The Shell Seekers

He catches my wrist as I try to flee, spinning me back against his chest in the empty hallway. "Running from me again? That's not very stepmother-ly of you." His lips brush the shell of my ear, and I shiver. "Let me go, Klaus," I manage, though my body melts into his touch. "Before someone sees…" "Let them," he murmurs, his hand sliding up my thigh beneath my skirts. "Let the whole kingdom see and know that you are mine, damnit!” ***** She wore a veil and a lie when she walked into the palace as the Alpha King's bride. But revenge has a way of getting complicated when your fated mate is your new stepson. Margaux should be dead. Her mate rejected her, and the Alpha King slaughtered her family—but she survived, and now she's back wearing someone else's face. Her plan is simple: marry the King, gain his trust, and destroy him from within. What she didn't plan for was him. Klaus recognizes her the moment their eyes meet across the throne room, mate bond blazing to life despite the years and lies between them. He's the King's son. Her stepson now. The man who shattered her heart. And he's making it very clear that he doesn't care about scandal, propriety, or the fact that she belongs to his father—at least on paper. He never stopped wanting her. He never stopped loving her. But Klaus doesn't know the whole truth: his father murdered her family in cold blood, and Margaux won't rest until she's bathed in the King's destruction. She should be focused on vengeance, not the forbidden heat that ignites every time Klaus corners her in darkened hallways. She should hate him for abandoning her. She does hate him. So why can't she stay away?

"I’ll make you beg and cry out my name, Father Hale. You won’t even be able to face the altar without remembering how you came apart on my tongue." Vincente terrifying voice admitted curling around the crucifix at my throat as his rough, unforgiving fingers, pinned my wrists above my head. His thigh shoved between mine, spreading me open, and the heavy press of his cock ground against the thin barrier of my underclothes. Mine answered before I could stop it, swelling shamefully through the thin clothes that clung like a second, traitorous skin. "Feel that?" he whispered, rolling slow, merciless circles that tore a broken sound from my throat. "That’s your body confessing louder than any prayer." I tried to twist away, but the movement only dragged my hips harder against him. "Please," I gasped, the word cracking open like a wound. "Vicente —God—" "God’s not here," he growled, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear. "Only me, you don't call God when you are about to sin." His hands slipped under me working on me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, but the moan slipped out anyway, raw and ragged. "Say it. Say you want me," he demanded, his thumb circling the slick head until my vision blurred. "Beg me to stop. Or beg me not to." A sob tore free as my body arched, chasing the pleasure I hated myself for craving. "Please...Vicente—" He swallowed the broken plea with his mouth, teeth and tongue, sucking the faint copper of my own blood. When he pulled back, his eyes glittered like black glass. "Oh." He smiled, "You mean I can continue?" And my last hope to get him stop chattered.