Seeped

"Betrayal is a sin, flower," He murmured near my ears, his arctic orbs whisking the warmth of my flesh against his. A course of harrowing singeing fire drifted down my body from the swell of my breasts to my heated core. My nerves screaming with torturous touch of his skin against mine, I couldn’t think for he had me confine in his arms. Brutally, he swept his tongue under the rim of my ear whilst my breath hitched and my tears become uncontrollable. The blood seeped through the cut I gifted him with as he inflated every bit of my scent I had to offer. His filthy tongue leapt across my lower lip with hellish slowness. The bond tempted me to submit to him. "I do not yearn to hear your cries, Katarina. Worship me with your moans." He commanded and I closed my eyes tightly not wishing to swim in those ocean pools of his. Their intimidating tone of his made me want to submit fully to him, to hand over the reins of my soul in his fists. Tears streamed down my face. "F-Forgive me, Xerxes." I stammer softly unable to face his wrath for I knew he was just playing with me, toying with my emotions before he punish me for deeds I've done. Xerxes cruelly grasped my wrists whilst locking them above my head so he could fully discern my naked flesh. "Forgive you?" He mocked, his eyes holding mine into a captivating grip as he licked his lips. "You let another male touch what belonged to me, tell me, flower, why must you test me like this.” I gulped unable to meet his gaze. He chuckled dryly. “Spread your legs, Katarina. The nectar I’m craving is between your legs.”

I stood at the edge of Ironwood territory, boots sinking into mud as cold seeped through my coat. I hated being this close to their land. It smelled like wet dog, testosterone, and trouble. “You’re late, witch.” The voice hit low and deep, vibrating through the ground before it reached my ears. I didn’t flinch. I refused to give him that. I turned slowly, amethyst eyes narrowing as I found him at the tree line. Guilermo Santander. He stepped into the gray light, rain sliding off his broad frame. Six-foot-five of pure menace. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, silver streaks catching the gloom, and those amber eyes—burning straight through me. “I’m not late,” I said calmly, though my pulse spiked. “You wolves just don’t understand patience.” He stopped three feet away. My skin prickled as the runes along my ribs flared hot, reacting to the dense magic rolling off him. Suffocating. Intoxicating. “And you witches don’t understand territory,” Guilermo said. He didn’t sound feral. He sounded tired—like a man carrying a century of weight on deceptively young shoulders. He leaned in and sniffed near my neck. I stiffened. “You smell like sage and burnt sugar,” he murmured, voice dropping, darker now. “It’s giving me a headache.” “Then stop breathing,” I snapped. One corner of his mouth lifted, a flash of sharp canine. “Make me.” The air between us snapped tight. My magic stirred, violet haze curling from my fingertips without permission, brushing the leather of his jacket. He didn’t pull away. He leaned closer. And standing there in the freezing rain with a man who could tear my throat out, I realized two things: Elder Sibal was wrong—Guilermo wasn’t a monster to be chained. And I was in serious trouble.