Page 104 of Wicked Princess (Knight's Ridge Empire 2)

Most people would probably refuse. The thought of causing their lover pain, seeing them bleed, enough to not even consider it. That’s not who I am, though, and Seb damn well knows it.

Taking the knife, I flip the blade out, looking at the sharp tip, my mouth watering for what I’m about to do.

“Sit back,” I instruct.

Heat flashes through his eyes as he does as he’s told, allowing me enough space to crawl onto the bed as he lies back on his elbows.

I don’t pause until I’m between his legs, the tip of his knife only a fraction from his skin.

“I should get a towel,” I say in a moment of clarity.

“Just do it, Princess.”

I hold his eyes for a beat, waiting for him to back out, to tell me that he’s joking, but he never does.

“O-okay,” I say, hating that there’s a quiver in my voice.

I might have shot someone before, punched a few deserving candidates, but I’ve never willingly hurt someone. It’s entirely different.

Especially someone I care about.

My hand shakes as I press harder, the blade slicing through his soft skin with ease.

“Oh my God,” I gasp as the tip of the knife vanishes under a pool of red.

Carving in an ‘S’ is easier than I expected, and in only seconds he’s proudly wearing my first initial on his thigh.

“Fuck, Hellion,” he breathes, his chest heaving, his eyes so dark they’re almost black and his cock straining against the tight fabric of his boxers.

“Twisted fuck,” I mutter, ripping my eyes from him and rubbing my thumb beneath the wound I’ve created, sweeping away the trail of blood before it seeps into his sheets.

“Princess?”

Lifting my gaze once more, I lock my eyes on his as I lift my thumb to my lips and make a show of licking his blood away.

“Fuck,” he barks, watching my tongue as it swirls around my digit. “How do I taste?”

“I prefer your cock.”

“Fucking killing me here, baby.”

A wicked smirk pulls at my lips and I set to work adding my ‘D’ to his leg.

The second I’m done, I flip his switchblade closed and place it on his nightstand.

I don’t bother sitting up to admire my handiwork. Instead, I dip my head and lick up the trail of blood from his cut.

“Fuck, baby. You were right that night. You’re not a fucking angel from above,” he groans as I lick around his fresh wounds, the taste of copper filling my mouth.

I kiss around my brand before sitting back slightly to admire it.

The sight of my initials on his skin does something weird to me.

Stilling, I reach out and touch one finger to the ‘S,’ the strongest sensation of belonging and contentment washing over me.

It’s wrong, feeling like this about a person who’s only caused you pain.

Has he, though?