My limbs tremble from the violence brimming inside me, its talons scratching beneath the surface of my skin until it cracks and bleeds.
How dare he touch something that belongs to me.
She shifts then, and the energy changes as she holds a blade to Claudius’s throat, and my heart stutters, my cock growing stiff when passionate words pass her pretty little lips, threatening to kill a man where he stands.
I make it two steps before I freeze again, watching this fierce, incredible woman who can twist and turn into whatever she needs to survive, take care of the threat herself. A sudden shot of arousal mixes in with the anger, creating a sensation I’ve never felt.
It’s not an unwelcome feeling. Not anymore.
With acceptance comes clarity.
My little doe is no doe at all.
She’s a hunter, pretending that she’s prey.
I lean against the wall, my hand coming to rest over my heart, pressing firmly to keep it from bursting through my rib cage and exploding on the floor.
She’s a fucking vision. The kind that should hang in galleries and be revered by the masses.
The perfect type of art.
Mine.
Footsteps sound from the distance and I move quickly to avoid being seen, not stopping until I’m standing at the end of the hallway, next to the portrait of my great-grandfather.
Eventually they fade, and then only thick silence surrounds me. I strain my ears, but don’t hear a peep. I wonder if she killed him. Disappointment settles in my chest, wishing I could have seen her do it; that I could have gone along for the ride.
But then another set of footsteps sound, and a gift is given when I see Claudius’s grimacing face as he runs down the hall toward me.
My hand snakes out before my mind can even process it’s happened, my rings cutting into the skin of my fingers as I grip his neck, dragging him into me, his back slamming into my front.
He gurgles from my grasp, but my palm slaps his mouth, my hand pinching his windpipe, feeling the muscle crunch beneath my touch.
“Shh, don’t be afraid,” I murmur.
I move my palm away from his lips and reach up, tilting my great-grandfather’s portrait to the side, the wall disappearing from behind me. I sink into the entrance of the tunnels, pulling a squirming Claudius with me.
Once the wall slots back into place, I spin us around, tossing him to the ground, reveling in the sound of his skull cracking on the hard stone floor. Blood splatters from the impact, and he groans, rolling onto his back, his hands coming up to grasp at his head.
Anger percolates in the base of my stomach, and I try to tamp it down, closing my eyes and breathing deep. He moves to stand, his arm shaking as he pushes himself off the ground, and I step forward until I’m hovering over his torso, the thick base of my boot pressing into his chest and shoving him back down.
“Oh, Claudius,” I tsk, bringing a joint from behind my ear and biting the end with my teeth while I dig in my pocket for a match. I fish one out of the box and strike it against the side, the sound loud in the cramped space.
Crouching down as I inhale, I let the sweet tang of hash sit on my tongue. “What shall I do with you?”
He groans, his eyes hazy and unfocused.
I strike him against the face so hard my hand tingles. “No passing out. Stand up and come with me.”
His brows draw in. “No.”
Reaching out, I grip his arm and pull him to a stand, bending it at a ninety-degree angle. His knees buckle, but I hold him upright. “It wasn’t a choice.”
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, fueling my strength as I half carry him through the tunnels and into the dark forest until we reach my cabin in the woods.
There’s no light on the path, but I’ve traversed it so many times I know it by heart, so the trip is quick. I kick open the door, leaving a dusty imprint from the bottom of my boot and toss Claudius inside, his body slamming against the worn wood of the floor. The joint hangs from my mouth as I twist to face him, narrowing my gaze.
“You’ve always been a very naughty boy, Claudius. But I don’t think I can let this one go.”
I pluck the hash from my mouth and place it in the ashtray on the small oval table that sits to my right before walking over to him. He’s pushing himself to a sitting position, blood dripping down the back of his head and onto his neck, the thin gash from where Sara cut into his throat already having scabbed over and dried.
“Your… your brother will… hear about this,” he mumbles, his words slow and slurred.
I sigh, blowing out a breath until my cheeks puff. “You’ve always underestimated me.”