Page 23 of The Monster You Made
Rourke eyes us, sensing the charge in the air, but he doesn't argue. He grabs his pack and vanishes into the shadows, leaving us alone again.
The moment he's gone, Lucian's on me, flipping me onto my back on the hard floor. The lantern casts flickering shadows, illuminating the raw hunger in his eyes. "Can't get enough," headmits, voice rough, as he strips me bare this time, shirt yanked over my head, pants discarded, leaving me exposed, vulnerable.
His gaze rakes over me, drinking in my curves, the bruises from his grip blooming like dark flowers on my skin. "Beautiful," he breathes, a word that's almost soft, before the dominance surges back. He sheds his own clothes, his cock springing free, hard and weeping pre-cum.
He lowers himself over me, weight pinning me down, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss. Teeth clash, tongues battle, tasting blood from where he bites my lip. I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him inside.
He enters me slowly this time, inch by torturous inch, making me feel every vein, every throb. "Feel that?" he whispers against my mouth. "How you were made for this cock?"
I moan, nails scoring his back, drawing blood. "Move, damn you."
He does, but on his terms, slow, deep thrusts that build agonizingly, his hips grinding against my clit with each plunge. Sweat slicks our skin, the air filled with our grunts and gasps.
As the pace quickens, he flips us, pulling me on top. "Ride me," he commands, hands on my hips, guiding me down onto his length.
I do, rising and falling, taking him deep, my breasts bouncing with the motion. He reaches up, pinching my nipples, twisting until I yelp, the pain shooting straight to my pussy.
"Faster," he growls, bucking up to meet me, our bodies slapping together in a frenzy.
I lean forward, biting his shoulder, marking him as mine. His hand cracks against my ass, the sting making me clench around him.
"Again," I demand, and he obliges, spanking me harder, the sound echoing.
We chase release together, my clit grinding against his pelvis, his cock hitting depths that make stars burst behind my eyes. When I come, screaming his name, he flips us again, pounding through my spasms until he erupts, filling me once more.
Collapsed together, hearts hammering, he holds me close. "I need you, Vera," he confesses softly, vulnerability cracking his armor. "More than the fight."
I trace his scars, my own walls crumbling. "I know. Me too."
But dawn breaks, and with it, the world demands our rage. We dress in silence, bodies marked, souls entwined. Tomorrow, we strike, but tonight, we've claimed our piece of hell.
Chapter 9 - Lucian
Morning in Old Vienna breaks like a blade: sharp, cold, unyielding. From the narrow slit of the tunnel grate, I watch the city stir. Vehicles clatter over cobblestones slick with frost, banners ripple in the wind, and the square outside the opera house swells with bodies. Delegates in tailored suits, soldiers in polished boots, street vendors hawking bread to the restless crowds, every piece of the stage set for Declan’s grand performance.
I haven’t slept. None of us have. Vera sits against the wall opposite, the satchel across her lap like a shield. Rourke mutters curses under his breath, rolling dice that aren’t there between his fingers. We are three ghosts haunting the belly of the beast, waiting for the moment the world tilts.
The sound above shifts as bells toll the hour. Stagehands shout to one another, moving sets, testing ropes. The summit’s second day is upon us. Today, Declan speaks.
I run a whetstone along my knife, the rasp steady, a rhythm to anchor me. My thoughts are sharp, honed to a single point. For years, I’ve imagined ending him in silence, in shadow. A blade in the dark, a whisper in his throat. But now the plan is different. Vera’s evidence demands spectacle. His lies must die under the same lights that gave them life.
She watches me, her eyes unblinking, as if measuring how much of the man she knew still lives beneath the scars. The silence between us is heavier than the stone walls. I feel her questions even when she doesn’t ask them. I do not give answers. Not yet.
Rourke finally breaks the stillness. “If this goes wrong, and it will, you’ve doomed us all. You realize that?”
“No,” I say calmly. “Declan doomed us when he chose to wear the Crown’s colors while drinking Cadmus wine. We’re only here to show the world what that looks like in the light.”
Vera’s voice cuts in, quiet but edged. “And if the world doesn’t care?”
“Then we burn it until it learns to.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either. I wonder if she hears the conviction in my voice or only the hunger. Maybe both.
By midmorning, the underchamber hums with activity. Guards check the ropes, technicians test the machinery. From our hiding place, we glimpse fragments of the stage above: red velvet curtains drawn back, a podium set at the center, gilded chairs for dignitaries. A golden microphone gleams in the lights, polished for Declan’s lies.
Rourke leans close. “Once he’s speaking, we’ll never get close without a bullet in the skull.”
“That’s why we don’t aim for closeness,” I murmur. “We aim for exposure. Vera’s satchel, planted where the world can see. The rest follows.”
