Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,35

is.”

“Why are we talking about this? Whatever happened to that . . . man has nothing to do with me.”

“Have you ever fired a gun, Rowena?” Behind me, I hear Guy moving, rustling around. But my eyes never leave her face. I track the furrow of her dark brows and the way her bottom lip catches behind straight, white teeth. “No handcuffs on the line here,” I murmur, “just a yes or no answer.”

Her plush lip whitens under the pressure of her teeth, unease scripted into every line of her body. Finally, she blows out a short breath. “I’ve held one.”

“But did you fire it?”

A slow shake of her head brings me to my feet. Rounding the table, I skate my fingers over the chair separating mine from hers, making sure to jostle it as I pass.

The feet scrape the wood floor.

Her head jerks to the left, following the unhurried tread of my footsteps.

I stop directly behind her.

Time lulls, a moment frozen where my gaze drifts over the gentle curve of her skull to the bare skin of her nape. From this vantage point, there’s no mistaking the way her inner thighs kiss, like she’s prepared to bolt, and I almost tell Guy to get out.

To leave us alone.

But some secret corner of my soul, battered and bruised, screams that I can’t be trusted. A good man would soothe her worries. A better man would lead her to freedom. A bad man . . . Well, I don’t allow myself to think twice. Within the Garden of Eden—a place once dedicated to peace and book and prayer—I commit the biggest sin of all.

I fold my body forward, hunching my shoulders to avoid hitting the sloped wall, and slip one hand around the front of Rowena’s throat.

Her shoulders heave with a sudden gasp. “Godwin—”

“Damien.”

I feel her hard swallow against the heel of my palm. “Damien,” she breathes, both hands darting north to clutch the table. “What are you . . . what are you doing?”

“Demonstrating.”

Ignoring Guy’s steely glare, I plant my free hand on the table next to hers then lower my face so that we’re cheek to cheek. I surround her on all sides, my chest to her back, my arms keeping her enclosed. An embrace of power; a prison of human flesh. Her shaky breath echoes in my ear, a sound that shouldn’t feel like an invitation to edge closer but somehow does, and I almost circle her tighter, just to hear her make it again.

“It takes less effort to strangle someone than it does to pull the trigger on a handgun,” I tell her, voice low. “Cut off the carotid artery and you have ten seconds, maybe twenty, before bliss hits and reality disappears.”

My thumb grazes the length of her throat, soft flesh interrupted by fragile blisters that are an instant reminder that the woman seated before me isn’t some helpless victim. She bartered with me when she was handcuffed, and she used her sexuality to prove that I’m a man like any other. A man who wants, a man who succumbs. And so, I tighten my grip, just enough to keep the upper hand, only to feel inexplicable heat flood my veins when she doesn’t claw at my fingers.

No.

She fucking blooms like the flowers painted on the archway of the alcove.

Her shoulders drop and her head falls back, against my collarbone, and she releases a noise that’s as tangible, as erotic, as if she wrapped her hand around my cock and squeezed. Hard. My heart hammers ruthlessly against my ribcage.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispers.

Turning my head, I allow my lips to graze the sharp cut of her cheekbone. Whimper for me again. The demand dances on the tip of my tongue, ready to be unleashed—to hell with the consequences. And the consequences . . .

“There’s something on the table for you.”

“Is this when I’m supposed to scream?”

“If it is,” I utter for her alone, “then this is when I promise to fill your mouth and shut you up.”

“Predictable,” she rasps. “The world would be disappointed to know that the Mad Priest is nothing but a B-grade villain.”

“The world? Or just you?”

“I rated you a four, remember?”

My lip curls. “You gave me a five, at first.”

“Clearly, a miscalculation.”

“Reach forward, Rowena.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, your hand is at my jugular.”

I tsk under my breath. “All I hear are excuses.”

With an irritated growl, that feels like a purr against the clasp of my palm, she stretches