Page 5 of Slayer

I move like I always do, quiet and certain, and light the lantern hanging on the far wall. It’s not necessary, just… comforting. Not just for me.

Before the flame can fully catch, I feel him. Maddoc is already here, closing the space between us in a single breath. His body presses my back against the desk, firm and unrelenting. His voice finds my ear, low. “I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you, Nes.” I sink into him and the way he says my name with such hunger, such need.

His hands grip my sides, fingers pressing into the leather of my corset, then lifts me effortlessly onto the desk. Gold, trinkets, daggers, and parchment scatter to the floor with a clatter.

I look at the mess he’s made and narrow my eyes. “You’ve made a mess, love,” I say, low and commanding as I lean into him. “Now get on your knees and clean it.” The flame flickers across his face, catching the hunger in his dark eyes. It burns from the inside out.

Maddoc smirks. “I’ll get on my knees,” he says, “but not to clean your damn floor. You’ve got people for that. I’m not a housemaid.” His words hit me like butter on toast, melting straight into my core. Gods, I love his sharp tongue.

Most men fear me, but Maddoc challenges me. He steps closer, slow and sure, until his mouth hovers just inches from mine. “Well then,” I murmur, “what are you waiting for? A treat?”

His lips crash into mine, hard, hungry, claiming. He bites down on my lower lip, just enough to draw blood, and groans at the taste. I moan at the slight pain the bite causes. His hands roam my body like he already knows every curve, fierce, focused, and damn near reverent.

“You are the treat,” he says against my mouth. “Every single inch of you.” That voice slides across my skin and settles into my bones, into the very center of me that aches for him the most.

He ignites every nerve in my body with just a look. With just a touch. I push myself into him, wrapping my legs around him, feeling every inch of him.

His mouth trails down the front of my body, slowly. He takes his time removing each piece of clothing like he’s unwrapping a rare piece of parchment until I’m bare beneath him, laid out on my desk like an offering. The chill of the wood bites at my skin. I don’t care. I want the sting. I lean back, both of my hands finding the desk, and my thighs open, waiting for him. His eyes find the center of me. He stares at my naked body like it’s the only thing in this world that he could ever want.

Then he drops to his knees and devours me like I’m the only thing that’s ever fed him. There’s no hesitation. No teasing. Just devotion. He knows every way to make me shatter, every place that pulls sounds from my throat, no matter how hard I try to hold them back.

I wrap my legs around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper, pressing his face exactly where I need him most. Just when I think he’s going to unravel me, he stops to look up at me, wetness glistening from his lips. He smiles as his dark eyes stare straight through me. He stands, forcing my back to hit the desk. My legs fall down to his torso, as he leans into me, taking his fingers and gently pushing them inside my mouth. I suck on them as he lets out a ravenous moan.

He takes his wet fingers and glides them back into my throbbing center, dropping to his knees and pulsing his fingers and tongue at the same time. When he hits that spot again and again, I break. I don’t hold back. I don’t hide. I let go. I unravel.

Every nerve in my body sings. Every scream rips through me like freedom incarnate. And for a fleeting, breathless moment, I remember how it feels to willingly lose control. Fortunately, the lair is soundproof. Thank the gods I had that foresight.

He’s the only one I’ve ever let this close. The only one I’ve ever come apart for, fully and completely. The only one I trust enough to see me unguarded. Human.

He rises to his feet, lips glistening with what’s left of me, his eyes never leaving me as I slip my undershirt back on, thin, soft, falling just past my thighs. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I love it when he watches me.

I slide off my desk and drop into my silk-cushioned chair like a queen reclaiming her throne. Limbs loose, I cross my feet on the desk. My heart steadies as power hums just beneath my skin. On the desk sits a glass, and beside it a decanter of seawater. I fill the glass halfway and sip, the salt rejuvenating me in a way nothing else can.

Maddoc sits in the chair opposite, shirt rumpled, hair wild, lips still stained with me. Most men don’t get to see me unguarded, but Maddoc’s never played by the rules. He doesn’t cower or beg, unless I ask him to. I love it when a man can beg for his woman.

But he reminds me, in the worst of ways, that I still have a heart to lose. He never asks for more, and that’s the part that scares me most—how unconditional he is. He always gives, never takes. Not even from me. Especially not from me.

I strike a match and light my pipe, the flame flickering. I take a series of short drags, long enough for him to wonder what I’m thinking. Smoke spills from my lips, curling and draping around my face. I exhale in his direction, lazy and precise.

The royals and I have been playing a game of tag, so to speak, each move answered by the other and each step watched. Rebuilding what Hale Marrow destroyed has proven far more difficult than I anticipated. It’s been four years, and some days, I still think I granted him too easy a death.

The treaty had safeguarded trade routes, offered protection to pirates, and shielded those with magic in their veins from being hunted. The king had never known of its existence. But Hale’s betrayal changed that and shattered that secret peace. Now, the king watches everything too closely.

“I brought you something, and you’re going to accept it,” Maddoc says, his eyes dragging across my face, searching for a reaction.

“That depends on what it is,” I bite back. I hate being told what to do, and I hate gifts even more. Anything wrapped in emotion—surprises, presents, acts of care—always leaves me feeling restless and agitated, like I’m losing control of myself.

Maddoc reaches toward his leg and pulls free a sheathed dagger. My brow lifts despite myself. The weapon is the perfect size. The exact kind of blade I spend months hunting for and pay blacksmiths obscene amounts to craft. I tend to lose a lot of my daggers on missions. After all, throwing them is my favorite thing to do.

My eyes fixate on the dagger as Maddoc’s fingers curl around the sheath.

“Oh?” he drawls, catching the shift in my expression. “You’re interested now?”

I glance at him, already hating the cocky curve of his mouth. “I lose interest fast, you know.” A sharp smile pulls at my lips.

He shakes his head before unsheathing the dagger. Black steel catches the light, the blade long and narrow, tapering into a vicious point sharp enough to split flesh with little effort. Silver detailing twists through the dark metal in delicate patterns, like veins buried beneath skin. The elegant guard curves outward into clawed edges, and the hilt is wrapped in dark leather worn smooth beneath practiced hands.

“Judging by how quiet you are, I’m assuming you like it?”