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> “Stay still, Little Thorn… I want to taste you slowly.” His voice was velvet and ruin. His mouth, a weapon. And I—fool that I was—leaned closer. Before death wore a suit and called itself a lover, I used to believe in beauty. Before the blood. Before the runes. Before I painted the image that killed my parents—I believed my art could save me. Now I know better. I was just weeks from graduating when the painting came to me like a fever. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t plan it. My hands moved, possessed, dragging symbols I’d never seen and a face I’d never forgotten—his. Eyes red as wine. A crown pierced with thorns. And a girl in the center… me. Offering herself. I signed it with a mark I didn’t recognize. I sold it to a stranger. And days later, my parents were dead—no wounds, no reason, just... gone. The police said stress. I say fate. Now I’m being hunted by a world I didn’t know existed. Vampires with ancient courts and older grudges. Symbols that whisper in my blood. And Lucien D’Aragon—the vampire who says I summoned him with my brushstroke. That I belong to him. He says I’m his prophecy. His ruin. His Little Thorn. But I’m not just prey. Something is waking in me. Something hungry. Something I was never meant to survive. If I give in, I lose everything. If I fight, I might finally learn the truth. About my art. About my bloodline. About what really happened that night. And why he keeps whispering that I was painted for ruin... but made for him.
Voir plusChapitre 1
PROLOGUE —HIS TO RUIN
The first time he touched me, I forgot my own name,
I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me—like I was a thing. A puzzle, a possession, a problem that amused him. I hated the calm in his voice, the chill in his touch, the way he never raised his tone because he didn’t need to. Everything about him was silence and control and hunger. But I hated myself more for wanting him. “I should leave,” I whispered, but my voice broke on the last word. There was no conviction in it. Only heat. He didn’t answer. He never answered questions that didn’t matter. Only moved — slow, deliberate — until I felt the air shift behind me. His breath was a whisper at my neck before his fingers found my hip. “You won’t,” he murmured, I should have slapped him. Should have screamed. Should have begged him to let me leave. Instead, I leaned back. Even now—back against the wall, breath ragged, wrists pinned above my head—I couldn’t lie about the heat in my stomach, the ache between my thighs. I hated him. God, I did. And still, my body betrayed me. He pressed against me, one hand on my wrists, the other skimming the inside of my thigh. “You don’t get to look at me like that and still shake when I touch you,” he murmured. His voice was low, dark, precise. “Little Thorn.” I flinched at the nickname. He always said it like a secret. Like he already knew how I’d bloom under his hands—bloody and beautiful. “I hate you,” I spat, but my voice cracked. Weak. Exposed. His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You say that every time you’re about to let me ruin you.” “I won’t,” I whispered. “You already are.” Then he kissed me—if you could call it that. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. His mouth crushed mine, stealing air, stealing thought. His tongue pushed in, claiming. I fought back at first. Bit him. He laughed against my lips. “There she is,” he growled. “My Little Thorn.” Then he let go of my wrists—and I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not because I was afraid. But because I wanted to see what he’d do next. What I’d let him do next. He knew. Of course he did. His fingers slipped beneath my shirt. Slow. Teasing. Possessive. “You wear this like you’re hiding something from me,” he said, tugging the fabric up over my head. I gasped as the cold air kissed my bare skin. My nipples pebbled beneath his gaze, and he drank in the sight like a man starved. He kissed down my throat, down my chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand gripped my ass like he was claiming territory. I whimpered before I could stop it. “Louder,” he ordered. I shook my head. He bit. “Ah—fuck!” I choked, and he smiled against my skin. “I want to hear every sound I pull out of you,” he said. “Don’t you dare hold them back.” I moaned then—not from pain, but from the way he looked at me. Like he knew. Like he owned the part of me I hadn’t even wanted to admit existed. He dropped to his knees in front of me, pulling my shorts down my thighs. His fingers trailed over my slick heat—slow, stroking “You’re wet,” he said softly. “You hate me, but this little cunt’s begging for me.” My cheeks flushed with shame. With hunger. He looked up, his eyes locking on mine as he slid two fingers into me. “Say it,” he said. “No.” He curled them. Hit the spot that made me cry out. “Say it, Little Thorn.” I whimpered. “I want you.” He didn’t stop. “Say it like you mean it.” “I want you,” I gasped, louder this time. “I want you to fuck me.” “Good girl.” Then he rose, unzipping his pants with one hand, the other still fucking me open. I watched, breathless, as he freed himself. Thick. Hard. Beautiful. Terrifying. He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through my folds, teasing my clit, pressing against my entrance but not pushing in. “You’re going to take every inch,” he said, his voice low, cruel, reverent. “You’re going to remember the shape of me for the rest of your life.” I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. The words dissolved. The heat was too much. The tension was unbearable. He didn’t ease in. He took me. One deep thrust, and I cried out as my back slammed against the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. I was stretched, filled, He gripped my hips, pulled out halfway, Then slammed back in again. Over. And over. I clung to him like a lifeline. He fucked me like he hated me. Like he needed to break me. His lips bruised mine. His hands left prints on my skin. Every stroke was a claim. A war. “Look at me,” he growled when I tried to close my eyes. “Look at the man who owns your body now.” “I don’t belong to you,” I moaned. “You will.” He thrust harder. Deeper. I shattered on a gasp, body convulsing around him. He kept going, dragging every ripple of pleasure from me like he had all the time in the world. “Say it,” he demanded again. “Say you’re mine.” I didn’t want to. “You’ll never hate me enough,” he said. “And I’ll never stop wanting to destroy you.” ******************************************* This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, organizations, and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. This story contains mature themes, including dark romance, emotional manipulation, and supernatural elements, intended for an 18+ audience. It may include scenes that explore complex or intense dynamics strictly for entertainment purposes. The author does not condone or promote violence, abuse, non-consensual acts, or any form of sexual assault. All interactions depicted are fictional and not meant to reflect healthy real-world relationships or behaviors. --Latest chapter
LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE Chapter Seven
The hallway outside the private room was too bright, too loud, too… real. My heels clicked awkwardly on the tile as I stepped back into the club’s pulse. Sweat. Flashing lights. Someone laughing too loud. Everything was louder now. Where the hell is Rhea? Where the hell is Rhea? She’d been deep in her own little world earlier — hands down someone’s pants, mouth doing exactly what it wanted, completely unbothered. I scanned the crowd for her. Gone. I weaved through the crowd. Checked the bar. The booth near the DJ. Nothing. My stomach dropped a little. She wouldn’t leave, right? Not without me. I pulled my phone from my bag — finally. Four missed calls, two texts, one emoji with the tongue sticking out, and another of a cab. I didn’t need to guess. RHEA [1:42 AM]: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU. RHEA [1:44 AM]: I left. He was hot. He came. I came. Victory. TAKE A CAB. COME HOME. NOW. BRING GUM. U OWE ME A SHOT. I laughed — genuinely laughed. I hit call instantly.
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-08-08LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE Chapter Six
His mouth brushed my ear as he said it, “Should we get a room?” “Wanna get out of here?” he whispered. My heart kicked. My legs didn’t move, I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust my voice. but my body answered. “Yes.” “Then come upstairs.” His hand found mine — not possessive, not pushy. just warm. Inviting. And I let him lead me. Up a narrow staircase. Past a velvet rope. Into a room that pulsed with candlelight and secrets. Some kind of VIP lounge for sinners. Music filtered in from the floor below, but everything up here was quieter. Darker. There was laughter down the corridor, a moan behind a closed door, the unmistakable thump of bodies against a wall. He shut the door behind us. And then we were alone. “I won’t push,” he said, stepping closer. “You say stop, I stop.” — At least he was polite. “You sure?” I nodded. He crossed the room in two steps. His hands cupped my face. His mouth found mine. And everything else fell away. The kiss started s
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-08-08LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE Chapter Five
The front door clicked open, and I heard the familiar jangle of keys. “Arabella? I—” He stopped. Just... stopped. “Holy shit.” Elias blinked at me from the hallway, Backpack still slung over one shoulder. There was a full second of silence. Then, deadpan: “…Did I walk into the wrong apartment?” I turned toward him slowly. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “Nope. Still you. But what the hell?” “Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a finger. “Who are You, and what have you done with my antisocial sister?” Elias’s mouth opened. Then closed. then opened again. “You?” I nodded. “Like, outside? In that?” “In this,” I said, doing a slow half-turn like I was on a catwalk — awkwardly, I turned slightly, showing off the glittering heels I was still learning to walk in. “She’s on vacation.” He blinked again. “Why do you look like a Bond girl who just got divorced and is about to ruin her ex’s life?” Rhea cackled. “Is that a compliment or a warning?” I asked. He squ
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-08-08LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE Chapter Four
The ringtone blared through the apartment like a tiny alarm, vibrating against the glass coffee table until Rhea swooped it up with a manicured hand and a smirk. I was still in bed when I heard Rhea screaming from the kitchen. "Hey, girl!" she sang, her voice coated in that honey-sweet charm she used when talking to her wild friend circle. I watched her from the kitchen counter, spooning cereal into my mouth as if she wasn't far from where i was laying and as if it would protect me from the inevitable chaos that came whenever Rhea got a phone call that started with that tone. "Tonight?" she gasped dramatically, already pacing. "Ugh, it has been forever!" I felt a chill run down my spine. She hung up with a squeal, tossed her phone on the couch, and turned to me like a woman with a mission. "We’re going out tonight." I blinked slowly. "Out where?" She rolled her eyes. "Out as in out, Arabella. Music. Lights. Drinks. Hot guys. Maybe a little sin if the universe is kind."
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-08-08LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE CHAPTER THREE
The sound of traffic is the first thing I hear when I wake up. Not birdsong. Not the rustling of canvas. Not my mother’s voice calling my name from the kitchen downstairs, or my fathers laughter. Those are ghosts now—echoes from another life. This is the present. And the present smells like coffee and city air, warm croissants from the bakery downstairs, and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo that isn’t mine. I blink up at the ceiling fan in our tiny apartment, counting the slow, wobbling rotations like they're a lullaby. Then— The kettle was screaming again, and so was Rhea. “Arabella! Your demon water is possessed!” she shrieked from the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon like a wand as steam billowed behind her. “It’s called tea, Rhea.” I peeked over the top of my book, lounging on the couch in my favorite hoodie—the one with paint stains I pretended were intentional. “It’s called black smoke and the scent of doom,” she shot back, pulling the kettle off the burner an
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-07-25LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE CHAPTER TWO
They called it "The Illumina Exhibit." A final showcase for graduating artists at Hallowind College. Each year, the best students were chosen to present a single piece—one last chance to display their brightest and most beautiful work. The kind that attracted patrons, agents, gallery owners, and sometimes, fame. The catch? No names. Just art. Each painting stood on its own, anonymous and raw. no titles, no signatures on the front. Just a single identifying mark—your chosen symbol—etched quietly onto the back. A tradition meant to let talent speak louder than legacy. It was supposed to be fair. Clean. Safe. But nothing about my painting felt safe. --- “Let me guess,” Lila said as she leaned over, peering at the corner of my canvas. “You didn’t do the sparkly meadow assignment, did you?” We were tucked in the back of Studio 5, the scent of oil and paint clinging to the air. Paintbrushes cluttered our workspaces. Half-finished pieces leaned against the walls like silent
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-07-22
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