Chapter 39
Lirael
"I'm not a pet." Fear coiled in my stomach. "I'm not some animal for you to keep—"
"Aren't you?" His smile was sharp, dangerous. "Then what are you, Lirael?"
His hand caught my chin, forced my face up. "Say it. Say you're mine. Say you belong to me."
My jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed to refuse, to fight. The words represented surrender, submission, the destruction of everything I'd fought to preserve.
"No."
His eyes flashed. "No?"
"I won't say it." I held his gaze even as my pulse hammered in my throat. "I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's. I have my own goddamn will, my own mind—I'm a person, not some fucking trophy for you to—"
He cut me off by crushing his mouth to mine.
No. No no no—
The kiss was brutal, punishing, nothing like his calculated touches before. This was raw need and desperation and violence, his mouth moving with bruising force, his hand fisted in my hair to hold me in place. I'd never been kissed—never been touched like this by any man—and the shock of it froze every thought in my head for one terrible heartbeat before pure animal panic kicked in.
I shoved against his chest with both hands, might as well have been trying to move a mountain. My nails raked down his arms, drawing blood I could feel slick under my fingers. I tried to wrench my head away but his grip in my hair was iron, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and a sound escaped my throat that was half-rage, half-fear.
Get off get off get OFF—
His body pressed me harder against the wall, one arm coming up to cage me completely while his mouth continued its assault, stealing my breath, my protests, the last shreds of my control. My hands found his face, trying to claw, to push, to do anything to make him stop, but he just growled against my lips and the sound vibrated through my whole body.
When I managed to twist enough to sink my teeth into his lower lip—biting down hard enough to taste blood, wanting to hurt him, needing him to feel even a fraction of what he was doing to me—he just snarled and bit back twice as hard. His teeth cut into my lip with savage precision and suddenly copper flooded both our mouths, hot and metallic and wrong.
Bastard. Fucking bastard—
I tried to scream but his mouth swallowed the sound. Tried to kick but the angle was wrong and my legs had nowhere to go. My lungs burned, vision starting to blur at the edges, and still he didn't stop, didn't pull back, just kept taking and taking like he had every right to my breath, my body, my everything.
Tears of pure fury burned behind my eyes. Not fear—I wouldn't give him that—but rage so hot it felt like it would consume me from the inside out. Every moment I'd spent planning, surviving, enduring, and it came down to this—pinned against a wall in a rotting fishing shack while he claimed what he'd always believed was his to take.
I'll kill him. The second I get the chance, I'll kill him—
He finally pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing mine, both our mouths stained with blood. "You taste," he murmured, tongue darting out to lick the blood from the corner of his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded and burning with something that made my stomach turn, "even better than I imagined."
I dragged in air, my whole body shaking so hard I could barely stand. "I hate you." The words came out raw, vicious. "I fucking hate you. I should have let you die. Should have killed you myself when I had the chance—should have let you choke on your own poisoned blood—"
He kissed me again, cutting off my words, swallowing my hatred, and this time it was somehow worse because it was slower, more deliberate. A thorough claiming that left no room for doubt about his intentions. His tongue traced the cut on my lip—his cut—before sliding past my teeth, exploring, possessing, and I realized with sick horror that my body was responding despite my mind's screaming protests.
My hands were still pushing against his chest but the pressure had weakened. Some traitorous part of me was leaning into the heat of him instead of pulling away, and I hated that almost as much as I hated him, hated my own body for its betrayal, hated that he could feel it and know he was winning.
No. No, I won't—I can't—
When he released me this time, I was gasping, lightheaded, my legs barely holding me up. He was breathing just as hard, his forehead pressed to mine like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
"Liar," he whispered against my lips. "You don't hate me. You wish you did. But you don't."
"I do." But even I could hear how weak it sounded, how my voice shook with something that wasn't just anger anymore.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, and there was something almost tender in his expression despite the blood on both our mouths, despite the beast and the madness in his eyes. Then he kissed me again, and this time it was different—still possessive, still claiming, but gentler somehow, like he was savoring rather than conquering.
This kiss stole the air from my lungs slowly, methodically, until black spots danced at the edges of my vision and my hands stopped pushing and just clutched at his shirt, trying to anchor myself to something solid as the world tilted and spun.
Can't breathe can't breathe—
Just when I was certain I'd pass out, he stopped. His forehead pressed to mine again, and I felt his whole body shuddering, heard his ragged breathing mixing with mine in the small space between us.
"The forest," he murmured, and his voice was strange now, distant, like he was talking to himself more than to me. "The original forest where I became what I am. It's my hell, Lirael. My purgatory." His eyes drifted closed. "I hate places like this. Hate the trees, the isolation, the memories. Hate what they represent."