Bitter as a Captain (Lords of Grimm #2)

by Kendra Moreno

“I suspect you’re not from here so here’s a word of warning,” I offer. “Avoid anything that tries to kill you. Trust no one.” I tip my head in respect because she survived the stilted slug for longer than any human should have. “Good luck.” Then I look forward and continue on my way.

Turning back around, the man continues on his journey, his extremely nice ass drawing my eyes for a split second before I chastise myself for the slip. Just because he’s attractive doesn’t mean he’s not a prick.

There are at least a million steps— an exaggeration but one I stick to— to get to the top of the hill where the castle resides and I’m already dreading the climb.

“You must have a death wish,” he says, his voice the deepest growl I’ve ever heard. I stop breathing.

The filter between my brain and mouth disappears and I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to be sexy right now?” I accuse. Because what’s a sexier position than this? He blinks down at me. “What?” I gesture to his arms. “This. It’s a classic sexy move. Every movie ever, the alpha male cages in the woman and then they make out furiously in anger.” He blinks again, but the anger eases in favor of his confusion. “I’m threatening you,” he clarifies. I wrinkle my nose. “Sexily?” He lets out an aggravated growl and shoves away from the wall, opening the cage back up, and I’m ashamed that I’m disappointed.

“Captain!” he shouts, searching everywhere. “Mathieu!” I jerk at the name, at the informality of it. No one has mentioned Bluebeard’s first name and hearing it now feels strange. I don’t know how I feel about it. I know I won’t use it. Clearly the name is something the Captain doesn’t like to think about.

That’s it. I’ve been devolved to a fucking damsel because a sexy ass man is kissing me.

My hand inches lower, dangles closer, temptation there. “I regret putting my tongue down your throat.” Which I didn’t. I stopped the kiss before it went that far, but it doesn’t matter. Deep rumbling laughter vibrates through him. “Take that back.” My face scrunches up and I pull my hand away. The asshole doesn’t deserve an ass grab. He can just keep his tight ass to himself. “Never. I swear to God when I get down, I’m going to disembowel you.”

Both are good... Both are good

“Death follows me wherever I go, Belladonna.” My full name on his lips does something to me I’m not prepared for, and I do my best not to react outwardly. But damn if that isn’t sexy.

“Your muscles are like the rolling hills of Austin, the sun cresting over the horizon and highlighting the details of. . .the masterpiece that you are,” I start, making sure my voice sounds as pompous as I intend it to. “The ink in your skin is a homage to the art hanging in the Louvre, demanding you be displayed beside the Mona Lisa like the most historical art.” He glances back at me with a scowl, but says nothing, so I continue. “Those eyes, oh, how they pierce even the hardest. . .uh, stone like butter, shining bright like the stars in the sky.” “Stop it,” he growls. Grinning, I continue. “Those shoulders are the widest of mountains, encouraging any daring damsel to climb to the top and shout in victory.” He chokes on what I suspect is a laugh, but he covers it well. “The hands that grace your arms, oh, those hands! Poets have written about them for eons, wishing to have them around their throat.” Okay. Maybe that’s just me. “That’s enough,” he growls, but there’s clear amusement in his words now. “The thighs that carry your weight are as graceful as a thundering elephant, capable of cracking even the toughest nuts.” He stops and glares at me. With a grin, I say, “That ass—” “I said that’s enough,” he growls, stepping closer, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that I can’t miss. That hadn’t been there before. “You going to make me stop?” I ask, a challenge. My own eyes are sparkling at the clear discomfort he felt at my poetry, as if no one has ever dared to tell the Ca...

With a grown, he jerks me closer, his arousal pushing into my stomach, and I nearly swallow my own tongue at the feel of it. Oh. I should probably write bad poetry about that, too.

One apology doesn’t mean he should be forgiven for every asshole thing he’s done, but for now, my mind is also telling me what’s the harm in enjoying myself a little bit? What’s the harm in having fun with the literal sexiest man I’ve ever seen?

sword Morris pulls comes from nowhere. He’s not even dressed in a way to store a blade. What is it with all these people hiding weapons? And where can I get this feature?

He chuckles. “Should I wax poetics for you?” he asks. Perking up, I shift closer. “Yes, please do,” I say, gesturing for him to take the floor. Grinning, he says, “Your hair is like the finest seaweed that clings to the sides of my ship.” My nose wrinkles. “Your eyes are as beautiful as the dark, stormy seas.” “Better,” I encourage. “and the monsters beneath the waves,” he finishes. “You ruined it,” I laugh. He holds his hand toward my chest. “Your bosom is as bountiful as the first day after a trip to town,” he continues, dragging more laugher from me.

“Belladonna, my inferno,” he breathes. ‘I’ve survived too many storms to be concerned with a single drop of rain. But even if that drop grows, we’ll be okay.” I worry my bottom lip. “You’re sure?” “No,” he admits. “But do you know what I’m sure of?” “What?” “My love, and yours, and that’s enough for me.”

I huddle deeper into the dark, trying to block it out, trying to pretend I’m not here. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t my dream. This isn’t my dream. This isn’t my dream. .