Cliff’s face is buried into the pillow, where my hair was sprawled just seconds ago. A deep sleep has its clutches in him. His breaths come out steady, barely nudging his still chest, and his face is slack and peaceful-looking.

  Turning my cheek to the mirror, I run my gaze over him. A sleeping, avenging angel from the pits of hell. My demon.

  He saved me with that damned black powder.

  I was supposed to die out there in the dark. It’s what was best for the both of us. And yet, he spent the last of that magical healing powder on me. Me, who he so adamantly insists he cannot protect once we meet with his group. Me, a kuri he should not be cuddled up against on a bed in a bedroom somewhere.

  I expected to die in a fucked up way in a fucked up world. But this ... this is a whole new brand of twisted.

  Looking down at my arms, I see the work of the black powder. I’ve only ever witnessed one attack from the critters on a human, and it was a grim thing to behold. His arm was covered in black lines that speared all the way up beyond his shoulder and quickly spread to his chest before he loosened his final breath.

  There are no black lines to spear over my skin. They are all gone. Who knows how quickly the black powder got to work, all that I do know is that it purged that toxin from my body and saved my life—and gave me one hell of a hangover.

  I’m tired. Though, I feel like I have slept for days on end.

  I could sleep more. Slumber still snares around me, the temptation to fall back against the mattress and let Cliff’s arm tighten around me. A protector—for now. But not for long.

  That reminder spurs me out of his hold.

  I shift alongside the pillows to reach the edge of the bed, but I don't make it. That steely arm curls around me and drags me back into the nook against his body.

  My movement has stirred him out of rest.

  And he wakes suddenly.

  In a blink, I’m pushed back into the mattress, a stone-faced dark fae crouched over me. Buried fire blazes in his eyes as though he has kept that anger hidden within him the whole time I’ve been out.

  Hands pressing into the bed on either side of my head, he keeps me trapped. A dark fae cage with a captured human.

  Shadows dig deep into his jaw as he sweeps over me with his amber gaze, assessing every freckle and blemish on my face. Bringing his nose to me, until it presses the tip of mine to the cartridge and I wince, his mouth curls into a snarl.

  “If you ever do that again,” he whispers, lashes of danger whipping all around him. I cringe. “I will shed the blood of your kind. Innocent kuris will die for each attempt you make on your own life.” His mouth inches closer to mine until I can taste his crisp, fresh breath on my tongue. “Despite my favour of you, I am not so forgiving, Cora-lee. I am not above tormenting you.”

  Save for my burning cheeks, blood runs down my face and gathers around my racing heart. I loosen a shuddering breath, turning my cheek to his pressing nose.

  “What do I care about the other kuris?” I mumble, though my heart isn't quite in it. He did specify innocent—and how innocent are we talking here? Children?

  “You care,” he whispers, his mouth grazing the length of my hot cheekbone. “More than you want to.” He pauses to plant a poisonous chaste kiss on my face. “A feeling I have come to know better than a close friend.”

  My wide gaze finds a door in the corner. A closed one—and I suspect I know what is behind it. A bathroom. A reprieve from Cliff.

  “I need the loo,” I mutter words I have spoken to him so many times. Words that taste less sincere each time I speak them. With me and bathrooms, I’m coming to learn, there’s always an ulterior motive.

  His weight shifts off me and, with a growling sound deep in his throat, he rolls onto his side.

  Given his toxic mood, I scoot off the bed fast—grab the lantern on the bedside—and scurry for the door, his eyes burning holes into my back as I go. As I suspected, it opens to an ensuite, though it is an unimpressive one.

  Leaning back against the door, I let it click shut and I wander my gaze around the cubed room. I would guess we’re in an apartment, somewhere near the coast since the taste of salt water still lingers in the air.

  And if we’re near the coast, that means I’ve slept for longer than I can afford, and we’re getting far too close to his army.

  I don’t have much time to waste.

  Pushing away from the door, I march over to the sink tucked beneath an in-built mirror whose reflection wobbles and stretches with cheapness. Still, I see enough of myself in it to recognise the strap slung over my chest. My shoulder bag.

  My saving grace.

  My final way out.

  Setting the lantern on the counter edge, I lump the bag onto the side of the sink and whip it open. Don’t bother rummaging, I just overturn it and let its contents roll into the sink.

  My stuff fills the modest basin quickly. A pile of assortments; pads, tampons, three packets of cigarettes, two lighters, a pack of wet wipes, an old withered copy of Beauty and the Beast, some chewing gum, a toothbrush, the paste to match, a near-empty bottle of painkillers, a small keychain torch—and a bottle of pills.

  Trying my luck, I flick the switch on the keychain. No light comes. Flat battery, or it’s just been so battered around since I last used it that it’s all messed up inside. I’ll just have to make do with the lantern.

  And so I do.

  I pluck the pill bottle from the basin and aim the label at the orange glow of light. Diazepam, 20mg tablets, 100 of them.

  Mother Earth is watching over me.

  Uncorking the lid, I try the tap above the sink. A horrible, wall-shuddering groan comes up the pipes before ... a single drop of water falls onto my top packet of cigarettes.

  So no water, then. Guess a bath is out of the question.

  That’s fine. I’ve swallowed enough pills in my days to know the tricks. First, I salivate my mouth as best as I can. And since I gather quite an amount, I suspect Cliff has been feeding me water while I slept.

  Opening up my throat, I gently tip the bottle to my lips and let the pills slowly rain into my mouth. I swallow, and swallow and swallow, again and again until I’m halfway through the bottle and I have to stop for a break.

  I try again. Then one more time, until all the pills are choked down my throat, and the bottle is empty. With this many piled into my system, the effects should start to hit me in an hour or so, but I don’t expect to slip away into a coma for at least a day.

  The effects, from my experience, should start with lethargy. Maybe I can pass that off as the black powder gone wrong in my body. That could buy me some time and ease some of the suspicion Cliff might have.

  I re-fasten the lid, then pop the bottle into a bin beside the toilet. The toilet. Now that I’ve looked at it, I’m suddenly aware of how much I need to go. As I do, I realise that I’ve been out cold long enough for my period to stop.

  Using a wet wipe, I freshen myself up and discard the old pad.

  Thankfully, the toilet flushes, but since there is no more water in the pipes to refill its supply, I doubt it will again.

  I repack my shoulder bag, then sit on the toilet (lid-down) to smoke a cigarette alone. Don’t want to go back out there. I’ll avoid it as long as I can. But I know, he won’t let me hide out in here forever.

  I just need some time. He can’t know what I’ve done, swallowing all of those pills. He’ll just make me sick them up and then what? I’ll really be done for.

  Cliff has too much control over my life.

  I am selfish, he told me. And selfish he is for keeping me in a bleak world that I simply want to escape.

  His motivations must run deeper than mere lust and—perhaps slight—affection. Why else would he waste the last of his healing powder on me when there could come a moment he needs it himself before we find his army? He fights so hard to keep me here with him, but only back at the cottage he was shoving me out the door.

  Sex can’t mean all that much to a dark fae warrior. There has to be more, something I’m missing.

  I can rule out budding love and care. If he had any of that for me, he would let me go into the next life. He wouldn’t drag me alongside him, only to deliver me to his troop and have me banished from him and into the group of kuris. Cliff would want to protect me, do anything within his power to keep me safe if he had even the slightest sliver of care for me.

  Is the dark fae need for kuris so great that he’ll go to such lengths to keep me alive and with him? Surely not, since he so callously killed that kuri in the corner shop and practically butchered Spike, too.

  Can’t wrap my head around it. All these thoughts are tangling in my mind, like loose threads stuffed into the forgotten drawer.

  I have little other choice than to sweep the threads away—Cliff won’t let me hide out in here forever, mulling over all the details of my existence since I first saw him on that skeletal steed.

  I push up from the toilet seat. Dropping the cigarette onto the floor, I stamp it out with the toe of my plimsoll and run my fingers through my hair.

  I brush my teeth, then repack my shoulder bag with the pile in the sink. Before I head back into the bedroom, I light another cigarette with trembling fingers. The diazepam hasn’t kicked in yet—and it won’t for at least an hour—but already, the dread has sunken into my chilly bones.

  There’s always that survival instinct, that part of me that doesn’t want to die. But what other choice do I have? Be carted to a dark fae army, dragged into a foreign world, and kept as a slave for the rest of my life?

  No, thanks. I’ll unsubscribe from that.

  Cigarette pinched between my fingers, lantern hanging at my side in my loose grip, I fumble my way out of the ensuite. The instant I’m through the door, my eyes latch onto the dark angel spread out on the bed.

  His ink-black gaze glistens as it lands on me.

  Muscles bulge as he curves his arm under his head like a pillow and slowly hikes up a knee, his thighs spread. He looks every bit the warrior paused for a rest. Still as deadly as he is on the battlefield, sword-in-hand.

  Beside the door, I stop at the chest of drawers pushed against the wall and lean on it. My head tilts to the side as I blatantly run my gaze over him, head to boots.

  In silence, he watches me back.

  Leather trousers wrap tightly around his solid legs, the waistline hanging low enough for me to trace a V-shape up to the first bulges of muscle. Obscured only by black straps, his chest is contoured by shadows, the lantern light definitely a favourable one on him.

  He is as handsome as the tarry depths of his eyes, the slight curl of his deep-chocolate brown hair, the peachy tint to his full mouth. Like so many other dark fae, he is the epitome of masculine beauty—powerful, and utterly heart-breaking.

  I suck a breath from my cigarette, flicking ash on the drawers. “I fucking hate you,” I tell him with an exhale.

  He says nothing. He simply watches me as I push away from the drawers and wander to the mirrors. I slide the wardrobe doors open and reveal rows upon rows of fresh clothes. Mostly women’s.

  Jackpot. I mean, who gets to choose the clothes they will die in?

  Cigarette pinched between my loose lips, I reach behind my back and wrestle down the zip. I fumble out of the dress, letting it spill to the floor around my feet before I start to pick through the selection.

  Cliff’s eyes sear my skin. I can feel his gaze roam all over my body, much the same way I studied him, but perhaps with a little more heat.

  As I rub the material of a blouse between my fingertips, I wonder aloud, “Where are we?”

  For a quiet heartbeat, I think he isn’t going to answer me, but then his tired, gravelly voice comes out from the bed, “Coquelles.”

  I lift the cigarette to my dry, cracked lips but pause when I hear that word fall from his thick accent. Coquelles—the commune where the entrance to the Channel Tunnel is.

  “How did we get here?” I probe before I suck the last of my cigarette dry. I let it fall to the floorboards before I twist my shoe on it to kill the embers. Wouldn’t it be nice to kill the other embers that haunt me.

  “I carried you,” he tells me.

  Frowning, I turn over my shoulder to look at him. He watches me with a blank, unreadable face. He gives nothing away.

  My gaze cuts to the curtains. Beneath them, the two satchels have been discarded and, now that I think about it, there is no torch in sight.

  I glance at him before turning back on the wardrobe, this time picking through black jeans. “Did you leave the torch behind?”

  “Yes.”

  In answer, I hum and pull out a pair of dark skinny jeans. I toss them over my shoulder, then move for the tops. I settle on a long-sleeved grey top, nothing exceptional, but warm enough for the chills I’ll be suffering from later. I want to die comfortably, not pretty.

  Cliff still watches me as I walk the clothes to the bed. I drop them onto the mattress before my gaze slides to the drawers. Might be clean underwear in there. But before I can make for the drawers, Cliff shifts on the bed.

  Slowly, he moves for me, leaning onto his knees, his hands outstretching for my waist. His touch is gentle as it lands on my prickling skin. His eyes don’t break away from mine as he guides me closer to him, forcing me onto the bed.

  The glisten of his amber eyes holds a question—I know what he wants. I want it too, and what’s the harm? I’ll be dead soon anyway. At least this way, I can go out with a bang.

  I’m sorry for that. Couldn’t help myself.

  As if you needed any more proof that I’m too twisted for this world, or any world for that matter.

  His hands slide over the length of my curves, passing over the loose sides of my underwear. Bringing himself to me, he pulls me closer until I’m tucked between his spread thighs. His hot mouth ghosts kisses over my tummy, prickling the flesh there.

  His lips explore my body, travelling the length of my torso, up to my breasts.

  My eyes flutter shut as his mouth reaches my breasts. Warmth from his palm rises up my side to the bra, and he peels back the lace.

  My nipple hardens like a pebble before he takes it in his mouth.

  A soft moan whispers from my parted lips as my head lolls back.

  Experience has his tongue rolling over me, sending particular shudders running down my body to the heat pooling at my core.

  I arch into him.

  What a way to spend my final day.

  I can pretend. I can pretend that we are us and he cares about me as much as his gentle touches and caresses would have me believing—if I were a fool.

  I am many things, but a fool is not one of them.

  Yet, I fade away into the moment and pretend we are lovers who adore and protect each other.

  Abandoning my breast, he travels down my front until his back is curved and his mouth is ghosting over the waistline of my underwear. His fingers hook onto the sides and peel them off me until they fall to the floor.

  Looking down at him, I watch as he grabs the meat of my thigh and hoists it up, draping it over his shoulder. He has my core at an odd, spread angle and, for a beat, he gazes at it.

  A fierce blush blazes on my face, spreading all the way down to my chest.

  Love me, I want to tell him.

  Pretend with me, I ache to plea.

  Lie to me.

  Dropping my hands, I thread my fingers through his hair and guide him to me. My muscles seize as he wastes no more moments on marvelling and instead, latches his mouth onto my clit.

  Wetness pools at my core.

  His hands, strong and large, slide around to the curve of my bum, and he holds me in place. Rolling his tongue along my slit, he makes it feel like silk skimming over my skin, and a soft whisper of pleasure escapes me.

  His tongue rolls around in circles, testing me, testing my boundaries. But I’m not interested in more games so I push harder against him, tensing my hooked leg to trap him and hope he gets the very obvious hint.

  He does.

  His mouth curls into a smile against me before he gets to work. His tongue is a spinner, and my bud is the point. Leaning my head back, my hands turn to fists in his hair, and I let the sparks start to rise up beneath my skin.

  Husky breaths start to push out from me, heaving my chest.

  Sweet suffering spears through me suddenly as he gives me a gentle suck, and that’s all I need for the waves to come crashing over me.

  Standing up, spasms attack my body. I shudder and tremble against him.

  Cliff tightens his hold on me, his arms coiling around the small of my back, and he lifts me up, his mouth never leaving my core.

  My feet are suspended above the ground as I stay drowning in the chasm of sensations.

  His licks turn into softer kisses planted around my core. I’m still so dazed that I’m only distantly aware of being moved. Holding me up, he twists us both around and drapes me over the mattress like I’m something precious, something to be careful with.

  I start to stir, coming back to myself.

  As he drapes himself over me, I look up at him, the harshness of my breaths surprising me. Lining himself up with me, he plants a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth. Instinctively, I mimic him and my mouth puckers—he stills against me.

  It takes me a moment and a few blinks before it dawns on me. We might have kissed out of hate the first few times around, but he did explain to me what kissing means in his culture.

  Lie to me.

  Keep the pretence for me.

  Fitted against me, he pushes the tip inside and a sudden swell hits my core. I spread my legs wider, allowing him to tuck snug against me.

  It’s all he needs for his mouth to push against mine and, after a mere beat of hesitation, he kisses me. Trepidation slows his lips moving against mine; caution furrows his brows, but still, he kisses me softly.

  He slides into my honey.

  Pressing his hands into the mattress, he curves over me like a protective shield and moves slowly in and out of me. I wrap my legs around his tailbone.

  Against my mouth, a groan rumbles through him, something restrained and animalistic, like a caged lion. He’s battling himself, wanting to pound into me, let his chains break free—but he forces his pace to stay steady and loving.