Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Dancing With Fire

VALORIA WILDEROSE

I thought I was too numb to feel or be bothered by anything he throws at me—until his words register in my head. Flashes of last night fill my mind suddenly.

I can smell the blood again, see the dead girl’s face watching me, staring into my soul.

I freeze, washed with terror, swallowing down vomit at the meaning behind his offer.

My skin crawls; I shudder, making the mistake of revealing my newfound fear on my face.

I see the flash of pure delight the second he recognizes it, eating up my reaction with gusto.

His smile widens sadistically, grinning with sick pleasure.

He leans closer to my ear to whisper, his lips almost grazing my skin, the warm air of his breath blown into me.

I shiver again, only with a strange, new, foreign feeling that makes me even more sick.

“Perhaps… does your silence signify a broken spirit?” he asks hopefully, chuckling. “Are you too terrified to do what is expected? Are you second-guessing selling yourself to your precious goddess?”

Hands run through my hair, down my neck; his soft, gentle, deep voice mocks me.

My blood boils again.

“It’s too early to be broken, not when I’m not done having my fun with you.”

He’s read through me, using my perceived weakness to back me into a corner, forcing me to my limits because he believes he knows them.

But I won’t give him the pleasure of winning this time—not anymore.

“Very well,” I whisper, hiding my trembling.

He pauses for a moment. I sense his surprise, then the confusion.

He thought I would beg and cry like yesterday and the day before, that I would resist his torture and feel more ashamed and humiliated, possibly before forcing me to give myself entirely—but he doesn’t win if it’s not forced anymore.

“What?” he pulls back to look at my eyes, trying to figure me out.

I summon all confidence and courage I can muster.

I imagine I’m the most haughty and unruly girl I know, ruthlessly wicked, ready to get my hands dirty just to get what I want—Marcella.

And then I become her.

My smile flashes easily, playful, with only the corner of my lip tilting.

“I will show my gratitude, just like you want.”

My shift takes him off guard; it leaves him speechless.

I place one hand on his chest and push gently. I take a step forward; he takes one back, bound by my gaze.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you honor that is yours.”

I take another step forward, backing him toward my bed until he falls back into a sitting position, staring intently with interest this time.

No disgust or indifference—not like a psychopath looking at something meant to be toyed with—but with genuine curiosity to see where all of this goes.

Only I myself haven’t figured it out yet, being a virgin and all.

Something I’d saved for Ronan when we could finally be together—now I’m offering it to this madman because I refuse to lose his game.

I take a step back, swallowing hard, fighting the remnants of my own self-preservation. None of it will save me.

One hand moves to my shoulder, sliding the sleeve of my dress down.

Then I move to the other, taking it off painfully slow, savoring the moments of my modesty before exposing myself to the beast in front of me to be devoured.

The second all of me lies bare in front of him, he no longer bothers with my eyes—to hell with them. His gaze is fixated everywhere else, intently.

I’m suddenly bashful, consciously aware of my thin body—the ribs poking at the side, my pale skin that resembles nothing like the women he’s used to.

What was I thinking, making a brave move showing him something he probably finds revolting?

I cover myself with my hands in shame.

“Stop.” He interrupts my thoughts, a look of annoyance suddenly on his face. “Let me see,” he urges, need in his voice.

I watch him reluctantly before my hands fall again. Somehow, his blue eyes seem pleased, filling me with a gush of confidence.

I have no idea what to do next, aside from the fact that I am to seduce him.

I follow my instinct, drawing closer, bridging the gap between us. He remains still and quiet, almost obediently waiting.

I straddle him, his burning blue gaze taking mine captive. My breath shakes, running out of the confidence boost I had earlier.

I decide to kiss him, to follow whatever comes next, leaning in close until our lips are an inch away.

I pause suddenly, remembering consent.

“May I, your majesty?” I ask.

He does not offer a reply, only pulling me closer, taking my lips for himself.

It’s different from anything I’ve ever felt before. The kisses I had shared with Ronan lasted merely seconds before they ended.

All of them had been surface level—but this is different.

His tongue invades my mouth instantly, sucking and tasting me, inadvertently giving me a taste as well.

He’s sweet—intoxicatingly sweet—exactly how I imagine aged sweet wine would taste, but even better.

Something hot and aching stirs deep within me, awakening a burning need that echoes through my body.

I’m suddenly swept away by this new feeling that takes me captive. I can’t stop, even if I want to.

Then he bites my lower lip, running his wet tongue along the rim.

I groan deeply, a foreign sound escaping my lips, as my smaller body grinds into him against my better judgment.

“Fuck.” He swears against my tongue, deep, feral.

That nastier feeling shoots up my spine. His voice is completely different than he’s ever sounded before.

His arms suddenly wrap around me tight, grazing across the sour surface wounds in my back and cutting right through the sweet trance.

My body is jolted awake again, needles stabbing into me from behind.

I cry out in pain, wincing from his touch, pushing myself away and falling onto the floor, reaching for the wounds on my back.

I writhe in agony for a while, trembling until the pulsing calms a bit—but then he roughly grips me by the arm, spinning me around to look for himself.

“You haven’t healed yet.” He notices the wounds.

Fresh as the day he carved them into my back, besides the bleeding—sounding more surprised than delighted by my suffering.

From his tone, I can tell he expected them to have healed. A typical wolf would have healed the wounds fast enough for them not to hurt so much.

But I’m not typical. I am defective, broken—a disgusting mutation.

I feel like dirt again, filthy dirt he wouldn’t even find remotely pleasing enough to be seduced.

A fool who deceived herself into thinking she could be confident enough to turn into a beautiful flower.

“My wounds take time to heal properly. A defective wolf like myself takes even longer to heal,” I explain, hiding my shameful face away, waiting for what comes next.

The taunting, the torment—just for his enjoyment. How will he satiate his sadistic desire for my pain now?

“This is a waste of my time,” he grumbles verbally, annoyed. Instead, he rises to his feet and storms out of my room.

He leaves me more confused than ever.

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