My boots clack against stone as I take another step closer to him. Leaving barely a breath of space between us, I can feel the heat of him blasting into me. His very essence coils around my arms and legs, blanketing me in its warmth as I drop my head back and stare up at him. “It’s a derogatory term for how you were conceived, which has no bearing on who you are. It’s intended to wound, and you labeling yourself as one gives others permission to do the same. Don’t allow others to wound you. Don’t be a victim.”
His nostrils flare and his biceps bulge, and I see the veins throbbing in his thick neck as he bares his teeth. “I’m not a victim.”
“No, you’re not,” I whisper. “Don’t let them mistake you for one.”
The strain coursing through his limbs doesn’t lessen, but the lines bracketing his lips soften, his eyes bouncing between my own as we stare mutely at the other. “He’s right, you know.”
Confusion flickers across my face. “Who?”
“Kace.”
I bark a laugh. “I find that unlikely, but what do you think he’s right about?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says reverently.
I am beautiful and I’m well aware of it, so I’m accustomed to admirers from both genders. Yet, although it can be convenient when needed, more times than not it attracts those with more sinister intentions. Intentions that are most definitely not welcome and have been the source of much suffering within my life. So much so, I’ve often wished to trade my face with another. In one of my darker times, I went so far as to take a knife to my face, carving several jagged lines all the way to the bone in an attempt to rid me of my curse. If I was ugly, if no one wanted me, they wouldn’t hurt me. But I healed too quickly and the scars didn’t hold. All I was left with was a lingering pain and a bloodstained gown.
I’ve learned to accept that my looks are a part of me, but I can’t say that I’ll ever hold more than a begrudging acceptance that the Stars damned me with a face others are incapable of seeing past to who I am within.
But with Darius, I feel like he sees more than a pretty face. As if his searing gaze can scorch through flesh and bone all the way to the core of my soul, discovering the person I truly am. Which is absolutely ridiculous. He doesn’t know me, can’t know anything about me. But I can’t suppress the all-encompassing warmth I feel at the thought of actually being seen. Or the warmth of the blush filling my cheeks.
An unfamiliar shyness envelops me and I drop my chin, peering down at my feet as I chew on my lip. Powerless at keeping my gaze away for long, I lift my head after only a moment, and my breath catches at the sight of his dimpled smile.
His attention veers to where I drag my teeth over my lip and his smile slips, tightening as he clenches his jaw. Eyes glazed over in lust, he stares into my amethyst ones, piercing me with a gaze filled with so much need. So brutal, so feral, he looks as if he’s moments away from devouring me whole.
Feeling the heat of his breath caress my face, I inhale a deep breath and instantly regret teasing him for sniffing me. All I want to do is slip beneath his vest and tunic and burrow my nose into that powerful chest. The scent of cedar, smoke, and male musk has me shutting my eyes and inhaling slowly, savoring the raw essence that is Darius. Curling into him, I feel the power of him singeing me, crackling along my skin and humming within my blood. My breaths become harsher; my pussy pulsates and my nipples pebble at the friction of my heaving chest brushing against his own.
Opening my eyes to mere slits, I find his blazing into an inferno, melting me to my very core as he dips his head, slowly lowering his lips to hover above mine. Not yet touching, I can taste his breath roll across my tongue as well as feel his erection bobbing where he's pressed against my belly. When his nostrils flare, his eyes flash and his cock prods deeper against me, digging in search of that promised moist heat. And when a growl rumbles within his chest, the vibrations shudder through me and a whimper escapes me at the realization he can smell my desperation for him pooling between my legs.
“Lena!”
It takes me a moment to realize that someone’s calling out to me. When I do, I do the only logical thing that any red-blooded female would do. I tune the voice out and instead arch against Darius, waiting for the touch of his lips. Needing it.
“Lena,” Amara whines.
Darius glances to the side, then back. I see the heat begin to bank in his eyes.
“Just ignore her,” I whisper. “She'll eventually go away.”
He chuckles and I feel my pussy’s grief when he backs away.
Amara tugs on my arm, shaking it. “Lena!”
“What?” I snap, rounding on the dense woman.
“Look!” She points behind me.
I glare at her and she shoves at my shoulder, shaking her finger on the opposite hand.
Growling in frustration, I place my hands on my hips and turn to look at what's caught her attention.
It’s a building. A godsdamn building.
The structure is constructed of a mix of arched woods and white stone, similar to all the other shops in Seboia, if not triple the size. But the patrons themselves are an altogether different matter. Females and males laugh, smoke, dance, and caress all types of beings. Leaving very little to the imagination, they’re all dressed in clothing that is basically nothing more than ribbons wrapped around their genitals. Although I'm not sure why they even bother. Their nudity is visible beneath the sheer, colorful fabrics, the jewels and metal disks stitched within clinking together as their masters participate in all manners of sexual and deviant activities. Activities I would be enjoying at the moment if not for the annoying brat standing beside me.
“Yes, Amara, it's a brothel,” I bite out. Narrowing my eyes, I debate whether I can run away fast enough after I kick her in the cunt.
Probably not. She's fast when she's pissed.
Having about as much patience as I do at the moment, Amara rolls her eyes while placing both hands on the sides of my head and jerking it up.
“Godsdamn it, Amara!” I shout, smacking at her hands, but she holds tight, refusing to let go. Feeling as if my head has been torn from my shoulders and already knowing Amara won’t be satisfied until I do as she asks, I let my arms fall to my sides and focus my gaze on the object of her fascination.
I jolt.
Painted in the same white as the stone of the building, a tall, rectangular sign hangs suspended above the brothel. But it's not the sign itself that surprises me; it's the letters artfully scripted in a metallic, caramel color.
“Maiden's Eye Pleasure House,” I read, scrunching up my nose. “What kind of name is that?”
“Right?” Amara chuckles, her eyes widened in bafflement.
“It's horrible.” I laugh along with her.
“I think it's a lovely name,” Zander defends.
“No.” Tristan shakes his head, the disdain evident in his tone. “It’s appalling.”
“Not one of the Madame’s brightest moments,” Griffin adds.
