Within fifteen minutes, the couch and love seat were destroyed, as was every knickknack and even the television. Curtains were ripped down, and holes were punched into the walls. Much longer, and the authorities would arrive. Anya was panting, growing tired, but she managed to cut Lucien on his upper arm, calf and again his stomach.
He'd managed to cut her not at all.
Oops. Take that back. The tip of his sword slashed across her left shoulder, causing the shirt to gape and reveal the lace of her favorite demi-bra. The skin above it stung.
"You cut me," she said, gaping at him.
"I am sorry." And he did sound apologetic.
She growled, a predator locking on the evening's meal. "Not yet, but you will be!" She withdrew a dagger and stabbed at his thigh.
Contact.
"Ouch!"
End this. There was only one sure way to do that. She spun on her heel as she chopped at him, forcing him to turn and backing him toward the bedroom. He was strong—stronger than her, she admitted, for she knew he had been pulling back every time his blade almost nicked her. Why he did that, she didn't know, since he'd finally gotten serious about killing her.
"I don't know why I hung around you so long," she said amid thrusts and parries. "I don't know why I helped you."
"That makes two of us." His straight, white teeth bared in another scowl.
"You know what? I'm sick of your poor-me routine. It's old, sweetcakes."
"There is no routine," he gritted out.
"Like hell." Spinning, she swung at him with her fist. Contact. "You have scars. So the hell what. That doesn't mean all women think you're ugly."
When she swung at him again, he batted her wrist away. "You cannot think me handsome, and so you cannot want me. Not really. You have even admitted it."
"People lie all the time, asshole. I believe I've mentioned that I personally do so on a regular basis."
He stilled, panting. His eyes widened with astonishment. And hope? "You lied about why you have stayed with me?"
"Wouldn't matter if I did. I hate your guts now." She dropped her sword and shoved him. "You were going to kill me."
He stumbled backward, finally past the threshold of the bedroom. He dropped his sword, too, and it clanked against the floor. "From the beginning, I meant to kill you. My intentions were never a secret."
"Yeah, but you weren't serious about it." When he made no move toward her, she pushed him again. Again, he stumbled. "Would you really have taken my soul?"
His knees hit the edge of the bed. "Yes. No. I don't know. You torment me like no other and I am constantly second-guessing my decisions about you."
She pushed again and his legs buckled. As his ass slapped against the mattress, she dove for his stomach, slamming her shoulder into him and knocking the breath from his lungs.
"Anya," he managed to gasp out.
"Nope. You don't get to talk anymore."
"You do not hate me," he said darkly. He had a hold of her wrists a second later and was jerking her on top of him, his mouth slamming into hers. His hot tongue thrust inside her mouth as surely as his sword had thrust at her body, only now his aim was deadlier.
Sweet lightning, she mused, a little dizzy. The man knew how to kiss, letting his tongue continue to invade her mouth with all kinds of electric heat. Her nipples hardened, and that damn moisture pooled between her legs. Every cell she possessed sparked to wild life.
You're not supposed to desire him anymore.
Well, he wasn't supposed to kiss me.
Grab the chains. Now!
As their tongues dueled, Anya forced herself into action. But she grabbed on to Lucien rather than the chains, gripping his head so tightly her nails scoured his scalp. Such an embrace would have killed a human, but Lucien seemed to revel in it, his erection pulsing under her.
Just a few minutes of play, then I'll lock him down.
He just…he tasted so damn good. Better than she remembered. Man and dark fever, power and roses. His touch was exhilarating, his hands kneading her ass as he ground his swollen shaft between her legs. Much more, and she would come. Then ask for even more. Beg.
Gods, she hated her curse.
And she hated herself for even thinking about fulfilling it. No way you want to be bound to this man, unable to love another, unable to kiss and touch or even dream about another. So why did the possibility excite her? Why did she want to smile at the thought of spending eternity with Lucien? Her heart belonging to him, even if he tired of her?
Don't think about that now. She straddled Lucien's waist, pressing his cock closer…closer…hitting exactly where she needed. She gasped in ecstasy, her entire body rejoicing.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "I want to feel your skin."
Yes, yes. "No." Common sense spoke for her. Her desire for him wasn't going to change the night's ending: Lucien chained to the bed and at her mercy, to be punished for trying to take her head.
That doesn't mean you can't enjoy him for a little while longer and take off something. Her hands fisted on Lucien's chest. Obviously, he wasn't the only one who second-guessed himself.
"I want you, all right?" he said. "I can deny it no longer. Know that I am not going to try to kill you during the act. You have my word."
But there was shame and guilt in his voice.
"Fuck me now, kill me later, hmm," she said, not offended when she probably should have been. "Well, you can take off your clothes." Oh, to feast on his glorious body. "Mine have to stay on."
He stilled, stared up at her, passion receding from his face and leaving that blank mask she hated.
She almost sobbed. She wasn't ready for the make-out session to end.
"Why will you not strip for me?"
"Why are we talking? I thought I told you that you weren't allowed to do so anymore," she hedged, pressing closer and sliding her tongue back into his mouth. She didn't want to tell him the truth, but she didn't want to lie to him, either. Not about this. She would much rather enjoy him.
He returned her passion for a few minutes more, hands tracing over the curve of her spine. There was desperation in his kiss. A desperation that was reflected in her own, she was sure. She never wanted it to end, could have stayed in his arms forever. But he finally cupped her jaw and forced her to look at him.
Tension lined his mouth. "You led me to believe my scars did not bother you," he said softly.
"They don't," she replied just as softly.
"Anya. Of all the times to tell me the truth, this is it. Please."
"They don't!"
His eyes tapered, nearly shut, feathered lashes pointing at her like spikes. Suddenly there was an evil glint in both the blue and brown iris, as if the demon of Death had taken over. Lucien gripped her hips and moved her off him.
Confused, she perched at the edge of the bed.
"You want me, but you will not take off your clothing for me," he said. Actually, he growled. "I do not think you really want me, after all."
"I do."
Staring at her, he unsnapped his jeans.
She pulled her gaze from his face, watching the movement of his fingers. Breath caught in her lungs. What was he doing? Stripping for her, as she'd requested? But why would he—
Unziiip.
Her jaw fell open as his erection sprang free. Huge, swollen, long, with a rounded tip already beaded with moisture. Her tongue nearly rolled out of her mouth. Was she drooling?
"You want me," he repeated flatly. "Well, now you're going to have to prove it."