Page 165 of Anathema
“You’ll skewer me. Yes, I’m aware.” The other Letalisz strode across the room and lifted Zevander’s sister into his arms. Despite the threat, Zevander knew Ravezio wouldn’t dare touch Rykaia, because if Zevander didn’t kill him, Torryn surely would.
Rykaia wrapped her arms around Ravezio’s neck and moaned again. “I think … I drank too much.”
“I think you’re right.” Ravezio said, as he carried her out of the room.
Zevander took in the state of the room. The feathers everywhere, the bed in total disarray. It occurred to him then that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his sister laugh. A true laugh. Not in mocking, or anger, but genuine.
His gaze fell on Maevyth.
She rubbed the silky sheets against her thigh, her senses probably so intensely chaotic right then. He could feel the hunger, craving and desperation rolling off her like a wild tempest. A beautiful and dangerous storm that he longed to wind himself inside.
Eyes riveted on her, he closed the door and strode past the bed for the chair in the corner of the room, where he planned to sit and keep an eye on her. For selfish reasons, of course.
Still lost to her body’s needs, she didn’t seem to notice him at first, until her gaze lifted to his, and beneath the carnal lust swirled a pained plea. A cry for help.
His knees damned near buckled from that look.
He sank into the plush chair, his cock pushing against his trousers, as her long, slender legs tangled in the folds of black silk. Zevander gripped the arms of the chair, his body hard as iron, muscles tight and aching. Desperate to give her the release that would have her sleeping like a milk-glutted kitten through the night.
“Zevander?” The sound of his name on her lips in that pained, breathy tone had his fingers gouging the arms of the chair. “Please. Something’s wrong.”
Entirely wrong.
“It aches.” She swiped one of the pillows and pushed it between her legs. “It aches so badly.”
“It’ll pass,” he pathetically assuaged. It’d take hours to pass, unless she gave in to what her body wanted most right then.
She let out another moan, that needy, mewling sound slowly chipping away at his restraint.
A long, slumbering hunger stirred to life inside of him, a clawing in his guts that rejoiced in her suffering. The same vile creature that yearned to tie her to the bed, to deny her any relief, just as he’d been made to suffer. To show her just how utterly depraved he could be.
Take her. She belongs to no one else.
“Zevander?” Her voice, that sweet, angelic tone strummed the nerves in his brain, and he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the unbidden thoughts back into their shadowy corner. “Please.”
A sweat had broken across her body, and she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth.
He could’ve helped her. Could’ve easily made her climax, and some of the pain would’ve subsided as a result, but he refused to touch her in that state. He’d have much preferred her lucid and sober, hating him for the agony he longed to inflict on her. The sweet torment that would have her nails digging into his back, her teeth sinking into his flesh.
Enough of this, you masochistic bastard.
Still, his head tormented him with the visuals. Relentless images of her obnoxiously wet cunt welcoming every rung of his piercings. Warm and tight, squeezing them with each lazy thrust. The scratching and biting and pulling his hair. The greedy appetite for blood and sweat and the salt of her skin.
Fucking hell, the mere fantasy was enough to break him.
It was going to be a long and painful night. For both of them.
She rolled her hips against the padding wedged between her thighs, and gods be damned, Zevander had to look away. His body was so tight and coiled, it felt like he’d snap any moment. Damn Rykaia. Damn her for doing this.
Even with his head turned from her, he could hear Maevyth shifting against the sheets, the quiet agony vibrating in her throat. The need. So much need, his cock damned near punched through the laces of his trousers.
The first time he’d been given the liquor, during his first moon cycle, he was sixteen and at the mercy of General Loyce. He recalled the deep, cramping ache, and the intense need to fuck something. She’d bound his hands and legs, then tortured him for hours, teasing him while he writhed in pain. He’d have taken a whipping to his back over the agony of too much Ambrozhyr.
He screwed his eyes shut and willed those thoughts away, for fear of what they’d dredge inside him, before opening them on the girl.
In brisk and jerky snaps of movement, entirely unnatural, she managed to turn herself on the bed until her head was at the headboard. In the supine position, her body rose up from the mattress, somehow lifted into the air, and the sheets that covered her fell away, onto the bed below her.
Frowning, Zevander pushed up from his chair and slowly stalked toward the edge of the bed to find her eyes had rolled back, her body stiff as a plank and trembling, as if every muscle were contracted. Possessed by something. He circled around her, curious as to what powers had caused her to levitate. Certainly nothing he’d yet taught her.