Page 35 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

H is hand is a furnace around mine. Solid. Real. This isn’t a gentle offering. It’s a claim. A piece of architectural design he’s slotted into place. I hate that I don’t pull away. I hate that a small, stupid part of me likes the heat, likes my hand in his.

His kneeling, his words, the kiss were a calculated sacrifice of his monumental ego. But the ghost of his lips on mine feels dangerously real. My body still tingles from the contact. Part of me wonders if the book demanded something from him in a moment of solitude.

We walk into the main hallway. The silence is charged, a live wire waiting for a spark.

“Looks like Verik got his dick wet after all,” a male voice booms out as we approach the dining hall.

Verik stiffens, and he slows to a halt. He turns his head to stare at the fae who shouted out.

Without pulling his hand from mine, he lunges towards the fae, his other shooting out to grip him around the throat and slam him against the wall.

A sickening crunch echoes in the suddenly silent hallway as he lifts the smaller fae off his feet.

“Say it again,” Verik growls, his voice a low inferno. “I dare you.”

My hand is a prisoner in his, the heat of his rage travelling up my arm like a current.

Part of me wants to pull him back, to stop drawing attention to me.

Another, darker part of me wants to watch him burn this little shit to ash.

The brand on my back glows. It likes this. This possessive, violent display.

Violence is an ongoing occurrence at DarkHallow. No one will step in unless death is imminent. Verik is free to batter this fae into a pulp before anyone intervenes, and judging by the look on his face, he plans to do exactly that.

I’m not going to stop him.

Verik drops the fae and then snaps his arm out so fast, I nearly miss it, save for the grunt from the fae where Verik smashed his nose in.

He catches the fae before he drops, his hand closing around his throat, and flings him down the hallway to crash into a group of werewolves heading up the stairs.

His hand never left mine.

I tighten my hold, squeezing it with all my strength. Something about that display of toxic masculinity has lit a fire in my soul, and I mentally shake my head at myself. But I knew this all along. Bad boys have a way of crashing past the walls I’ve built up to get a grip on me.

Verik doesn’t look at me. He just stares down the hallway, a low growl still rumbling in his chest. His knuckles are bloody where they connected with the fae’s face. The sight should repulse me. It doesn’t. It makes my clit throb.

Fucking hell. I am a mess.

He starts walking again, pulling me along. His grip is a manacle, a promise. We enter the dining hall. The usual morning chatter fills our ears. Dathan and Evren are already at my table. Dathan raises an eyebrow as we approach, a silent question.

Verik just grunts, still radiating a possessive heat. He hasn’t let go of my hand. He’s not going to. This is the new normal. A public claim staked with blood and bone. My hand in his feels less like a choice and more like a brand. Just another part of me he owns.

We reach the table. Verik pulls out a chair for me with his free hand, a gesture so out of character it’s a threat. I sit, and he takes the seat beside me, our joined hands a centrepiece on the table.

I try to tug my hand free. Verik’s grip tightens, not painfully, but with an absolute finality. My struggle is a small, pathetic flutter against his strength. “You’re going to have to let me go so we can get food and eat,” I hiss.

“Am I?” he asks. “Do you really want to be set free, hellcat?”

“Worried I might not come back?” I reply.

He finally meets my eyes and smirks. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles before he releases it. “I have absolute certainty that you will return.”

I get up, my legs feeling a little unsteady. Every eye in the dining hall is on me, a hundred silent judgments. I walk to the buffet, my back ramrod straight. I load a plate with pastries I don’t really want, my hands moving on autopilot.

I return to the table, a queen returning to her throne of thorns.

I place my plate down and sit, picking up a croissant.

I don’t look at any of them as I shove it into my mouth, savagely biting off the end.

Verik grabs the side of my chair and yanks it closer to him, the metal screeching on the stone floor.

Verik’s hand settles on my thigh under the table. I jump, my breath catching. His thumb makes a slow, deliberate circle on the fabric of my dress. A brand of a different kind. A reminder.

I belong to them now. In public and in private. But a dark, traitorous piece of me doesn’t want to run. It wants to see how far they’ll go to keep me.

Feeling a burning gaze on my back, I turn to see the werewolves that Verik threw the fae into enter the dining hall, a pack of predators marking me as their prey.

Evren straightens up. Dathan lets out a low growl. Verik does nothing, except lean over to pinch a Danish from my plate and stuff it into his mouth.

The alpha of the pack, a brute with scars crisscrossing his face, stalks towards our table. His cronies fan out behind him, a wall of muscle and cheap cologne.

“Got yourself a new bitch, Architect?” the alpha growls, his yellow eyes fixed on me. “Didn’t know you liked them so small. Easy to break.”

Verik’s thumb stops moving on my thigh. He takes another bite of the Danish, chewing slowly, deliberately. He doesn’t even look at the werewolf.

“Is that a threat?” Dathan asks, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Evren places his fork down with a soft, precise click. A thin layer of frost spreads from his fingertips, creeping across the polished wood of the table towards the approaching wolves.

The alpha scoffs, unimpressed. “She’s property. And you disrespected my pack.”

“By throwing a different species into you? ” Verik says, finally looking up. His hellfire eyes are flat, bored. “Besides, you don’t have a pack. You have a social club for overgrown puppies. Now run along before I redesign your fucking face as well.”

The alpha lunges.

Before he can even get two inches, Evren is on his feet. He doesn’t make a sound. He just moves, a blur of silent, chilling grace. He intercepts the werewolf, his hand a pale claw that closes around the brute’s throat.

There’s no struggle. No sound. The alpha’s eyes bulge, his face turning a mottled purple. A fine web of frost spreads from Evren’s fingers, creeping across the werewolf’s skin, silencing his heart.

Evren holds the alpha, a silent, beautiful statue of death.

The silence in the dining hall is absolute, a vacuum where sound has ceased to exist. Even the floating candles stop flickering.

The alpha’s friends are frozen, a wall of useless muscle, their bravado evaporating in the face of a true predator.

Evren tilts his head, a single, fluid motion. He doesn’t need a voice. The promise in his ice-blue eyes is a language everyone here understands.

He releases his grip. The werewolf drops to the stone floor, a boneless heap, gasping for air, his throat a raw, frost-burned ruin. He scrambles back on his hands and knees, his pack dragging him away without a single backwards glance.

The moment is broken. A collective exhale rushes through the hall.

Verik’s hand on my thigh squeezes once, a possessive, triumphant gesture. Dathan leans back in his chair, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. He’s drinking in the ambient terror like an aged whiskey.

This is my life now. A queen on a throne of thorns, guarded by monsters who would kill in my name. I’m not just their project. I’m their justification. I push my chair back and stand, muttering, “I have class.”