths fill the space, the steady drill of the shower at my back lulling me into a trance. I toss back some ale, gulping it down, and tie off the final suture.

Then I crane my chin over my shoulder, studying my back in the mirror. Most of the arrow wounds are shallow and need gauze. My vest must’ve kept them from driving too deep into the skin, but two tore wider from our trek through the tunnels. They need stitches.

And I can’t reach them.

I run a hand through my damp hair and glance at the door. If I ask for her help, if Rayze touches me, then that’s it. I won’t pretend I didn’t feel it. Her pleasure. Her craving. The way her orgasm flooded the Bond like wildfire.

A frustrated grunt leaves me, my cock swelling and ready for round two. I curse the bastard but shove open the door. I won’t be fucking my hand twice tonight, and from what I could tell along the Bond, Rayze wouldn’t want to, either.

My lips curve with a dark smile.

Then I stop cold.

The bed is empty, a chair snapped in two. The chiffon canopy is torn, strips hanging. Every drawer in the kitchen is flung open, silverware and plates left in reckless piles across the counter. A fight.

A struggle.

My stomach drops.

“What the fuck?” The words scrape out of me, hoarse.

Someone took her.

My blood roars. I wrench open the bedroom door and stalk into the hallway, barely covered by the towel at my waist.

Penelope’s eyes go wide as I storm toward her, rage pouring off me in waves.

“Who was it?” I bite out, reaching for the gate lever. “Ruel?” I slam it down with a loud metallic clang. “Tell me now, Penelope, or I swear on your next pay day I’ll shut this whole place down.”

She blinks, slow and unbothered, then lifts her chin with a maddening calm. “Who was what, Heir?”

“Who the fuck thought they could lay a hand on her?” My voice cracks at the edges.

Her brows tick up a fraction before her lips curl with a smirk. “Your Skin girl? No one took her, Serpent.” She folds her hands primly in front of her belt. “She went out.”

I stare at her. “She. Went. Out.” The words land like knives against my tongue.

“Yes. She wanted a drink. Something about the pain in her ankle.” Penelope frowns as I shove past her and into the curtains. “You may want to hold that tighter,” she calls at my back, and I glance down at my towel.

With a snarl, I yank it tighter around my waist, shouldering onto the main floor of the tavern, before my feet scuff to a halt.

Rayze is on a table.

Wearing a boa of hot pink feathers and a lopsided tiara.

Grinding on a makeshift crutch.

A mug of ale sloshes as she pumps it in the air.

“Louder!” she shouts, and the crowd sings.

There once was a girl, all clad in lace,

who took her breasts straight to my face,

between them, there I found a knife,

and—I died a happy man.

Fuck. Me.