Page 22 of Stolen By the Gargoyle
“I am pleased,” he said.
“Where did you get all of this?” I gestured at it.
His brows pulled together in a line that suggested he didn’t want to answer the question. Honestly, that made me even more suspicious and my eyes narrowed on him. I mean, obviously they were used. But who had he taken them from?
“Nazzar?”
His entire body jolted, and he jerked forward over me. I held my breath, watching the flare of his nostrils and the rattling breaths he pulled into his body. The subtle way his entire body lit in a light purple hue, like a low fire lived beneath his skin.
“You spoke my name,” he whispered, his voice sounding strangled, like it hurt to get the words out. He reached out, one sharp tipped claw swiping against my lower lip. It felt like a dangerous thing to do, given how pointed they were. But there was also something thrilling about that, toeing the edge of pain and pleasure together.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that at all, but it was the first thing that came to my mind, and I couldn’t shake the thought. Not when he leaned forward and whispered, “Say it again.”
My tongue darted out to wet my lips, catching against his claw. He sucked in his own breath at the action, and for some reason that made me feel powerful.
“Nazzar.”
The inky eyes seemed to shine like pools of ink, like a night sky, black but scattered with glittering stars.
He looked like he wanted to pounce on me. To jump and wrap me in his arms, maybe even give me a repeat of what he’d done the day before. To dive tongue first in between my legs and feast.
I almost wondered if he would, and then those same fears came rearing their ugly head. The ones that wondered if he would take what I’d be unwilling to give. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen. If he would do it. If he would try.
Nazzar’s nostrils seemed to flare as he jerked back, shaking his head back and forth. A furrow appeared on his brow, and he sniffed the air around me.
The way he did it made me feel self-conscious, and I curled in on myself. “What?” I demanded, wondering if I stunk. I probably did, considering I was in a fucking cave with no soap.
“Your scent changed,” he said, though it came out disgruntled.
“My scent?” My eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
He sniffed again. “Desire and then fear.” He looked startled by that. “Do you fear me, wife?”
I could only just make out the hurt in his expression, and it shouldn’t have mattered. He’d kidnapped me, after all, but I felt inexplicably bad for making him feel that way. Because even if he’d kidnapped me, he’d also given me a really good orgasm, fed me, and had given me gifts.
Jesucristo, the bar was literally in hell.
“Yes.”
His wings twitched like they wanted to ward off my words.
“Why?” His claw left my lip and went to his chest, raking through his flesh. His injuries from the day before had healed over, leaving the faint sign of a scar in place. But his claws curved over that same spot now, digging grooves into his chest. “Do you think I would harm you?” His claws tore into his skin, piercing it and causing blood to flow across the gray. “I would sooner cut out my own heart.” As if he meant to punctuate his point, he pushed deeper, making a strangled sound come out of his throat.
“Stop!” I reached for his arm, tugging on his bicep. “Don’t do that!”
“If I must prove to you that I will not hurt you, then you will let me do this.” He almost doubled over.
He was as hard as a boulder, and I couldn’t move him no matter how hard I pulled. Was he really going to maim himself–potentially kill himself–all because I was afraid of him? That was crazy, even for him. And it wasn’t something I wanted.
I lurched forward, pressing my hands over his, staunching the flow of his blood. “Please,” I begged, my lower lip trembling. “Please don’t do this.”
He must have heard the distress in my voice because he froze, looking at me with a pained expression. But it was the kind that went deeper than physical pain. It was worlds and worlds of hurt, rising to the surface.
“Can you just let me explain?”
It took a few moments, but eventually he slackened enough so that I could pull his hand, slipping his claws from his chest. I didn’t speak right away, grabbing one of the flimsy pieces of clothes he got for me and cleaning his blood with it. He watched my movements with over-assessing eyes. There was tenderness and shock there that made me feel nervous.
When I finished, I took a deep breath. A part of me felt like he wouldn’t hurt me, but the anxiety was hard to push away. I equated the danger with being kidnapped. Maybe we were just from different cultures, with different customs and ideas. But that still was no excuse. I had a right to feel what I did, even if they were conflicting emotions. I had a right to them, and it was time he knew what was in my heart, and why I felt so afraid.
