Page 153 of Shattered Jewel
Relentless, I drive into her harder and faster with each passing second. Her legs tighten around me as her moans turn into high-pitched screams. Elara’s walls clamp down on me, sending sparks along my spine, and I’m pushed closer to the edge.
With one final thrust, we fall together.
Entangled, our bodies heave and shudder. My fingers press into the flesh of her waist, anchoring myself as I try to find my bearings in this fugue only Elara can escort me through.
While I’m working on being able to see again, Elara lightly probes around the flayed, charred skin on my chest.
I watch her exploration for a while before I snatch her wandering hand in mine.
“I didn’t think it was possible,” she whispers, her voice haggard .
“What’s that?” I ask, feigning indifference, yet unable to break away from the intensity of her study.
“For you ... for you to let me touch the worst parts of you,” Elara murmurs.
She leans forward to capture my lips with hers in a surprisingly gentle kiss.
My heart stammers at her words, at the accusation and finality they carry. But instead of retreating behind my usual barriers, I find myself admitting, “I can’t help it around you.”
Her eyes widen slightly at my confession, but instead of retreating or pushing me away as others might have done before her, she smiles and traces my lower lip with her thumb.
“You don’t have to wear the mask with me,” she says softly. “Not anymore.”
Elara’s words are my anti-venom, seeping into the most eroded sections of my soul, where no one dares to tread, lest they never come out again.
A breath shudders out of me at her acceptance—Elara’s downright stubborn insistence—to see me as I am.
And love me.
Chapter 37
Cav
THE PUPPETEER
The decadent, forgotten study inside Elara’s family manor should have felt like a respite after our night’s barbarisms, but the plush Persian rug does little to absorb the stench of blood and offal still clinging to Wilder and me like a second skin.
We’d strolled in when Rossi was finishing up re-stitching Kaspian’s bullet wound in his shoulder. As soon as Kaspian shoved him off and stormed out of the room, Rossi took one look at Wilder’s gore-streaked face, matted hair, and the jagged edges of scorched flesh peeking through the multiple tears in his shirt, and pointed to the scarlet fainting couch while I reclined in an armchair near the hearth, sipping on bourbon and thinking about what we’d done.
“You know, Cav,” Wilder rasps once Rossi finishes up, “When you described peeling away the High Sovereign’s eyelids, I didn’t quite appreciate the artistry until I experienced it myself.” An ugly, satisfied grunt punctuated his words despite the obvious strain. “The way the screams evolved ... absolutely exquisite.”
I shrug, rolling my shoulders to loosen the knots of tension. Even now, with the High Sovereign’s life having fled his mutilated husk, I can still perfectly recall the crescendo of his death agonies.
Rossi rises, Tempest pushing off from the wall and muttering, “Thank fuck we’re done,” before shoving his half-full bottle of whiskey at Wilder and striding for the doors.
I’d express my appreciation for their assistance, but know that it’s wasted. The Vultures trade in favors, much like the Court does, and Rossi will call in our debt soon, I’m sure.
Rossi dips his chin in farewell, his impassive expression hiding any exhaustion he must feel after dealing with three extremely rabid animals. His focus switches from surgeon to mafia don searching for his woman in an instant, the doors clicking shut behind them.
Bottle in hand, Wilder rises to a sit and kicks aside a viscera-stained fragment of the expensive rug. ““Did you have to leave quite so much of the High Sovereign on the study’s imported silk Aubusson?”
“What, and rob you of the chance to lick it up later?” I shoot back.
The room falls silent but for the crackle of flames in the hearth. It’s a quiet moment between us, fractured warriors each nursing our demons.
“Do you have any regrets?” Wilder breaks into my thoughts, nursing the bottle of whiskey.
“None.”