Twisted Devotion (Kings & Consorts, #1)

by Poppy St. John

I couldn’t cover the tattoos. Not with each finger on my left hand inked down to the first knuckle and bold black lines carving up my neck to touch my throat. Even in the suit I wore, they were impossible to hide.

I loved my work, but dying before ever properly living was probably my greatest fear.

“Emily Snow. Who the hell are you?” A searing flare of want burned through me. My fingers tingled with heat, aching to touch her. To punish her for daring to speak to me that way. She might have been perfect. Her wicked almond eyes shone with indignance. Contempt. I had to have her. The conclusion sat so comfortably, it was like slotting the last piece into a puzzle.

I wanted to ruin her. Ruin her so fucking fully–so completely–that I was the only man who would ever know how to put her back together again.

“No, little lamb. I’m not going to kill you,” he said, his eyes roaming my face in the dark, making me feel his intentions like a fire held too close to flesh. “I’m going to keep you.”

I’d break her and spend each day laying her shattered pieces back into place, shaping something new. Something made for me. If Emily returned to this place, she wouldn’t be his daughter anymore, not the one he recognized. Already her past was burning to worthless ash. I was her future.

She was exquisite. Her body deserved worship. Men should kill and die to have her. Men had done just that. I fought the cloud of lust in my mind to remain focused. She didn’t control me. She didn’t possess me. She belonged to me. Mine. Mine to touch. Mine to mold. Mine to break.

Touching her wouldn’t be enough. I wanted to possess her. Wanted to twist her into something that could fit against my broken parts. I didn’t just want her body. I wanted her heart. Her fucking soul. “I want it all.”

When I told her I wanted everything, I didn’t realize how deeply the meaning ran. I wanted her whole heart. I wanted her to love me like she would never love another person on this vile planet. When I was finished with her, I’d hand her the key to her freedom and I wanted her to drop it at my feet. I wanted her to stay.

It was jarring sometimes when he was warm. Making me think unsafe thoughts. Treacherous things like maybe he was just misunderstood. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe… maybe I could love him.

I knew in the marrow of my bones that Ruarc was the most dangerous thing in the room, and with him, I’d never be more safe. How fucked up was that?

Would she think it all a dream when she woke? Something pulled uncomfortably in my chest. Eventually she would see, all nightmares ended with bright mornings, and they faded just as quickly.

Ruarc was no hero. He was broken, jagged, and damaged but I didn’t need him to be perfect. I didn’t need a storybook romance. Not that kind of storybook, anyway.