Page 68 of Cursed Shadows 1

The predator I sense in my bones.

Out of darkness, he comes, but I don’t see him. Ifeelhim.

His muscled chest coming up to my back as he stalks me through the halls, the warmth of his mint-leaf breath brushing through my hair.

A familiar scent ripples over me. Those layers of polished metal, almond soap, and true earth thicken the air and tickle my nose.

I know who advances on me by scent alone.

Before I can blink, he has me by the hips and pushes me against the wall. My yelp is a strangled breath.

Soft mouth against the shell of my ear, his murmur is gravelled, “Hands on the wall.”

Even if I didn’t recognize Daxeel’s scent, I would know his voice anywhere, even when spoken so quietly, as though he’s part of the shadows in the corridor.

That breathy sound escapes me again. My skin prickles with the shudder that runs through me.

I obey his command.

My hands flatten against the painted wall.

The pressure of his palm is firm between my shoulder blades as he guides me into position, until my forearms are rested on the wall and my cheeks settle between them.

His other hand wanders.

That’s really what keeps me in place. Not the firm hold on my back that pins me, but the gentle ghosting of his hand down the curve of my hip.

I should be afraid.

I am, of course. Always afraid of the dark fae, always chilled to the bone around him. And now that it’s all so different, thathe’sdifferent, anxiety nips at my heels and lashes around me like the shadows themselves.

But being the fool I am, the excitement of it all is stronger, and the wetness is quick to gather at my core.

It takes that one touch, the shadows of the corridor, and his familiar scent to alight the fire in me. Bet he doesn’t know he could just click his fingers and I would crumble at his feet, ready for him, always ready for him.

The rough touch of his hand slips down the hem of my skirt. The pressure of his hand brushes over my smooth thigh for a beat, fingertips scraping over the garter strap of my stockings.

A pulse of feral energy runs through him. Against my back, his chest hardens and he’s bunching up my skirt in a rough hurry.

All of him presses against me. His muscular chest is solid against my back, the drop of his head to rest on mine, and the hardness of his cock trapped in his leathers that pushes against my ass.

He makes no move to free himself and shove into me.

I would welcome it. I would welcome him.

The thought of it, the anticipation, draws out a whispery moan from my lips and instinct takes over. I push my ass back against him.

That earns a hiss—a dangerous one—at the shell of my ear.

“Don’t fucking move,” and it’s his animal growling those words at me, his rage and hatred of me.

Those familiar thrills stir deep in my belly. I loosen a shaky breath, a battle of anxiety and arousal tickling between my legs.

I do as he ordered.

I’m as still as a statue.

I don’t move a muscle as the hand pressed against my back slides up to the nape of my neck—and holds, firm. He pins me in place with that, and I can’t move now even if I wanted to.

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