Page 16 of The King of Hearts

I look at the devil in front of me and barely suppress a shiver. Fear is still very much alive inside me, but that emotion manifests a much more lustful one. One I want to deny and run away from, but it’s just too strong.

I’ve learned through reading my books that fear can be a strong aphrodisiac. I never really understood that concept, but I certainly do now.

Boy, do I ever.

Moisture pools between my legs, and the slickness fills me with disgust. I should not be turned on right now.

I. Should. Not. Be. Turned. On.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

Why am I not screaming? Despite his warning. Why am I not clawing at him to get away? Why am I just standing here like an idiot, anxiously waiting for whatever he has planned for me?

He dips his head closer, and I get a better view of his mask. The thing looks sinister, and I know deep in my gut that the wearer is just as evil.

His breath coming from the mouth hole slithers across my cheek. “I can smell your arousal, vicious little angel.”

There’s no way he can actually smell the need seeping from between my legs. That crap only happens in books. Unless he’s some preternatural creature with heightened senses, which those things don’t exist in real life.

“No, you can’t,” I reply breathlessly. That’s what this man is doing to me. Steals my breath without even touching me. At first it was by fear, but now it’s from something altogether different. There’s no need for him to wrap his hand around my throat. He’s confiscating my air with only his proximity and words.

“You’re so fucking soaked it’s saturating the air.”

There’s no part of his body touching mine, but it feels like his hands are all over me. From the soles of my feet to the top of my head, I feel his phantom caress.

I hate myself because the fucked-up part of me wants his hands on me. Hands that were once covered in Patrick Arlington’s blood. Ones that cut out a man’s heart and delivered it to me as some sort of sick gift.

I keep waiting for him to strike. To reach out and grab me again. To rip off my cami and thong, press his body against mine, and have his way with me.

Would I fight him? I honestly don’t know.

He doesn’t move any closer. He just stays right where he is, his body inches from mine and his head tipped down so close I can almost see past the hollow holes where his eyes are. I keep my head tilted back, way back, so I can see him.

“What are you going to do to me?”

What I should be doing is begging himnotto hurt me, not curiously waiting to see what pain he’ll inflict.

“Whatever the fuck I please.”

Oh Jesus.

Why, oh why, does that make me wetter?

“Eventually,” he continues. “But for tonight, I want to watch you sleep.”

Wait. What? He wants to watch mesleep?

That’s good, right?

It should be good.

So, why do I feel like deflating with disappointment?

Because you’re a sick fucking bitch, Savina, my inner voice says with an eye roll.

He steps back, taking away his scent and his warmth. I barely stop myself from reaching out and snatching him back into my orbit. I want him close. I want his skin against mine. I want his scent surrounding me so I can breathe it in and memorize it.

“Get on the bed, Savina.”

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