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I freeze, mortified by my own actions.
"No," he growls, a dark command in his voice that reflects in his eyes. "Don't fucking stop. Finish what you started."
I want to tell him no, that it's wrong. But I can't find the words. My body aches so badly. Already, my hips circle, obeying him without my consent.
I whimper, turned on and embarrassed. Aching. Why am I acting like this? Why can't I stop?
Realization hits me like a ton of bricks: this man must have woken me. He broke the curse. That means…that means he's my destiny, my true love.
I belong to him.
Is that why I feel like my whole body is on fire, and I can't catch my breath? Because, for the first time in my life, I'm where I belong? The curse no longer haunts me, and I'm free?
"Tell me your name," I plead, my voice trembling as I try to process the immensity of the situation. I've prayed for this man—for this moment—for so long, but I never let myself believe he'd truly come for me.
Yet here he is.
And he's staring at me as if he wants to consume me alive.
"Troy," he replies, his eyes still boring into me, impatient, demanding.
"Thalia," I whisper.
"Finish what you started, Thalia. Now."
Is it normal to like the way he growls at me? Am I supposed to love that he wants to watch me touch myself?
I don't know. In this moment, I don't care. The compulsion to give him what he wants is overwhelming, and I'm helpless to obey.
No one ever told me what happened when the curse was lifted. No one warned me it felt like this—like I was going to vibrate apart with need. But it feels precisely like that.
My fingers begin to move again, driven by the desire to please him, to show him that I accept our fates. To ease the ache growing bigger with every passing moment.
"Good girl," Troy praises, his gaze locked on my face as I press my fingers deeper and moan. His eyes burn with an intensity that frightens and excites me at the same time.
The connection between us is unlike anything I've ever experienced. There's an edge of darkness to it—something vast and dangerous. But I think I love it.
I thrust my fingers inside myself again, my gaze locked on his face as wet sounds fill the room.
"Good," he murmurs, watching me as if I'm the most delicious thing he's ever seen. No one ever looks at me like that. I'm a princess—forbidden. Something unattainable.
Troy doesn't seem to think so. He doesn't avert his gaze or treat me like I'm leagues above him, as if he's unworthy of even speaking to me. He looks at me as if he wants to flip me over and fuck me until I'm screaming.
Maybe I shouldn't love that, but I do.
How many times in my life have I wished to be seen? To be treated like a woman with needs and desires and hopes and dreams instead of a pretty little princess in a cage?
Too many to count.
I'm tired of being locked up in a castle, caged by a curse. I'm tired of being a pretty little princess. I want to be Thalia. I want to be…his.
My heart races as I pick up the pace, the friction of my fingers against my sensitive walls driving me closer and closer to the edge. A part of me—the obedient little princess—can't believe what I'm doing, but the larger part, the one consumed by desire, doesn't care about anything else.
That part just wants to come. Desperately.
"You look so fucking pretty riding your fingers for me, Thalia," he says.
His words send me hurtling toward the precipice.
