Page 57

Veronica

T he night is quite empty—no stars, no moon. Just an endless expanse of darkness stretching on and on. Veronica grips the balcony railing, fingers white, nails digging into the cold metal as if anchoring herself against the storm brewing inside her.

The wind up here is undeniably sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat searing through her body. The unbreakable, inescapable warmth of him. His presence slithers over her skin before his body even touches her, like an invisible brand staking its claim.

“Sadly, there are no stars out tonight.” His voice is velvet and smoke as his front presses against her, the strength of him sinking into every tense line of her body. “But I can make you see one if you want.”

His lips ghost the shell of her ears. And she hates the way her breath catches, the violent jolt of electricity that races through her spine.

It’s been two days since Shiro and his mom possibly died. Two days of being out of the loop, knowing not if their bodies were found on time or if they were buried properly. All she wants to do is feel numb, keep the fire of rage inside her burning bright. But here she is, her body defying her resolve to never let this man come an inch too close to her. Here she is, her body gravitating toward his touch, grounding her in place.

“All I want is for you to set me free from this cage.” Her words are bitter, slicing through the air like the sharp edges of a knife.

But he chuckles, low, lazy…dark, as his hands find her hips, his grip possessive, while his thumb traces slow, agonizing circles against the fabric of her silk nightwear.

“Ladybird,” he murmurs, his chin resting on the crown of her head. “Until when are you going to realize that this is not a cage but an empire. And you’re not some trapped little bird, but the queen?”

Her breath hitches. Whether in rage or something far more catastrophic, she doesn’t care to learn of it.

“Queen?” The words are visibly laced with spite as she whirls around sharply, her fingers curling into a fist against his chest. She means to shove him far away from her, to strike him, to hurt him, to cause him even a sliver of the pain he has caused her, but his hands are already on her, gripping her wrists, twisting her fight into something else, something that has her gasping sharply, has him caging her in his body with the heat and the brutal weight of his fiery stare.

“Yes, queen,” he bites out, a dark growl reverberating through his chest. “My fucking queen. Whether you like it or not.”

His breath is a sharp furious thing as his fingers grip her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. And his pupils are blown wild, a tempest barely restrained. And she knows that it doesn’t matter the weight of the fight left in her, he will still devour her whole.

Maybe that’s why she does what she does next. Maybe that’s why her nails rake down his chest. Maybe that’s why she yanks his head down, her mouth colliding with his in something that’s not a kiss but a battle, all rage and teeth, and molten, soul-consuming heat.

His groan is raw, his grip bruising as he hauls her up, her legs wrapping around his torso as if he wants to fuse her into his bones. Her back presses harder against the railing, the cold bite of metal a stark contrast to the inferno of his body, of his touch.

When he uses his thigh to push her legs apart, positioning himself at her opening, she knows she shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this, shouldn’t crave the way he claims her with each drag of his lips, each bruising touch, each sharp, possessive pull of his hands.

But she does. And that’s why she hates him most of all.

A ragged gasp claws at her throat as he slides into her, stealing the air from her lungs and splitting her open with a force that should make her scream. Should . But instead, her body betrays her, taking him in, welcoming him as if he belongs inside her. As if two days ago, he hadn’t driven a knife into Shiro’s chest for God knows how many times and made him bleed to death. As if less than forty-eight hours ago, he hadn’t watched life drain out of her best friend’s eyes as he twisted his knife into his stomach, watching life drain from the only person she had left in this world.

Her nails dig into his back, scoring deep, the sting of his skin breaking beneath her fingers the only act of defiance she has left.

Her heels dig into his ass, forcing him deeper even as she tells herself to fight him, bite him, and end him. She continues to let him use her and ruin her in a way that makes his betrayal taste even more bitter and vicious.

“I hate you!” she whimpers, the words raw as a surge of fury lace the pleasure winding tight in her core. “I hate you so much!”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is dark as he pants, a raspy growl that scrapes over her skin like jagged teeth. “Say that again.” His nails dig into her thigh, pounding harder into her, forcing a whimper that she fails to hide out of her throat. “Say that again, but when you’re not squeezing around my cock, dripping all over the place, and who knows? I might actually believe you.”

A sound escapes her, caught between agony and something far more damning. Because he’s right. He’s always right. And because even now, even after what he just said, her body is clenching around him, her traitorous nerves igniting like wildfire, her blood roaring in her veins.

The pleasure he is fusing into every thrust is unbearable, cruel, a torment in itself. She should feel nothing for this monster but pure, unadulterated loathing. She should want nothing but to hurt him.

She should want him dead.

But instead, she’s unraveling.

“You know what?” he pants, his long fingers tightening around her throat, his hips angling, thrusts brutal and unrelenting. “I put myself in your shoes. And yeah, I’d be pretty damn mad if I hate someone and yet, can’t stop bouncing on their cock. So don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

A choked, furious gasp rips from her throat but it’s quickly swallowed by his hot mouth that claims her lips, dragging her into another war. Their tongues clash, the kiss is deep and punishing, a battle neither of them will win. Because she’s already lost to him long ago.

And when pleasure crashes through her, tearing her apart at the seams, she knows that she has never, and will probably never hate anyone as much as she hates herself.

~You don’t need to run, French bird. Running makes you prey. And he will never stop hunting you. But picture this, if he’s gone, there will be no more locked doors, no more chains disguised as devotion. I have yet again, given you what you need. Be braver than you have ever been~

The words coil around Veronica’s mind, tightening like a noose.

‘I have yet again given you what you need.’

Veronica’s fingers tighten around the bundle of cloth in her palm. It feels heavier than it should—heavier than glass, heavier than liquid. It almost feels as if the arsenic acid inside the bottle carries something far greater than poison.

Her breath shudders as she unravels the fabric, revealing the small bottle glinting dully in the dim light. Her pulse pounds against her ribs.

‘Be braver than you have ever been.’

Brave? She doesn’t feel brave. She feels like a woman teetering on the edge of something vast and irreversible. Because death is irreversible. And she’s about to kill someone.

Her eyes, which have long lost life, flicker to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table. The amber liquid catches the glow of the chandelier. She imagines the poison dissolving into it, vanishing like a whisper in the dark. A single sip and it will all be over.

No more cages. No more him.

Something stirs in the deepest part of her, something dark, twisted, and oh-so dangerously seductive.

Her fingers tremble as she looks between the poison and the whiskey. A shaky sigh breaks out of her lips

And slowly, she takes a step.