Page 36 of Blood Marked

Selene shoved him against the shelf. He spun her into it. His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her—gods, she wrapped around him like instinct, likeneed.

She gasped as he pressed against her, growled when his mouth found the skin at her throat.

“I hate you for making me want this,” she whispered.

“Then hate me,” he growled. “But don’t stop.”

She didn’t.

Kael’s fingers hooked into the neckline of her tunic. Fabric ripped. Selene bit his lip, tasting copper as she clawed at the buckles of his armor. Metal clattered—his breastplate skidding across the floor. Every scrape of skin against leather, every hitched breath, echoed off the shelves around them.

He dragged her hips against his, the hard line of his belt digging into her stomach. She shoved him backward, hands fumbling at the laces of his trousers. “You want more?” Her voice a blade’s edge. “Then quithesitating.”

He barked a laugh, low and jagged. His palm closed over her throat, not squeezing, just holding. A threat. A promise. “Careful.”

“Or what?” She bit his thumb, teeth grazing the callus. “You’llregretme harder?”

His growl vibrated against her collarbone as he tore her leggings down her thighs. Cool air hit her skin. Then his heat. His mouth sealed over her breast, teeth scraping. She arched, nails raking his shoulders.

When he lifted her, the impact against the groaning shelf sent a constellation of glass vials chiming. Cold iron dug into her spine as an inkpot shattered—acrid bergamot and iron-gall stinging the air, wetness spreading like a bloodstain across stone. Kael’s grip on her thighs was all unforgiving muscle, his knee driving her legs apart until the stretch burned. No preamble. No tenderness. Just the brutal claim of his cock splitting her open, a blade forged in the exact shape of her hunger.

She gasped at the size of him—the obscene fullness, the way her body clenched around his girth as if trying to both devour and expel him. His growl against her throat was pure animal triumph, hips pistoning to bury himself deeper. Every thrust dragged a broken noise from her lips, her heel digging into the flare of his hip to pull him closer still.

“Is that all?” she taunted through gritted teeth, even as her opening fluttered around him, wet and desperate.

He answered by sheathing himself to the hilt, the hot slap of skin echoing off the trembling shelves. His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the frantic pulse beneath her jaw. She tasted violence on his tongue when he kissed her—a clash of teeth and shared breath, the ink-stained air thick with the musk of their joining.

“Still hate me?” he demanded, thrusts sharp enough to knock a gasp from her lungs.

“Yes.” She dragged her tongue up the scar splitting his eyebrow. Felt him shudder. “But hate’s not what this is.”

His forehead pressed to hers, sweat-damp and furious.

She laughed, broken, breathless—as the shelf’s edge bit into her spine with every drive of his hips.

His rhythm stuttered, a moment’s surrender that tasted like victory. Then his hand slid between them, thumb circling where their bodies joined. The slick friction tore a sound from her throat—half curse, half benediction. Her head snapped back, skull cracking against warped wood. Pain flared white behind her eyelids, mingling with the dark pleasure coiling low in her belly. His smirk was feral when she blinked up at him through waterlogged lashes.

She choked on the moan before it could become his name, teeth sinking into her lower lip until copper bloomed.

"Fucking look at me," he growled, dirt-caked nails breaking skin as he hitched her leg higher. The renewed pace was punishing—the brutal cadence of swords clashing, hearth embers scattering across stone. Her vision splintered, sparks of silver and crimson fracturing consciousness into glittering shards. Oxygen became a forgotten concept. The world narrowed to the drag of him inside her, the hot burst of his breath branding her neck, the splintered shelf groaning its requiem beneath them—symphony of ruin written in sweat and split oak.

When she came, it wasn’t a crest—it was an avalanche. Teeth in his shoulder, a scream smothered against his skin. He followed, a ragged curse against her temple, hips jerking as he spilled into her.

Silence.

Then the rustle of their breathing. The slow drip of ink from the shattered jar. His hands stayed locked on her hips, hers tangled in the crumpled remains of his shirt.

She shoved him back. He let her, hands falling to his sides as her boots hit the floor. Her leggings slithered around her ankles. His trousers hung low on his hips, scarred abdomen heaving.

And she knew, in the stretch of silence between them, that they were more than lost.

They were fucked.

He stepped back further.

Like it hurt.

Her fingers slipped away from him, cold.

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