Page 53 of Claimed

He laughs softly, clearly eavesdropping on my private thought. Then he bites. And I go boneless beneath him.

It’s obscene how good it feels. Pain and pleasure bloom together, bright enough to empty my head. I clutch at his shoulders while he drinks. His hand clenches at my hip, wild and possessive, and the thrill that moves through me makes me want to smack myself.

When he lifts his head, his eyes are brighter.

Too bright.

For a moment he goes utterly still, as if his body is listening to something beneath the blood. Trying to locate the line between want and need and discovering it has blurred into nonexistence.

Then he presses his forehead to my shoulder and breathes as if I’ve steadied him and destabilised him at the same time.

Addicted?

Was that what Selphine meant? Did she know this would happen?

The thought should sober me. It doesn’t.

Because nothing on this earth has ever felt like this. Being wanted so intensely I can almost forget the parts of myself that learned to survive by disappearing. Being held like I’m not disposable. Looked at like I matter. Touched like I’m precious even while he’s making me come apart in his bed.

Except even in the middle of it, the shadows creep in.

Kessler’s gruesome death and Dorian’s voice sliding through the phone. And even Valentin’s voice in my head.

We are coming to a crossroads, you and I…

The memory returns while I am astride him, and the foreboding of it should slow me down. It does not.

That’s it. Ride me, my beautiful hunter.

I throw my head back and I bounce on Valentin’s cock with an abandon I’ll probably blush at tomorrow. Or the day after.

Harder.

Apparently my survival instinct has decided that if disaster is coming, it would like to arrive thoroughly fucked.

Valentin is rooted deep inside me, his cock thick and brutal and perfect, and I move with a rhythm I’m already addicted to. My hands brace on his chest over the mark pulsing beneath my palm like it’s alive.

His gaze fixes on my face, wild and silver-rimmed, his restraint stretched thin enough to sing.

I’m on the edge of asking something reckless. About Lyra. About fate. About whether he’s trying to forget he’s dying.

Then his eyes flare. His lips peel back.

Beautiful, sexy fangs.

My body clenches around him before he even touches my throat.

‘Eira,’ he says aloud this time, and the way he says my name is almost worse than a command.

I know what he’s asking; know the answer I should give. Then his voice slides into my head, lower and closer than thought.

Give me this.

My breath breaks on hunger held on the edge of a blade, waiting for my choice.

The crossroads, I think wildly. The soft threat he didn’t bother to hide. Maybe this is where I should finally step back. Tell him enough truth to save us both or damn us properly.

Instead, I lean down until my mouth touches his ear. ‘Don’t take too much.’ Please.