Page 33 of The Endless Dance

“Galloria,” I say, firm and clear. I blink in surprise when a sudden hardness lands in my palm and my fingers curl on instinct around the handle of the weapon—no, Galloria.

Stunned, I turn the blade over in my hand and admire the pearlescent handle. It is a small weapon, yet obviously deadly, despite its petite beauty. Its blade is about 6 inches long and ends in a pointed tip. An intricately designed hand guard curves inwards where the blade meets the handle.

I lift the blade closer. The texture of the handle was so familiar…

“Shell,” Lord Draekoh purrs, so close I can feel his warm breath on my ear. “Galloria is made from the very same shell as my crown.”

I gulp, refusing to lift my eyes to meet his. If I did, I didn’t know if I could resist the undeniable pull of him any more. My eyes stay fixed on Galloria.

“What—” I croak, then quickly swallow and clear my throat. I try again. “What does it mean that it—she—is bound to me?”

I feel rather than see Lord Draekoh as he circles behind me. I close my eyes as warm fingers trail my hairline, from behind my ear, down my jugular, dragging tendrils of my wild hair in their wake. Draekoh inhales deeply, his nose inches from the path his fingers had just left.

“A bound weapon obeys her master without question. If you want her to kill, she will kill. If you want her to maim, she will maim. If you want her to threaten but draw no blood, she will do so. Leave her beside your bed, travel a hundred thousand miles and call for her; she will come. Done with her? Ask her to leave and she shall.”

Heart leaping, I take a deep breath. “Please leave us, Galloria.” The blade disappears from my hand.

Draekoh finishes his circling slowly and precisely. Every movement is fluid and purposeful. He moves like the wind, while I stumble about like a newborn lamb.

He pauses in front of me, and I raise my hands on instinct. My palms plant against his firm chest, and my eyes shoot open. Everything becomes hyper-focused. Not only can I feel the tension between us, but I can see it. It is electric.

Slowly, as his rapid heartbeat drums against my fingers, I raise my eyes to his.

The instant our eyes lock, he is on me. His hands, so large and firm and warm, grip my waist as he hauls me off my feet. On instinct, I wrap my legs around his hips, moaning as the firm length of him settles between my legs. I hear my dress ripping as its restricting confines give, but that was the least of my concerns right now. Lord Draekoh’s lips were on mine, kissing me with a fervent passion that ignited a flame so deep within me I hadn’t even known it had existed.

His lips are soft yet hard, warm yet unforgiving. He devours me, completely famished, and I am helpless as I do the same to him. My tongue darts free and catches on his elongated canine. I whimper as it pierces me, but more from pleasure than pain. Draekoh rips his mouth from mine, growling like a beast blinded by his desire. I blink open and meet his eyes. They glow again, though not from anger. No, this was undiluted need.

“Draekoh,” I sigh.

I freeze at the same time that he does, as memories of last night douse my mind in icy cold water. This was where he had left me. After I had cooed his name like a doting whore. I wait, tense, as Draekoh’s features shift under a magnitude of emotions. Desire, anger, desperation, doubt, denial. Which one was going to win out tonight? Which one did I want to win? My pussy tightens, and I jolt with the sudden, insistent need it fills me with.

Draekoh’s nostrils flare, and my cheeks burn as I realise he is scenting my arousal. Oh, Gods, I was never going to live this down. Glancing away quickly, I loosen my legs.

A single, hot, steady, and firm hand settles roughly around my thigh.

“Little Bird, you aren’t going anywhere.”

Chapter Twelve

Draekoh sets me on my feet and steps back. Slowly. His eyes sweep leisurely over me. I can only imagine how I look at this moment. Cheeks pink, lips swollen, hair untamed, dress ripped down the side and a single strap fallen low over my shoulder, exposing a touch more rapidly rising and falling breast than socially acceptable.

Then he sits. Calmly. Casually. As if this weren’t such a monumental moment. As if this were something we did every day. His chair is high-backed and cushioned. Wouldn’t want the High Lord to get haemorrhoids on his precious asshole now, would we?

He tips his head back, and his lips curl.

“Take off your dress.”

I gape at him.

“Excuse me?” I flick the fallen strap of my dress back over my shoulder and scowl at the entitled bastard. “That is not how this goes.”

“Then, pray tell, how should this go, Little Bird?”

He’s taunting me. I simmer silently. I would not fall for his tricks again. But what was it, exactly, he was expecting of me? Did he think I would blindly comply? No, that would be too easy for him. No fun. Did he expect me to retreat? Surely not. Not after our little game by the pond.

No.

What he wanted was to play. I blink as it dawns on me. He enjoys my stubbornness. He relishes my confidence and unwillingness to fall to my knees for him. Perhaps this was a challenge of sorts. Would I succumb to his requests like a female desperate to lie with the High Lord? Or would I make him succumb to me?