Page 4

“Do you see the notches on my knuckles, printsessa?” he rumbles, and my gaze latches onto the black marks. “They are dead men.”

I swallow hard, looking at the dozens of short lines. A tally of every deadly thing he’s ever done.

Down the barrel of the gun, Troy’s eyes widen.

“There is space for another,” Zevran murmurs, his mouth still close to my ear, as though I’ve chosen to do this myself. “Good girl.”

The praise settles low in my belly with a sudden, heavy ache.

“Do you want to know your wife’s problem?” Zevran addresses Troy. “She is not broken. She is not…what did you call her? Frigid. She married the wrong man.”

His hands release mine and settle warm and heavy on my stomach. Caressing me with a slow, possessive touch.

Apprehension skitters down my spine.

At the sight of another man touching me, Troy’s face contorts. He shakes his head angrily, making a buzzing noise behind the gag.

“Zevran…” I twist my neck, looking over my shoulder at the lethal man holding me. My grip loosens, the heavy barrel of the gun dipping.

Instantly, Zevran’s chest expands against my back as he takes a sharp breath. His grip returns to my hands and tightens just enough to anchor me, and his voice seethes in my ear, “Lower that gun, printsessa, and I promise you will regret it.”

I quickly snap the barrel back up, pointing it straight at Troy.

“Good girl,” Zevran murmurs. His voice has dropped an octave, thick and low, and he presses his face into the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply.

I have spent months starving from Troy’s disgust, and Zevran’s dark approval hits me like a match dropped on dry wood. It is terrifying how quickly it heats me.

Then, his massive hands begin to move.

They slide up my midriff, the heat of his touch burning right through the flimsy cotton of my sundress. His touch is agonizingly unhurried as he maps my curves, making me hyperaware of him, forcing me to feel the rhythmic, steady thud of his heartbeat against my shoulder blades. I try to escape to that quiet, distant place in my head, the safe room I’ve built over months of Troy’s violence.

But Zevran won’t let me leave. His touch drags me violently back into my own skin.

He palms my breasts, and I bite down hard on my lower lip. His fingers find my nipples through the fabric, a soft, overwhelming pleasure, and a sound escapes me that I cannot take back.

Troy makes a noise of outrage, and the chair scrapes against the floor as he bucks against it.

“Close your eyes,” Zevran orders, but not to me.

Troy snarls against the gag.

“I said close them. You do not get to see her like this. That privilege is no longer yours.”

One glance at the gun in my hands makes Troy obey.

“Good,” Zevran whispers, and presses a kiss to my throat.

Zevran’s hands slide down to my thighs, and I stare into my lap with helpless shock as he parts them. I try to force my legs closed, but he’s too strong for me, his fingertips sinking into my soft flesh as he holds me open.

His chest rumbles against my back, his voice a low command meant only for me. “Eyes forward, printsessa. Keep the gun on him.”

“I could shoot you,” I threaten in a breathless, desperate whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Zevran’s laughter is low and dark, sending a violent thrill straight to my core. “No. You couldn’t.”

His fingers find the hem of my dress and slowly draw it up, exposing my underwear. I’m shaking. The gun is shaking. Across from me, Troy’s eyes are squeezed shut, his face a mask of furious humiliation, his bound arms straining against the cord.

Zevran takes his time. His fingers trail up the inside of my thigh with patience that feels like torment. He knows exactly what he’s doing.