Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
He punctuated the confession with an exaggerated roll of his hips that had her hissing, mumbling distorted French in broken, clipped female pleadings as he worked her over with softly spoken words and clever fingers working to distract. “How you steal my shirts, even after you have worn them, and hide them in your nest like I won’t notice. My good girl.”
The last sliver of sun vanished beyond the horizon, fire fading from the walls. Exactly as it should be. The only light he needed was hers.
It was almost time.
He’d tortured enough men and women to know when they reached that final moment of clarity. Where pain was transcended and ego dissolved. Watched hundreds suffer until their identity floated away. Their lies, their story, no longer relevant or necessary. A dissolving of character. The closest thing to true consciousness this side of death.
Where attachment to the one who broke them was inevitable.
And she was so close.
Each time Brenya’s breath hitched, her eyes unfocused briefly. Each time he gave her pleasure, and she tried to mentally float away, he dragged her right back, her gaze snapping to his face with desperation she didn’t understand.
A little more pain.
A little more pressure on her swollen clit when his fly caught on the cute little hood that offered her no protection from the coarseness of his trousers.
This wasn’t about sex, even if his hard meat was pressed to her leaking cunt… even if his hand pushed and molded the gentle swell of her breast.
The damp shirt she wore—his shirt—he slipped it like water down her arms, untangled the fabric from where it hung at her elbows, and left it to puddle on the floor. And then he had her, his Brenya, naked and wriggling in his lap, watching between their bodies to where his cock was not inside her… but should be.
Far below them, Jacques climaxed again. She arched, spine bowing from a cramp that stole her breath. Elbows catching behind her to brace herself, chest high, breasts heaving, thighs spread wide over his hips.
Running his palm slowly down the trembling plane of her belly, Beta fingers teased, Brenya drunk on scent and sensation, caught in pain and pleasure. So deeply in need that, had he been a malevolent man, exploiting her for his gain would have been laughably fun.
But this was not about his desires.
“That’s it,” Jules murmured, bright blue eyes catching the last of the dying light, transforming them into something otherworldly. “Feel how perfectly you fit against me.”
Hair clung to her temples and neck, damp with exertion as Jules orchestrated her indulgence, laying her down as he directed, guided, unspooled her spine until her back kissed the blood-red floor.
Soft parted thighs locked around his waist, cunt—slick and flushed—cradled the clothed length of him. He followed her down like a tide pulling wreckage into deeper waters, until she was flat on her back and he was braced above her. Fully dressed and hard, grinding into the heat of her need, giving her enough friction to keep her teetering on the edge. ravaged in ways she would never understand, picked apart, put back together, hollow, malleable, and razor sharp.
Her mind was wide open to him, pupils so big there was only a sliver of honey at the edge.
The exact moment Brenya realized he had her on the ground, pinned, perhaps moments away from penetration, fear bloomed in those honey-brown eyes. Pupils contracted, her breath caught.
Jules recognized that look. Had studied it in hours of footage. Invited it in. Peeled back his authority deliberately, inviting the last lash of the whip. Her final suffering.
He let Jacques in.
The Alpha’s ghost hovered between them, allowed to insert itself. Gods only knew what her auditory hallucinations were saying in that cute, twitching limbic brain. Horrors, he hoped. Jacques at his worst. Threatening her, belittling her. Begging.
That voice—he would desensitize her to it. Strip it of power. Reshape it into static noise she must learn to live with.
Her discomfort was the goal. The necessary remedy to her cowardice.
Whatever her knot-starved imagination conjured in those seconds was bleak enough to make her shriek and throw herself around him. Thin arms wrapping his neck with startling strength. Fingers burrowed into his hair, Brenya gripping hard enough his roots stung, her body shaking as she pulled her to him in blind panic.
“I’m here. Look at me, Brenya. Stay with me.” Kisses on her cheeks, light, playful, the exact opposite of whatever was taking place in her unreliable thoughts. “I am your real mate. Your husband, who would never hurt you. Whatever you think you hear… whatever you remember…” Drawing her fingers to the buttons of his shirt, he tethered her to action. Giving her a job to focus on. A choice. His expression carefully arranged. Soft at the edges. A sculpted mask of calm hiding the ravenous beast. The false face of a complicated man who only emoted when it served a purpose. Every look said stay. Said feel me. Said do not run. And while she struggled to breathe, to think, he discarded his shirt like it meant nothing and stared at her like she meant everything. “Each second you give me is a second he loses. Touch me, and he fades like a bad dream.”