Escaping Anger Through Sex

Lucia

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

I slammed the door shut with the kind of force that rattled the hinges.

My jacket flew off my shoulders, landing somewhere, who the hell cared where?

Maybe on the lamp. Maybe on the floor. God could keep track of it if He wanted. I didn’t give a damn.

The bitter taste of the whiskey I’d downed at the bar still clung to my tongue.

I needed it, anything to stop me from storming into that room and tearing Elena’s throat out.

And she’s still breathing.

Why?

Why the hell would Thorne spare her? Why the hell would he look at her with that... softness?

That stupid flicker of restraint in his eyes. I’d seen it. I’d felt it. The same man who once made blood run down my legs from a single glare couldn’t even raise a hand to her.

Because of the damn child. That’s what it is.

My hand slid down to my abdomen, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t even hate the kid properly.

But if that child didn’t exist, if she didn’t exist, Thorne wouldn’t hesitate to erase her.

And yet... I couldn’t pull the trigger.

Because the last thing I wanted was to give Thorne an excuse to wipe out my entire bloodline in one sweep.

And he would. For all his control, he was the kind of monster who smiled while watching the world burn especially if you handed him the match.

I breathed hard, pacing my room like a caged wolf, fists clenched. Elena still walked the halls.

With her face. With that growing, cursed thing inside her. I couldn’t take much more of this.

Not without losing control.

I looked down at what I was wearing, black silk, thin as a whisper, clinging to every sharp curve of my body like it was stitched on by sin itself.

The straps hung low off my shoulders, teasing the swell of my breasts, while the hem barely reached the top of my thighs, riding up each time I moved.

It hugged my hips tight, outlining the fullness of my ass with no mercy.

The fabric shimmered under the dim light, a deep gem that matched the venom in my veins.

No bra. No panties. Just me, unapologetically raw.

I’d worn it for one reason only: to remind Elena that no matter how beautiful she looked, she’d never be me.

She didn’t know how to wear danger like perfume, didn’t know how to walk into a room and make it stop breathing.

I wanted her to see perfection and know it was unattainable.

But now? I was pissed. Furious. The sight of her still wandering these halls, alive, spared, with Thorne’s eyes lingering too long, that ruined everything.

I should’ve just stayed here. Curled into the shadows instead of trying to parade power I no longer felt I had.

I poured myself a glass of wine and let the rich taste slide down my throat as I sank onto the edge of my bed, legs crossed, the cool glass resting against my palm.

My mind wandered, dangerously, back to the last time Thorne had his hands on me. God, it was perfect.

Every stroke, every grip, every command. A solid ten out of ten, without question.

No one knew how to ruin and pleasure a woman the way he did.

Then came the knock.

"Come in," I said, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

The door creaked open, and there he was, Dante. Thorne's guard. I frowned, watching him step in like he owned the place.

“What do you want?”

His deep voice was steady, respectful. “Just came to check on your window. Thorne gave orders earlier for all guards to double-check access points, said someone left one cracked open. Thought it might’ve been yours.”

I leaned back slowly, wine in hand, eyes trailing over him. Broad shoulders. Carved arms.

That cold intensity in his gaze. He reminded me of Thorne in all the right, wrong ways.

No man could satisfy me like Thorne. But half a taste was better than starving.

With how I was dressed, I knew I wasn’t sending mixed signals.

I stood, hips swaying, and approached him.

He was facing the window, arms crossed, trying so damn hard to pretend I wasn’t affecting him.

But he forgot, I could smell restraint like blood in the water.

I moved behind him, deliberately slow. My fingers tapped his shoulder.

He turned, and froze.

His eyes locked on mine, then flicked down to the curve of my body, barely concealed in lace and skin.

I didn’t give him time to think. My hand found the buttons on his shirt, and I undid the top three with ease.

My fingers slid across his chest, grazing the rough patch of hair, warm and masculine under my palm. He swallowed, hard.

“Don’t,” he said, but it didn’t come with resistance, it came with a plea.

Too late.

In the next second, he grabbed me by the waist and slammed his mouth to mine. No hesitation.

His kiss was rough, hungry, dangerous. His tongue found mine like he was starved of touch. I moaned against him, the sound muffled between our lips.

One hand fisted my hair, tugging my head back to deepen the kiss. The other gripped my breast, then slid down to my ass, squeezing like he owned it.

With one swift rip, my clothes fell away, and suddenly, I stood bare under the heat of his gaze, vulnerable, exposed, but powerful in my desire.

Dante didn’t hesitate. His hands moved to my breasts, not just with hunger, but reverence, like he was learning me with every touch.

His thumbs brushed softly over my nipples, circling, teasing, then pressing gently until my breath caught in my throat.

When he bent down, his lips closed around one, warm and possessive, his tongue flicking, coaxing sounds from deep in my chest I didn’t know I could make.

I trembled, gripping his shoulders as he alternated between gentle suckles and firmer, deeper pulls that left me aching in the most delicious way.

Then his hands slid behind me, firm and commanding. He grasped my hips and pulled me flush against him, his palms gliding over the curves of my ass like he was sculpting them.

A sharp smack echoed through the room followed by the deep rub of his hands, grounding me, claiming me.

My body responded without question, arching, aching, pressing into every inch of him. I wasn’t just being touched. I was being worshipped.

And God help me, I never wanted it to end.

My moans echoed off the walls unrestrained, raw, shameless.

I knew how loud I was, but I couldn't help it. Every inch of me was alive under his touch.

When Dante leaned close, breath hot on my neck, he whispered, “We need to move somewhere safer.”

Of course. The hidden passage. Only Thorne, Scott, and I knew about it.

A narrow tunnel tucked behind my closet that led to a hidden chamber beside the dungeon. I led him there, with no patience.

He sat on the edge of the old bed, anticipation in his eyes. I sank to my knees before him, my hands moving on instinct, drawing quiet gasps from him.

But before long, he pulled me up, stood, and my legs wrapped around his waist.

His grip on my hips was strong but careful, lifting me as if I weighed nothing, and pressing me against him with controlled urgency.

“Oh, God, Dante, don’t stop, right there—”

“Mine,” he growled, his mouth capturing my breast, lips warm around my nipple as I arched into him.

And then we froze.

A sound, sharp, distant, cut through the air.

A scream.

We looked at each other, still and breathless.