Fatal Attraction: The Hybrid Princess novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Study

Hate and heat on her father's desk; she asks if he killed her parents, and he says he was there.

"Get out of my father's study."

"I will."

"Get out of my father's house."

"Lilia."

He said my name low.

My hands lit up before I could stop them.

Both palms, bright orange, shaking.

He did not step back.

He looked at the fire.

"Hit me again," he said.

I hit him.

I hit him across the face with a hand that was burning, and the slap rang off the walls.

His head turned with it and came back slowly.

The scar through his eyebrow had gone pale white.

There was a red print on his cheek.

Then I had him by the coat and he had me by the waist.

My back hit the desk hard enough to knock the green lamp over.

The room went dark.

His mouth came down on mine, and I bit it.

I tasted blood and iron.

The hunger I had spent a year in the woods learning to hold came up through my body.

My fangs dropped.

He felt them and groaned into my mouth.

"Do it," he said.

"Do it again."

I bit his lower lip, hard, and he shoved my skirt up my thighs with both hands.

The funeral dress tore at the seam.

I heard it go and did not care.

I tore his coat off his shoulders, and his shirt went the same way.

Then my palms were on his bare chest, and the fire in them guttered and went out.

He was so hot under my hands.

His skin was hard and scarred and it smelled like pine smoke.

Every bit of me knew him.

I hated that more than I hated him.

"You are the one who killed them," I said against his jaw.

He did not answer.

He pulled my head back by the hair and kissed my throat.

His other hand hooked my panties down my legs, and I made a sound I had never heard myself make.

"Say you hate me," he said.

"I hate you."

"Again."

"I hate you. I hate you."

I got my hands on his belt.

My fingers shook so badly I could barely work the buckle.

He did it for me, one-handed, and his cock came out thick and hard against my stomach.

I wrapped my fist around it and he swore.

He lifted me up onto the desk and spread my knees with his hips.

Papers slid off and hit the floor.

He was breathing like he had run a mile.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

His eyes were full gold.

His mouth was bloody.

"Now tell me you want to stop."

I pulled him in by the back of his neck.

"If you stop," I said, "I'll set the house on fire."

He pushed into me.

He did it slowly, one hard inch at a time, and I screamed against his shoulder.

He was too big, and I was so wet it made no difference.

My whole body clenched around him.

He stopped when he was all the way in.

His forehead dropped to mine.

"Mine," he said, hoarse.

"I'm not yours."

"Mine."

"Fuck you."

"Yes," he said, and moved.

He took me hard and deep against my father's desk, with my heels hooked behind his thighs.

His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.

The desk legs screamed on the floorboards.

Every thrust shoved me up the wood, and he dragged me back down onto his cock by my hips each time.

I raked my nails down his back.

I bit his shoulder.

I felt his skin split under my teeth.

His blood hit my tongue, hot and bitter and wonderful, and I could not stop making noise.

"That's it," he said through his teeth.

"Mark me. Take it."

He slid a hand between us and found my clit with his thumb.

He rubbed it in tight, merciless circles, in time with the rhythm he drove into me.

My head fell back against the lamp cord.

"Caleb," I said.

Ambrose had given me his name in the truck, and I had never meant to say it aloud.

His whole body jerked.

"Again."

"Caleb."

He growled and fucked me harder.

My thighs started to shake.

I was so close, I could feel it gathering low in my belly.

"Come for me," he said into my ear.

"Come on my cock, Lilia."

I came with a cry that hit the ceiling.

I clenched around him in long, wrenching waves, and sparks burned off my fingers and scorched the wood of the desk.

He followed me a few thrusts later.

He buried his face in my neck and came with a groan I felt in my own ribs.

He pulsed deep inside me again and again until he was spent.

We stayed like that for a long moment.

My heart was a hammer.

His was the same.

Then he pulled out of me, slowly, and the room turned cold.

I pushed him back.

I slid off the desk onto legs that did not feel like mine and pulled my torn dress down over my thighs.

He stood there with his shirt hanging in ribbons.

My teeth marks were red on his shoulder.

The study smelled of sex and scorched paper.

"Did you kill them?" I said.

He looked at me.

"No."

"Were you there?"

The silence went on a long time.

Out on the porch one of the guards coughed.

"Yes," he said.

I picked up my father's letter opener off the floor.

He watched me do it and did not move.

"Ask me anything but that night," he said.

"Get out."

He pulled his coat from the floor, shook it once, and went to the window.

He raised the sash and slid out into the dark.

I stood holding the blade until my hand stopped shaking.

Then I put it down.

And I understood, very clearly, that I had just taken my parents' killer on my father's desk, with the pack's guards ten feet away.

And that I was going to do it again.

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