The Cursed (Coven of Bones #2)

by Harper L. Woods

Willow. You are the wife of Lucifer Morningstar, so you need to consummate with me

“If I catch you, then you’ll give me the fight I’ve come to crave from you. If I catch you, we will go to war in the way our souls already know—until my body recognizes every inch of your skin by touch. When I catch you, I will fuck you, and we both know you’ll love every goddamn minute of it,”

“I want to fuck you when you’re so mad you try to claw my eyes out. I want to fight you, and then I want to fuck you while you direct all that anger toward me.”

“If my cock is my only redeeming quality,” I said, shoving her hair out of my way so that I could wrap my fingers around the back of her neck. I used that grip to press her toward the ground, letting her turn her head so that I could see her profile. I pinned her, holding her perfectly still as I shifted my hips and pulled back. “Then I expect you to spend most of your time sitting on it, wife.”

“Two things, Margot,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “First, Beelzebub? Snapped my fucking neck. He literally killed me, and the only reason I’m here is because Gray brought me back to life.” “Fucking Hell, Willow,” Della said, but I silenced her with a look. This conversation wasn’t about me beyond giving Margot the warning she needed about exactly what kind of man Beelzebub was. “Second, I hope one day you get revenge for what was done to you by that man that makes you feel like Beelzebub not assaulting you is a green flag when it should be the bare minimum. I don’t need to know what it was or how, but I hope you make that man fucking bleed,” I said, hating the way she shifted her gaze down to where our hands touched.

All last night had done was prove that I needed to do whatever it took to rid this world of Lucifer.

Idiot.

“This blade was created to kill me, make no mistake, but it’s not my weakness, Witchling,” he said, releasing my hands and leaving me standing there and holding the knife to my own heart. “You are.” “What are you saying?” I asked, sniffling as he put distance between us. I wanted more of it, and I wanted him to hold me all at once. That was the conflict of our love—the constant push and pull of two people who shouldn’t work, but somehow did. “I’m saying that your mistake was stabbing me. That blade was made for you,” he said, forcing me to drop my gaze to the tip of the knife where it touched me. “What does that—” “I bound our lives together when I brought you back, Willow. If you die, I will follow,” he answered, the words sitting between us as he waited. Waited for me to choose. “And this is how you die.”

I told you. Idiot.