Salt in the Wound (Lyonesse)

by Sierra Simone

What is it about being watched that makes us want to impress the watcher?

Always give the people around you a reason to underestimate you. Do it the minute you meet them, if you can.

I’ve sharpened you into a blade, but being sharp is only half a blade’s job. The other half is knowing when and where to cut.

So much could happen in four years.

Like he wanted to cut me open and taste the blood that came out, and then make me taste it too.

“Sister Mary Alice hit me in the head with a bo staff.” “I hope you appreciate how unique that sentence is.”

“You asked for me? Why?” The words were faint on my lips. He regarded me. “Because I wanted you,” he said, like it was that simple.

There was something buzzing under my skin. A warning maybe. An ancient instinct that told me that a storm was coming, that a wolf was in the woods.

But if you’re asking about my tastes, then I can tell you that they typically distill into two things—power and sensation. One I like to have. The other I like to give.”

A cluster of rubies dotted the middle like ripe fruit, and the band was made of twisting gold, wrought like vines and leaves. “Honeysuckle,” Mark said softly. “My grandmother told me once that it was the symbol of a good marriage.”

He was a spy. A devil, I reminded myself. It had been his job to coax and cajole and coerce. But it was my job to cajole the devil now.

He couldn’t know that above all else, I wanted to be allowed to hurt myself for God.

This was beyond an owner in his club, a king in his kingdom. This was more like some shadow god in his underworld, sprawled on his throne while his glittering eyes assessed the tribute being brought his way.

And then he dropped his hands and stepped back, licking his lips. I was pleased to see the fast heave of his chest, the wary look in his eyes. He was doubting himself now. I’d surprised him. Perhaps I could play this game with him after all. Perhaps I could win.

Some people had men woo them with jewelry, with roses and orchids and champagne. I had a man who sent me knives and parasitic flowers. I was smiling the rest of the day.

Did I have a secret weakness for wicked grins? Or just for beautiful Dominants in general?

Just like I’d hoped to do for God, I would hurt for my future husband.

A thick erection dug into my back; he was hard from beating me. My sadistic fiancé.

I stood across from the man who’d bought me in marriage, whom my father had apparently told to claim my virginity like some kind of trophy.

I knew I wasn’t flirtatious or sultry—I knew that I carried myself like a curled fist.

Yes, I want you, and I want you collared, and I want you mine. That should be enough to terrify you, because I would hold nothing back until I’d eaten your very soul.

Oh, how I yearned for that. To belong to this brutal devil, to surrender to him. I would never be lonely, never feel unwanted. Never wake up and feel like purpose or service was forever out of reach, because it would be as easy as breathing, as surrendering to him.

“How does that feel?” he asked, not lifting his head from my cunt. “So good,” I groaned. “Like you’re licking my heart.” “I would if I could,” said Mark in a voice full of dark promise. He

I have played this game a lot longer than you and with people far more dangerous than you, and I will win every match, little wife, every bout, and I won’t even need to try when I do it. I know everything about you and you know nothing about me.

“You are terrified that your soul will be damned to hell. And I no longer have one left at all.”

It was bad enough that I’d been forced into this marriage, but to have fallen in love with him too? To have been played, tricked, and now abandoned? It was just salt in the wound.

It was just salt in the wound.

He might be older, stronger, the devil sent to scourge other devils, but I was Isolde Laurence, and I had been forged for years into a weapon to be wielded against devils exactly like him.

I have never seen him before in my life, and yet the moment his green eyes meet mine, it feels as if I’m coming home.

“I’m Mark’s nephew-in-law and bodyguard,” the stranger says. “Tristan Thomas, at your service.”