Page 16 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)

Unable to stop himself, he groaned against her; the sound reverberated from his chest to her lips.

With gentle possessiveness, he swept his fingers along her thigh, trailing frigid cold in their wake.

He squeezed and hungrily lifted her leg to wrap around him.

Then came the heat of her body swallowing him.

She did not stop him.

Alora tightened her leg around him, forcing them to grind together and threatening to undo him entirely.

Fire scorched in her eyes as his body trembled at the contact. Bursts of blissful friction sent heat and cold rushing through him in equal measure as he yielded to her. Like lightning had struck him. Only this jolt was not of pain. It was something so much more.

Mesmerized by the shape of her lips and how her hips undulated into him, greedily indulging in him too, he barely noticed her fingers curling. Curling against the raised, rigid, abused flesh of his abdomen. Over the open, festering wounds he kept hidden.

That fast darkness stormed his vision.

That fast, perfectly rounded nails appeared as feathered, black, sharpened ones.

Alora’s hands roved up his abdomen, making it impossible to breathe.

He could not look at her. Those glowing sapphires were morphing into an abyss of pitch black. If he could, he would bury his face in her neck. Taking in the wintry aroma of her skin mixed with the vanilla and oak from his lips instead of the putrid and decaying scent of his master.

Frozen, Garrik fell entirely rigid. Suspended between reality— impossible to fight back. By the star’s infernal curse, he could never fight her back.

Those silver eyes, even in the shadows, darkened.

It was too much… That touch there. Too much like his serpent. Too much— Too fucking much.

Some terrified corner of his mind whispered the words, warm hands. Somehow, in his panic, he knew that—tried to convince himself of it. They were warm hands. Not cold. Not cold.

He could not control it. His body shivered so viciously his knees nearly gave out, intensifying with every second Alora’s nails pressed into his flesh?—

Stop… his mind pleaded, terrified. Stop.

He did not want this. Did not want her hands there. Could not convince himself that she was not the one with daggered nails clawing into him like he was a toy, powerless to her every vile whim. That she would not force him on his back and take from him again, so soon.

S-stop touching me, his mind choked out because his lips couldn’t.

But it was not Alora’s lips that were sculpted to his—not her tongue that was dancing wantonly against his teeth—that answered.

You will be punished for this. Have you so easily forgotten that you are mine ? Mine!

Galdheir was so far away, but there, he felt her wrath as if it were already being taken out on his body.

As Alora’s nails curled and dug into the marred flesh of his abdomen, he trembled as the truth—the threat she would carry out—swept over him.

The borders of his mind made a fractured sound.

A plea. A plea to just remain there, safe for one more moment. Allow him to not break and cower like the pathetic male he was for just one more mo?—

Garrik ripped away from Alora’s embrace without a word. Mind spinning as he stumbled back onto his heel and dropped her leg from around him.

Alora’s alarmed expression was worse than any wound he had ever suffered. Regarding his distressed features, while in her eyes he glimpsed his wide and blown, surveying her to make certain she was not truly there.

Forgive me— he wanted to scream it. Make Alora understand. Put the blame on himself. She had done nothing wrong.

Instead, the coward he was dropped his palm from her face and twisted away, hoping that when he turned back his serpent would have disappeared.

Offering Alora his back, he paced to the side of the tree.

Every nerve in his body on fire, the urge to turn back and embrace her once more burned through him to the point he had to flex both hands at his thighs to keep from doing so.

Bending, Garrik lifted his tunic from where he had dropped it.Heavier than ever, his High Prince mask slipped back on as his carefully constructed control slammed into him. A dried trickle of blood down her neck caught his attention.

You did that, pet.

Garrik slammed his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth.

And I will do so much worse to her for your unfaithfulness. When I get my hands on her ? —

His voice darkened as he blurted, “Why were you following me?” He knew the moment the words escaped him, he should have dawned them back to camp without uttering a word.

Should have gone back to his tent, to his endless bottles of bourbon, which his shadows would dawn him to drown her away.

But if he tried now, would his shadows even be able to?

After all he had required of them today … after how his body felt…

Fabric tore from his shirt by his aching fingers. He outstretched it, offering a silent gesture toward the cut on her neck, now smeared and dried against her fiery skin.

Gaping, Alora struggled to catch her breath, leaning against the oak. Her cheeks were flushed in that enticing shade of scarlet he could not muster the strength to enjoy. Fuck, she appeared terrified and confused, eyes downcast.

It should have pleased him. Was that not what his plan was? To have her hating him? Fearing him?

Two parts of him warred inside, bloody and bruised, but the victor had his face softening a fraction, barely noticeable, still hovering his hand with a scrap of fabric.

With nothing more than a blink, Alora accepted it and pressed it tight against the wound.

Ashamed, his gaze did not falter, spearing into where his blade had been like his mere stare could reverse time. But that was not the magic he possessed—and there was no way in Firekeeper-filled- hell he would ask the male who did to aid him. It was a fool’s wish. The damage was hewn.

Jaw tight. “You are going to make me ask twice?” he asked, arching a brow.

Alora’s focus shifted. Her head swayed as she examined his face and stuttered, “I … I don’t know.” That starsdamned lip rolled between her teeth, and she nervously rubbed her death mark, bunching the fabric on her upper left arm that made her appear timid—and so unlike his clever girl.

That wouldn’t do.

He took in a breath to bring out that fiery, infuriating female, but it was Alora’s voice that spoke. “You were gone all day. I saw you leaving your tent, armed. I hadn’t seen you like that since Telldaira.”

Could she feel how his heart seemingly stopped? How ink began to claim his eyes and fingertips?

Galdheir. He had gone to Galdheir. Then was captured … by her.

Face paling, the abyss misted away as his stomach threatened to hollow out.

A weak, sarcastic grin climbed up his face.

Refusing the memories, and instead setting the challenge, Garrik’s focus flickered to the only female that might keep his nightmares at bay, resumed his earlier mission, and taunted, “So, you missed me, then?”Sparring with her was easier than the truth. If anyone knew … if anyone found out …

As delightedly predicted, Alora snapped, “I didn’t say that.” Any lingering terror instantly melted.

Garrik chuckled, knowing he would never tire of her spirit and would only ever encourage it.

He pulled a sleeve over his arm, then the other as he informed of his own torment, “I went to see Aiden in Galdheir.” Nothing else.

He paused. Knowing precisely what his next words would do—craving it—he smirked, then lied, “Now that I know you cannot live a day without me, I will invite you next time.”