I slide my blade over his forearm but fail to dodge his strike on my shoulder.
“You call that a cut?” I taunt.
He strikes, but I spring and flip. Landing with one foot taking my weight as the other I kick with all my power and strength, towards his ankles. He shifts his weight and somehow my foot hits his leg but ends up pushing me off balance. I fall backward, hitting the ground deliciously hard.
“Come on, old man,” I taunt.
Sure, I can hardly breathe, and I might need to throw up any minute now, but that’s buried under my desire to stalk each of his moves and somehow play them into something more. Play him into moving faster, into being harder on me.
The world gives a lurch to the left, and my shoulder slams into the wall. I yelp with pain.
Killian freezes.
“Don’t stop,” I growl, thrashing my blade up and across his chest. Or at least where his chest would be – if I had any kind of depth perception left.
He grabs my wrist and squeezes hard. Fighting it is instinct, but my weak mortal fingers succumb, and the blade falls. He’s not even watching that; his emerald eyes begin to blacken, and all of their focus is on my face. Before the blade has even hit the ground, he’s dropped my wrist and thrust me back against the nearest tree. He’s not quite grabbing my neck, with the palm of his hand on my chest. The tree almost knocks the wind out of me.
Tree?
We’re in the trees. Way in the trees. The field is almost out of view somewhere to the left.
His fingers strain, pressing painfully, making me lean into his touch. My lungs suck at the air, looking for his lavender and leather smell.
Nothing.
Without the pain, there is nothing.
The muscle in his jaw tics. Even though I should be scared – with Killian, everyone should always be scared – I’m not.
Nope – not me.
I’m smiling.
He bends to my height, his breath skimming my cheek. Our chests heave in time, and I’m sure he can feel my racing heart under his hand.
Can he feel the way he’s melting my insides?
He kisses me hard and without a hint of pity for my weak mortal body. Without an apology for this twisted hollowness I’m drowning in. Just lust and fury and desire and…
Darkness.
That power he was locking down escapes, and ferocious Shadows engulf us both.
Eagerly, I soak up every bit of passion in the press of his lips, the whisper of his breath, the slide of his tongue into my mouth. His hands hunt over my body, grabbing and releasing. Devouring. On my shoulder, on my neck, my hip, my ass. Over cuts and layers of bruises that make me wince and moan, but none of that slows him down.
I pull at his shirt, at the buckle on his pants. Weapons drop to the ground, sliding from his belt with loud thuds. His skin is slick with sweat – he’s not the only one. I run my fingers over his muscles, pressing my nails deep into his flesh. My ability to breathe shatters as his hips grind against mine.
I feel like the Dark amidst the Darkness – with nothing to fear because I’m just as scary as all the shit I’m scared of. Every breath feels alive with his power – and I know I shouldn’t be feeling it, but I am. And I want more.
I bite his lip, and he responds by slamming me back against the tree – making me let go.
Then suddenly, he pulls away. The Shadows recoil, and the world returns to color and shapes.
“Shadow, shit,” he growls. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t stop,” I moan, sliding down the tree trunk as I try, and fail, to find my balance without him holding me up.
A slow descent to the ground. I moan as feeling returns to my body.
He squats in front of me, and I lean my head back against the tree.
“You’re crazy,” he says, his lips so close that they skim mine as he talks.
I take a shuddering breath, then he moves with sudden urgency. Pulling my sleeves back and inspecting the lines of blood. He runs his hands down my jawline, down my neck, pulling my collar back, then lifting my shirt – inspecting the skin everywhere.
He presses his hands to my hips, and I wince. Yep, there are bruises there too. Then he runs both hands down my legs, pressing firmly. Legs, then arms, then back up to my neck and my jaw.
“What are you looking for?” I groan.
Talking hurts – talking feels real. Oh, how I love that groan.
“Wounds. Nothing’s broken,” he says.
“Yes, broken,” I gasp, shoving my arm in front of him.
He just looks at it, then sits on the ground next to me. He lifts his knees and wraps his arms around them, hands clasped together with white knuckles.
“You want pain,” he says, putting words to something I’m pretty sure was obvious.
“It feels good,” I whisper.
“Not to you, it shouldn’t.”
“It feels real.”
“Everything should feel real!” Grabbing my arm and pressing his thumb into one of the cuts.
It stings, awakening muscles all the way to my elbow. Making my mind just stop.
Killian equals making me hurt equals I still belong to him.
I sigh and relax. Tilt my head back and just let him hold me. Let him shift to lean over me, blocking the sun. His other hand slips in behind my head, pinning my hair between his fingers to make it obvious I’m not allowed to move before kissing the fuck out of me again.
He’s demanding, controlling, just a tad scary, and very unpredictable. Perfect. I groan into his mouth, which sparks a rumbling groan from deep within his chest.
He pulls away and grips my jaw sharply, desire and lust and want written
