Page 112 of Demon Food

Yes. I had to. I had to be inside him—he wanted me inside him—drinking from his well, feeling his lean, muscular body slide around my cock, gripping it in tight warmth like I knew it would.

I fumbled with the ties on my trousers as a reddened need pulsed through me.

“Hurry.” His fingernails scraped at the stone of the vanity. “I can’t wait any longer.”

The thin rope ripped the front of my trousers when I yanked it free.

“Alek,” he panted, parting his legs wider. “I feel like I’m going to die without it.”

I.

Fucking.

Froze.

My hands clenched into fists hard enough to sprain my fingers.

Die. Die. Die. Die.

That word.

Every muscle in my stomach choked tight as I forced myself to blink. To think.

“What are you doing?” he asked, so breathy, his fingers so desperate as they cupped my face, pulling me in to kiss me. “Come on⁠—”

I slammed my hand over his mouth and squeezed my eyes shut.

Don’t look at him. Don’t hear him. Control. I needed CONTROL.

But the monster was clawing my composure to ribbons, scratching at my insides with its whetted nails. The weight of his desire was like molten metal in my veins as he rolled his body against mine, a hypnotic dance that would overpower the best of my intentions.

“Feloré,” I managed through clenched teeth. “You have to listen. This is not you⁠—”

“It is me,” he said, wrestling my palm away. “I’ve never felt more like myself. I know what I want. I want you⁠—”

I pressed my hand against his mouth, the contour of his lips flush against my palm as he begged in Vultaen, as I winced at the pain carving inside the flesh of my abdomen exactly the price of everything I was giving up. My vision was barely clear enough to see through the fog of desire crowding it, but I had to control myself. I had to control him.

I was out of options. Out of choices. All I could do was hurt him.

I gripped his hair by the roots, yanked his ear to my mouth, and whispered through my fraying control, “Forgive me, darling.”

Then I yelled.

It was my natural voice, and I did it loud enough that he instantly crumbled, crying out in pain, his poor body retracting into a curled spine as his palms pressed against his ears as if he could keep the sound from penetrating his skull. But he probably couldn’t even think.

My footsteps were stubborn and clunky, my body fighting each step I took as I stumbled toward the door while he swayed on his feet, staggering from the vanity, still clutching his ears.

We locked eyes. He screamed my name. But it was too late.

I was already gone, already forcing myself to slam the door hard enough to rattle the mirrors in their frames.

Again, he shouted my name. Again. My heart ached and lashed around my chest as I held the doorknob when he tried to twist it open, but it was useless. I was stronger.

“Alek,” he said, his voice pleading and raw. “No, no, no, no. Fucking open it. Please. You don’t understand.”

My forehead fell to the door with a thud as I held the knob, my teeth clenched so tightly they might shatter.

But something had to shatter. Him. Or me.