Her eyes widen at my movement, her fingers gripping the small lamp tighter.
“Do you react this way to him?” I ask, my stomach churning at the thought.
“What?”
“When my brother touches you.” I skim my hand from her neck up to her jaw, coasting across the sharp angles until I’m tracing the lines of her face. “Does your breathing grow shallow, and your skin blush pink?”
“That’s none of your business,” she breathes.
I bring my fingertips down the front of her throat in a soft caress, grazing against the pebbled goose bumps of her skin. “Does your sweet cunt drip from just the thought of him, the way I know it does for me?”
“I don’t—” She jerks and gasps, her lamp clattering onto the ground and her hand grabbing at my shirt. “Oh.”
Glancing down, I realize my candle has dripped, falling onto the skin above her collarbone. My thumb moves to press against the cooling wax, desire shooting through me until my legs threaten to buckle when I notice it tingeing her flesh red.
I want to pour it on the rest of her and tear it off piece by piece.
Her mouth parts, tongue sweeping out across her bottom lip, and damn if I don’t wish to lean down and steal her breath for my own.
There are a few seconds of silence; tension wringing the air tight as we gaze into each other’s eyes, not knowing—or maybe unwilling—to admit there’s something more than animosity between us.
I bring the candle higher, the flame dancing as I tilt it, my cock leaking when a drop of wax falls to the creamy expanse of her throat and pools in the juncture of her neck, gliding down her exposed skin, creating a path I wish my fingers could follow.
Her eyes flutter and she tilts her head, giving me more access.
My hand moves to the front of her torso, pushing her as I walk us back into the stone wall.
“Tristan,” she murmurs.
My stomach flips, an inferno of lust raging through my middle and scorching up my throat.
“Say it again.”
“Say what?” she asks.
“My name, little doe,” I rasp. “Say my name.”
She blows out a heavy breath and I suck it in, desperate to taste her on my tongue.
“Tristan.” Her fingers tangle in the strands of my hair.
I lean my forehead against hers, lust ripping through me until I can’t see straight from how badly I want to strip her bare and fuck her raw. “I should kill you for making me feel this way.”
“So kill me, then,” she whispers, rising on her tiptoes and tugging on my roots, her nose grazing against mine.
“Death would be a gift.” My hips press into hers. “I’d rather see you suffer.”
Bending down, I breathe in her scent, biting back the groan that begs to escape. My lips graze over the top of the hardened wax on her neck, my body coiling tight with the need to latch on to her skin and mark her for myself, so that even if she isn’t mine, she’s ruined for anyone else.
But I won’t allow it.
I hate her for making me feel like this; for making me covet yet another thing that my brother gets. She bewitches me, and I would rather rid her from the face of the earth than exist in a world where she tempts me but leaves me with empty arms.
Wrenching myself away, I back up to the opposite side of the narrow tunnel, the resentment that’s had twenty-six years to marinate against my brother overflowing until it pours through my veins.
“So you’re a witch on top of being my brother’s whore?” I spit.
Her features drop, her gaze narrowing into slits. “I—”
But before she can finish, I spin around and walk away, refusing to acknowledge the way my chest twists when she doesn’t choose to follow.
CHAPTER 21
Sara B.
Going to the tunnels was foolish, but clearly, since coming to the castle, I’ve yet to learn from my mistakes. I thought I would be safe. But I should have known I would meet the prince there. He seems to love lurking in dark and shady corners, and he loves dragging me there with him even more; either to threaten my life or speak filthy words in my ear.
I don’t know how to tame my reaction to either.
And I loathe him.
But there are moments. Ones where he doesn’t seem so terrible. Like when his talented hands draw courage on Simon’s arm, or when he keeps my secrets safe. And whether I want to admit it, there’s no one else I’d prefer to be caught by when I’m sneaking through the castle halls. There’s a level of trust there—one I’ve never found with anyone outside of my father—and I haven’t quite figured out how to correlate the two mismatched emotions.