Black Thorns (Thorns Duet #2) by Rina Kent

Is it even okay for me to go in when I wasn’t invited?

As soon as I step a foot into the apartment, pitch darkness greets me. I can’t even see my hands, let alone where I’m going.

My heartbeat thunders, rattling through my whole body as I take a tentative step and then stop. My toes curl in my high heels and my nails dig into the strap of my bag.

“Sebastian?” My voice is low, haunted.

I have no idea what this is, but it’s obviously not going to end well for me. I wonder if I should turn around and leave, but then another more urgent thought hits me.

What if he’s injured and needs help?

The door clicks shut behind me and I jump with a small yelp.

Shit.

I’m so hyperaware that I can hear the sound of my breathing and can feel the cold air licking at my skin.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a state of sensory overload. It’s like my own body is unable to contain me.

“Sebastian…” I try again, my voice so breathy, I barely recognize it.

A blur of movement comes from behind me, and when I quickly spin around, I stumble forward.

I don’t have time to scream as a hand wraps around my throat and shoves me back so hard, I shriek.

The piercing sound slashes through the silent air like sharp knives. My back hits something solid with a loud thud that knocks the breath out of my lungs.

A foreign sense of energy shoots through me and I start to swing. It’s a blind sense of survival that’s fueled by primal necessity.

I kick at the solid wall of muscle, nails digging into big hands with a steel-like grip.

I scream, or I attempt to, considering his solid hold around my throat.

Hot, threatening breaths assault my ears. “Shut the fuck up, slut.”

Sebastian.

I’d recognize that low baritone anywhere. I could handpick his beast from a thousand others, even if I were blind.

We come from the same darkness that no one else in the world belongs to.

And right now, we’re in that phase again, shedding our façades and slipping back into our primal, animalistic selves.

My struggle slowly subsides, my nails no longer scratching him, even though I don’t release his wrist. My body goes slack against what I assume is the wall.

In letting go of my blind fight, the outside world starts to filter back in. His bergamot and amber scent seeps inside my nostrils.

His harsh breaths match my hopeless, rugged ones as we stand there for a fraction of a second. We’re two screwed-up souls who recognize each other in the darkness.

My eyes have somehow adjusted to my surroundings and I can just about make out his wide shoulders, his tapered waist, and the silhouette of his sharp-edged face. The hardness of it. The fucking depravity that I’d expect to see written all over it if his features were visible.

He’s naked. At least from the waist up.

I don’t know why I reach a hand for his face. Don’t know why I want to touch him, feel him. Maybe it’s to make sure this isn’t another one of my cruel nightmares, or to confirm that he’s indeed alive.

I’ve never had the chance to personally check before.

He pulls back before my skin meets his and I flinch, my hand falling limply to my side.

Right. We’re in no position for me to touch him. Not after the ugly way everything ended.

His other hand pulls at the strap of my dress and I gasp at the sound of tearing cloth.

My instincts kick back in and a roar of energy pulses inside me. The decision to fight comes to me in a fraction of a second.

I kick, claw, and try to cause as much damage as possible.

The adrenaline makes me feel stronger, but no matter how invincible I think I am, I’m unable to move him, let alone peel him off me.

If anything, with each of my wiggles and kicks, he tears the dress further until it falls off me and pools around my feet. Cold air swallows me in a cocoon and forms goosebumps on my skin, but I don’t stop.

I lift my leg to kick, but I stumble. Sebastian tightens his hold on my throat, slamming me against the wall again.

“Ahhh!” I cry out in pain.

He uses the chance to rip at the straps holding my bra together and yanks it down my flailing arms.

I arch off the wall, but he grabs one breast in a harsh hand and pinches my aching nipple, then twists it in the opposite direction. My teeth sink into the cushion of my lower lip, but I’m unable to stifle a whimper.

His mouth finds the other nipple and he sucks, then bites until I’m crying out. My nerve endings swell, sending signals in all different directions.

He does it again, twisting and sucking, giving me a safe relief, then bites down harder than the first time. His pinching gets more violent and out of control until all the lines blur. Pain is too similar to pleasure. Wrong is too close to right.

“Ahhh…oh, God…”

“No one will save you, my slut. Not even him.” The masculine edge of his voice veils sadism so deep, it shakes me to my core.

He bites down on the tight bud again and I swear he’s going to draw blood.

“Jesus…” I whimper.

“He won’t be doing any rescuing either.” He releases a nipple and the sound his wet mouth creates makes my toes curl. “Praying is the last thing you should be doing, my slut. Go ahead and fight me like you want to.”

I do.

Not only because he told me to, but because the harder I kick, the harsher he gets. The more I claw and squirm, the closer I am to him.