Page 102 of Fallen Nocturne

In one sudden motion, the tendril yanks the masked man free from the tangle of shadows suspending him. He crashes down and the vines drag him to the bedpost. They pin his hands against the wood.

His wings crumple against the post, folded at an angle that cannot be comfortable. His chest heaves.

The vines knot themselves tight and settle, coiling back with the smug satisfaction of a job well done.

I did not expect that.

I walk toward him slowly. My legs are still unsteady. He wrenches against the bindings hard enough to make the bedpost groan, and I freeze.

For one terrible second, I think the shadows will not hold. The muscles in his arms bulge with effort as the dark tendrils stretch thin.

They hold.

I let out a breath and look at him properly. His tunic hangs open, baring the scarred planes of his chest, and his breeches sit low on his hips. Dark hair falls across the mask in damp strands, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone.

Not so frightening now that he is tied up.

My gaze drops lower. He is hard. Painfully, desperately hard, straining against his breeches. The sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat through me despite everything my body has already endured.

I did that to him. After all the chasing and relentless pursuit, he is the one left aching.

“Rhianelle.” The fury has vanished from his voice. What remains is raw and stripped bare, a tone I have never heard from him before. “Please. Give the rings back. They are all I have left.”

The words hit somewhere behind my ribs. This is not a command or a threat. It is a plea. Of all the treasures and magnificent things within this palace, he is begging me for two small rings hidden in my dress. The way his voice breaks on the word please tells me these are more than treasures to him. They are a lifeline to something he has already lost.

My chest aches. I want to give them back. I almost do.

Instead, I just stare at him. The proud, powerful creature is pinned to his own bedpost, asking me for mercy with the same mouth that showed me none.

Something shifts inside me. The exhaustion is still there, bone-deep and real, but beneath it a different hunger stirs.

I want him.

I think I have recovered enough.

I ease onto the bed and move closer. Burning eyes follow every movement through the mask. I place one hand flat against his chest. His heart hammers against my palm.

I climb into his lap and wrap my fingers around him. He hisses through his teeth.

“Untie me,” he says. “Untie me and I'll—”

“No.” I hold his gaze through the mask and sink down slowly.

The sound he makes is strangled. His head falls back against the bedpost, the lines of his neck pulled taut. The bindings creak as he strains against them. His knuckles whiten against the wood while every muscle in his body fights for control.

“Rhianelle, don’t—” His voice fails him.

I settle fully and hold still. His jaw clenches. A vein pulses at his temple. He is shaking beneath me from the effort of not moving.

I rise slowly. Then sink back down. Shallow, unhurried, savoring every fraction of the descent.

“This is cruel,” he says through his teeth.

I roll my hips and watch his face contort. "Hmm. Now you know how it feels."

My pace stays slow. Agonizingly slow. I lift myself until only the tip remains, hold there long enough to watch his jaw clench and his chest heave, then slide back down in one smooth stroke that makes us both shudder. My fingers grip his shoulders for balance. The rhythm is entirely mine. I take only what I want and give nothing more.

His arms wrench against the bindings. The bedpost groans. I feel the vibration of it through my thighs but the shadows hold, and his hands stay bound to the post.