Page 112 of Shadows and Roses

Sharp dragging pinpoints burned his chest as her fingers curled inwards and down, slicing him the same way he’d been sliced so many times before. His spine arched, his mouth opened. Pain shot along his veins, twisted into tense heat low in his stomach. But he didn’t bleed. His chest throbbed, his muscles tensed, but he didn’t bleed.

"Look at me."

His eyes snapped up.

"Keep your eyes on me," she ordered. Not ice in her tone, but steel. There was a whip in her hand now. His hands gripped his shredded shirt.

"Look at me, Castien," she snapped.

How could he do anything else while she shrugged out of her gown, the fabric falling off her shoulders and revealing the soft mounds of her bare breasts, pooling at her waist, at the muscles of her stomach?

The whip brushed his skin. He shivered.

And slowly relaxed.

A beautiful woman willing—eager—to please him: that stopped his breath more than the sight of her breasts or the whip trailing down his chest. He’d never given control to hisclients. He’d never had a true partner in the sheets. Giving Anais control had been a risk—and his reward was calm. Peace. The chaos in his mind muffled. Not silent. Not so easily, but better.

For a moment, for now, he could pretend.

As she let her gown slip to the floor, and her legs straddled his thighs, he could pretend.

When her whip lashed a beautifully excruciating line of red on the muscles of his belly, he could pretend.

While she peeled off his pants, dug her claws into his sides, and mounted his painfully hard cock, he hissed and he could pretend.

Every slow roll of her hips was accompanied by a new red line on his flesh. Marked by his Queen. He could accept that. He reveled in it, in each jolt of pleasure from the pain, from her liquid heat; they were the same.

And finally, at her unyielding command, he let go. For this moment, he didn’t need to pretend. For this moment, he was free. He was hers.

Anais panted, her arms locked on both sides of his rapidly rising and falling chest. Pleasure and pain receded.

Leaving only a growing need to rip out of his bindings, roll her over beneath him, crush her firm body against his, and never let go. He harshly reined in his fantasies.

Her head lifted. She sat back, letting the softening length of him slip out. Reaching to her nightstand, she brought out a jar and began to gently rub a cool ointment onto his abused skin.

But her eyes… Cold. Her eyes were so cold.

"Anais…" he whispered.

She blinked. Again. Sharp emeralds melted to dark, wary green. Herhands paused. "Are you alright?"

Alright? The faintest smile curved his lips. His chest felt feathery light. Languid exhaustion melted his muscles. He was so much better than ‘alright’.

The scent of roses lay heavy in his lungs, lulling him under their soft embrace. His eyelids felt heavy. Perhaps he could sleep without dreaming tonight.

"Castien?"

He looked into her eyes again. Cold, hard emeralds. He wanted to tell her she was nothing like Yelena. He wanted to thank her. To hold her.

But she only wanted to heal him. Nothing more.

"I should go," he said. Twisting his wrists out of the cloth bindings, he shifted beneath her.

She didn't move for a moment. The cold in her gaze seemed to crack.

Then she blinked and ice smoothed her face. "Of course. Anything you need. Take this, it’ll help." She placed the jar in his hand.

The heat of her body seared his skin like a brand until she moved away. He sighed in relief. Sliding off the bed and putting on his pants, he bowed to where she sat at her vanity, her back turned to him, her eyes lowered.

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