Page 149 of Shattered Jewel
Fuck, it feels strange to write her name down, to acknowledge that this person exists, that she is a part of me.
I’ve wasted so many years believing we were alone in this world…
The words flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto the paper. It’s a confessional. It’s healing. It’s terrifying. But every word is worth it.
After finishing the final sentence and signing my name, I carefully fold the paper and turn to Elara.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything. For being here, for not giving up on me.”
Setting the letter aside, I pull Elara onto my lap, careful of my injuries. The pain is there, but dulled by Elara’s warmth. My hands find her waist, steadying her.
Her lips meet mine, soft at first, then with increasing passion.
“I’m broken, Elara,” I confess while losing myself in her taste, her scent, the feel of her.
“We’re all a little broken,” Elara responds, then punctuates the end of our conversation by sliding her tongue in my mouth.
Her body is the best kind of fire, a blackening I’ll gladly allow to seep through my bandages and into my skin.
Elara’s hands are tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, deeper. She straddles me with absolute certainty, her thighs on either side of my hips. My hands slide up from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against me.
My hands find the hem of her tank top and I pull it off in one swift motion, her softness contrasting with my calloused, scarred exterior. Her attention flicks downward briefly before she goes back to my face while reaching into my boxers and palming my dick.
I groan at the intimacy, but there’s nothing quick or fast-paced about her shifting her shorts and underwear to one side and exposing her pussy while she guides me into her in a single, fluid motion.
I hold her tight as we move together, the sensation of being inside her shattering every wall I’ve built around myself over years of loneliness and despair. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and release a guttural groan.
This is Elara, the woman who has captured my dark heart and refuses to let it go.
My fingers dig into her waist as the pressure builds up inside me—that sweet agony just before release.
And I give her a scar while I cum, biting just above her heart and proving to her, to myself, that I’ll never let her go, either.
Chapter 36
Kaspian
The soft hum of computer towers fills the sitting room section of Farrow Manor’s library as I stand at the center, surrounded by multiple screens displaying the digital lives of each Sovereign.
Silas Morcant, the High Sovereign. His digital life is as austere as the man himself. Bank accounts brimming with ill-gotten gains, a calendar meticulously filled with coded Cimmerian Court meetings, and a cold correspondence style.
The Silent Sovereign, Orion Devereaux and Axe’s deadbeat dad. His online presence is even more elusive, which isn’t shocking considering how he ghosted his children. His transactions are conducted through intermediaries, proxies, and throwaway accounts, leaving me to sift through layers of encrypted messages and transactions that leave only the slightest digital trace.
And then there’s the Scourge Sovereign, Evander Verlane, whose e-life is a blatant reflection of his sadistic nature. Graphic photographic exchanges and financial transactions linked to underground fight clubs and black-market arms deals are only some of what I sift through.
My fingers dance on the keyboard, hacking into their accounts, draining their coffers, shrouding my and my brothers’ bloody deeds in a veil of cyber deceit—changing camera footage, manipulating data files, planting false electronic trails. It’s a kind of ASMR that somewhat satisfies my thirst for revenge.
“Rossi would not approve.”
Elara’s voice drifts from the doorway, soft, yet laced with concern.
I swivel in my chair to face her, covering my wince of pain just in time. Fucking bandages. I’m certain Rossi and Tempest used too many strips and mummified me on purpose.
But thoughts of those featherless birds go out the window when I fully take in who’s standing in front of me.
Elara’s dressed in a tight white tank and tighter blue shorts. Her thick hair is finger-tousled in all the right ways, falling around her shoulders in tangled waves. But beneath all that sex appeal is something else—worry.
Ah fuck, it better not be for me.