Page 17 of Fangs

I stare up at him, at the ruthless slash of his jaw, the arrogant curve of his lips, the wild, midnight-dark fall of his hair, and let my imagination run wild. I imagine what it would feel like to be swallowed whole by someone like that. Someone impossibly powerful. Dangerous. Someone who would rip the world apart before letting anyone lay a hand on me.

I rub my face against his hand on the painting. I can’t reach his mouth.

My fingers find the hem of my sleep gown, slipping beneath the fabric, and I don’t even try to stop them.

I touch myself right there in the freezing, shadowed office, writhing under the unblinking gaze of a dead monster. It is absolute madness. Utter disgrace. And I’m powerless to pull away.

The pleasure builds sweet and agonizing, and in the fevered theater of my mind, those are not my fingers. They are his. Heavy, calloused hands gripping my waist. His formidable body pressing me into the wood. His eyes, those impossible, burning blue eyes, watching every shudder, consuming every gasp.

A small, high-pitched whimper escapes my parted lips as my head falls back against the empty air.

And the shadows in the room deepen, swallowing the weak candlelight.

At first, I pretend I don’t notice. I’m too drowning in the heat, the building friction, the desperate, clawing need for release.

Then the ambient temperature plummets, dropping straight to freezing. The candle gutters and chokes out. An absolute chill washes over my skin, followed by an unmistakable weight, a massive, ice-cold presence wrapping around my bare shoulders and waist like invisible, possessive claws.

My eyes snap open, my breath catching on a scream.

The portrait has changed. The man in the frame has shifted. His head is tilted downward, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. And his eyes, God, his eyes, are no longer painted glass. They burn with a terrifying, liquid fire, equal parts ice and inferno, looking down at me with absolute, undeniable recognition.

Intruder

The crash of a book hitting the floor jolts me back to reality like a physical blow. The spell shatters. My breath hitches into a ragged sob as I realize what I have done. My hands fly to my dress, fumbling to pull the bunched twisted fabric into place. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic trapped bird desperate to escape the cage of my chest.

What is wrong with me? Bile rises in my throat. That was madness. Total unadulterated disgrace.

The lock clicks. I bolt for the sofa, collapsing onto the cushions just as the door handle turns. I force my breath into shallow rhythmic pulses, tucking my shaking hands beneath my thighs to hide the tremors.

Cain enters. Everything about him is wrong. His face is bloodless under the guttering candlelight, skin slicked with a sheen of cold sweat. His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle jumps in his cheek. He moves with a stiff measured gait, as if every step requires a monumental exertion of will. And there—a dark spreading stain ruins his sleeve, soaking into the fine fabric. Blood.

He doesn’t speak, just crosses the room, hand reaching out to grab my arm—

But his fingers never touch me.

A crack splits the air, like the snap of a whip. Cain stumbles backward, his hand jerking away as if I have branded him with red-hot iron. His eyes widen, a flicker of raw unrecognizable emotion surfacing in their depths.

He stares at me for a long suffocating moment. Then, with an abrupt shrug, he masks his reaction, features settling into cold indifference. He jerks his chin toward the door.

“Follow me.”

I obey. What else can I do?

Endless corridors stretch before us. Cain walks ahead, pace measured despite the blood dripping rhythmically from his sleeve. He doesn’t glance back.

At my door he finally turns. His eyes are flat, empty—the eyes of a man who has seen too much and now feels absolutely nothing.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you will pay for your disobedience. Your training is just beginning.”

He steps back. The door slams, and the lock clicks home with a finality that rings in my skull.

I stand in the darkness, alone, my body still humming with the ghost of a touch. I’m still burning, still aching.

The portrait. The man. His eyes.

I cross to my bed and sit on the edge, staring at nothing. Who was he? I know only that he was a monster. A legend of cruelty.

I lie down, and stare at the ceiling. I think about the sharp set of his jaw. The way my body responded to a static image, the shame and heat warring in my chest. I press my thighs together, trying to crush the lingering electric ache, trying to forget.