this man. To have him love me and let me see his soul.
It was worth it all.
“You wrecked me long ago,” I said, my voice echoing off the cavernous walls. I pulled Arthur’s glasses from his face. He looked so young without them. The thick black frames were almost his shield, and without them he was bared and vulnerable. I laid a kiss on either side of his eyes as he breathed heavily. Moving my mouth to his ear, I whispered, “It’s my turn to wreck you.”
He tensed. But when his hands flexed on my thighs, I knew he liked what I had said. And it was true. His family members had told me that he loved me, that I had been the only person to hold any claim on his iron heart. But I didn’t just want a claim. I wanted to consume it. I wanted to own it like he owned mine.
I needed his ruination. It was only fair—he already had mine.
Arthur kissed me again, and I could only imagine how we looked, blood and sweat smothered, reeking of sex and sin. I cleaned his glasses on my top, then pushed them back on his face, my lord holding me in his arms.
Without words, he pulled out of me. I gasped at the loss. He placed me on the floor, and my legs shook from exertion. Arthur crouched down and pulled my trousers back up my legs.
I was stunned. He was caring for me. Sweetly. Gently. As if I might break apart at any minute.
When my clothes were in place, he tucked himself back inside his trousers, then turned for the stairs that led out of the pit. Not a single word was spoken. He hadn’t told me he loved me. I didn’t expect him to. I knew this was just the first step for Arthur. New territory that he had never seen or felt before.
He began to walk out of the pit but suddenly stopped dead. His shoulders hunched, then released. I wondered what was wrong. But then he turned, lit a cigarette and inhaled. His head tipped back and he closed his eyes.
He was perfection. Raw, savage, tattooed and scarred perfection. He released the smoke into a cloud of white, then dropped his head and met my eyes. Leaving the cigarette balancing on his bottom lip—a move that I was increasingly finding irresistible—he slowly lifted his hand. It took me a moment to realise he was offering it to me.
He wanted to hold my hand.
Pulse thundering in my neck, I reached out and let his hand engulf mine. His fingers intertwined with mine, gripping them so tightly it bordered on painful. I didn’t care if he broke every finger. He was holding my hand. The simple gesture, for Arthur, was as difficult as moving a mountain. But he was doing it. He was trying.
This was how he was showing me he cared. The one-man island, inviting me to breach his black-sanded shore.
I moved beside him, and together, side by side, we left the warehouse.
His car waited for us outside the now-abandoned building, his driver patiently waiting for his boss. We slipped into the back seats. My arse had barely touched the leather before Arthur yanked me to his side, his arm slinging over my neck, possessively pinning me against him. He lit up another cigarette and wordlessly passed it to me.
I took the cigarette and sank against him, then passed it back. He was still shirtless, his suit jacket and shirt tucked beside him on the back seat. I reached up to where his hand lay over my shoulder and threaded my hand through his. Smoke filled the air as we travelled from Mile End back to Bethnal Green.
He clutched my hand again as we entered the church. We passed some of his family in the living room, and knowing smirks spread over their lips. Pride in my step, I followed him into his bedroom and straight into the shower.
He fucked me against the tiled wall, then again in his bed. Our bed. Because I knew I would never be leaving it.
In the aftermath of it all, we still hadn’t spoken a word. But conversation wasn’t needed. We had an oath, a contract signed in blood and sweat and sex. He had come for me in his chariot and whisked me to his home, to hell.
To be by his side.
Never to leave.
The lady to his lord.
A dark queen to his perpetually and unrepentantly dark king.
Chapter Twelve
CHESKA
Three