Page 98 of Breaking Amara

“Julian Roth,” I spit back. “Forever.”

He laughs, a broken, beautiful sound, and kisses me again, softer this time, as if he’s sealing the vow.

His hand finds my clit, rubs it in rough circles, and I come, shattering, my body locking up so tight I think I might black out. He keeps fucking me through it, never slowing, until he follows, pulsing hot and perfect inside me.

He collapses on top of me, crushing me into the mud, both of us shaking, slick with sweat and blood and come.

For a long time, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the wind, and the soft, wet slap of our bodies coming back together.

Eventually, he rolls onto his side, pulling me with him, cradling me against his chest. The torn dress is in tatters, it’s cold and warm and sticky and wet. My knees are scraped, my hair is matted, and I am happier than I have ever been.

He strokes my cheek, thumb gentle against the bruises.

“Amara Marcus is dead,” he says, voice so quiet I almost miss it. “Amara Roth lives.”

I smile, fierce, and kiss his knuckles.

“Long live the King and Queen,” I whisper, and close my eyes, already dreaming of our next hunt.