Crown Me Yours — Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

Elara

ell me…do you love me yet?

Heat floods my veins with such speed, my entire body itches whenT my eyes lock with the green of his. “We both know you’re making that quite difficult.”

Crossing his arms behind his back, Vale strides out of the shadows, only for his boots to stop where the moon floods the floor. “Oh?”

“Women warned me that husbands get irritating after a while, you know,” I say. “Then mine shows up, annoying me without even a grace period.”

Amusement curls his lips into a lopsided smirk. “Presume there’s always the option of divorce. Some kings have granted a handful in the

past. I guess so could a…” His gaze trails over my black corset and down the equally dark silken train. “…a queen.”

“Is that a request?” The smile I work onto my lips is about as sweet as he is annoying. “Denied.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw—a telltale sign of how hard he tries to maintain his smirk—eyes drifting to the silver border on the floor that shines the tip of his boot. The moon is high tonight, full enough to bathe the

room.

Full enough to make him cautious.

“Why don’t you come here to look at the moon with me?” I ask softly, if only to mock him. “It’s illuminating the statue of you in the gardens.”

“I have seen the moon.” A bored kind of exhale. “I have seen it wax and wane for eons. It doesn’t impress me. Close the drapes, wife.”

The command carries more than mere annoyance. It has weight— habitual, practiced, like a man slamming a door before anyone can glimpse what’s behind it. Why?

My mind flicks through scraps of memories. “I dislike the way light invents me when I’m not paying attention,” he once said in that carriage.

“Power does not quicken every pulse the way songs promise,” he’d sneered.

As if he’d learned long ago that his true form is too appalling to be seen, too

horrendous to be desired.

Too disgusting to be loved?

Something shifts inside my core at that thought… “Why, husband?” A tilt of my head. “Are your bones shy?”

He exhales a long, controlled breath—like he’s forcing himself to rein in his temper already, mere seconds into this conversation. “I asked you to close the drapes.”

I turn around fully, leaning back against the sill. “And I’m asking for the second time now to let me see you. The real you.”

“In twenty to thirty years.”

The longer he stands there, unmoving, the clearer all this becomes. He isn’t protecting me from the sight of him; he’s protecting himself from my

reaction. The flinch. The scream.

The rejection.

But what would happen if I didn’t flinch? What would happen if I traced the clean curve of exposed ribs with curiosity? Ran my palm over the

pale plains of muscle held together by tendons with fascination? Would he recoil?

Or would he melt into the accepting touch?

As if he read my thoughts, his smirk turns into a sneer. “You are

tedious.”

“And you’re vain.”

He straightens, the barb landing exactly where I aimed it. For a heartbeat longer, we just stare at each other—him, an arrogant god refusing to concede an inch, and me, a simple gravedigger refusing to back down.

But the stalemate gets boring after a minute, and I have a curse to break.

“Fine!” I huff, rolling my eyes with exaggerated surrender. I reach behind me, snatching the heavy velvet and yanking it across the glass. The room plunges into candle-streaked darkness, the silver light choking off to the distinctive, confident click of his boots on the wood.

Just as he looms into range, I grab the fabric again and whip it back— not all the way. Just a sliver. Just a gap. Just a bright, sharp blade of moonlight carving skin and meat off his bony finger.

The way he curls the digit into his meaty palm with arthritic clicks rips a strange sound from my lungs.

It’s a laugh, low and throaty enough that Vale narrows his eyes at me with exactly the anger I expected. But there’s something else swirling in the golden specks of his irises. Confusion. Perhaps even a flustering.

Until he shakes his head, as if physically dislodging his shock, and sidesteps the beam of light with predatory grace. Before I can twitch, his hand clamps around my wrist, letting the velvet drapes fall shut with a heavy swoosh that plunges us back into orange shadow.

“Glad to be of amusement,” he grinds out, the words vibrating against my skin as he uses the momentum to spin me, slamming my back against the wall beside the window. “Married for less than two days, and already, I’m starting to understand why husbands avoid their wives and seek the company of whores instead.”

“Spoken like a man who is oh-so fond of lies and deceptions,” I snarl.

“Truths aren’t nearly as comfortable, which wives don’t bother to serve anything but cold.”

“Truth?” In one smooth motion, he pins my captured wrist high above my head, his body pressing into mine, heavy and hot and overwhelmingly close, trapping me between the cool plaster and the solid, angry warmth of

him. “The truth, little wife, is that you’re no closer to breaking the curse.

You think shackling me with this marriage was a victory?” He leans in, the green fire in his eyes burning with ancient, bitter amusement. “You’ve merely shackled yourself to a corpse that even the ground refuses to swallow. This plan of Kael’s that you’re trying to bring to fruition is questionable at best.”

“Oh, trust me, I did question it plenty,” I spit back, refusing to shrink away from the volatility of his stupid temper. “It did cross my mind that seduction was a doomed strategy for something that apparently never touched a woman before. Who was to say you even had a taste for women?” I tilt my head, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Perhaps you’d prefer a husband.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t bristle. The taunt slides off him like water off oiled silk, his expression one of bored indulgence.

“But then,” I continue, keeping my voice light, casual, “I remembered the tower. You pushed inside me and spilled within five strokes. And in the grave? It didn’t take much more than that, did it?” I click my tongue sympathetically. “Death is a lover…just a poor one.”

His pupils dilate, swallowing the irises, and his grip on my wrist tightens just enough to sting. The boredom vanishes—if only for a second —before he wrenches his features back into a mask of aloof cruelty.

“My wife sounds frustrated tonight,” he murmurs, his tone sliding into a dangerous purr. “Is she angry because she’s growing desperate? Or because I stood up and left her in the dirt, covered in my seed but utterly

unsatisfied?”

He doesn’t wait for my retort.

His free hand slides down my flank, grabbing fistfuls of silk, bunching the fabric upward until the air of the room hits the heated skin of my thighs.

There’s no fumble, no hesitation. He knows exactly where to go. His long fingers hook the thin fabric of my undergarments, brutally shoving them aside before his thumb strokes over the sensitive pearl at my center.

A ragged gasp tears from my throat. My head falls back against the wall, my hips bucking instinctively into his palm. “Oh my god.”

“Uh-huh.” He leans in, his breath tingling the lobe of my ear while his thumb circles the nub—once, twice, a maddeningly precise friction. “Do you love me yet, Elara?”

“Bastard…” The word dissolves into a whimper, but I refuse to surrender the offensive.

My hand snakes down between our bodies, seeking the strain in his breeches. As expected, he’s granite beneath the leather, a furious contradiction to the poison he spits. I cup him, squeezing his thick cock, and his breath instantly turns jagged.

He retaliates, his thumb working faster, harder, trying to drive me over the edge before I can unravel him. “You best stop, Elara. Or I might have to tell you how badly I want you to trip and break your neck.”

“Careful. The more you try to convince me you’re heartless, the more I wonder what exactly you’re guarding so fiercely.” I struggle against the stiff waistband, forcing my fingers past the fabric until I hit searing heat. “A man who truly has no heart”—I wrap my hand around the bare velvet of him, swirling my thumb over the weeping head—“wouldn’t need to shout about it quite so loudly.”

He groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates against my lips. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his control shattering, but his voice is a jagged whisper in my ear. “Then best remember what happens to unruly wives.”

“I’ve seen women sport bruises like jewels.” I don’t halt the rhythm of my hand against his slick skin. Neither does he, spreading two fingers to trap my clit between them as he strokes back and forth. “I’ve watched neighbors spit teeth onto the floorboards after a husband’s chaotic rage, only to crawl back to them before the blood even dries. I’ve seen them cling to the legs of the men who broke them, confessing love.”

“That’s not true love, but—mmm.” His thick length surges in my hand, stretching to an aching hardness and twitching against my palm with a need that utterly betrays his composure. “Come to think…not true love might serve me even better than your hate.”

He yanks me from the wall by my wrist. With a force that leaves no room for resistance, he spins me around and bends me over the heavy oak desk. Sharp spines of books dig through the map and into my ribs as he flattens a large hand between my shoulder blades, pinning me inextricably to the wood. With his free hand, he bunches my skirts, dragging the heavy material up my legs until it piles at my waist, leaving me shivering and exposed.

My boldness falters, a tremor of genuine unease threading through the

question. “W-what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer.

For a tormenting moment, there’s only the sound of his ragged breathing behind me. His fingertip ghosts over my entrance, tracing the rim

in a slow, maddening circle as if—

The touch vanishes.

The air hangs suspended.

Slap.

A sharp blow hits my ass, so violent it jars the breath right out of my lungs. My mind staggers behind the sensation, failing to process the spanking until the pain blooms—a searing, white-hot heat that scorches the surface of my skin before sinking heavy and cruel into the flesh, the shock of it vibrating down to the bone.

“Do you love me yet?” The question hangs in the air, mocking and sharp, before his hand descends again.

The sound is as jarring as the sting, a whip-like report that echoes off the ceiling. I grit my teeth, burying my face into the crook of my arm to stifle the cry clawing at my throat, but he offers me no reprieve. He strikes again, harder, the blow landing perfectly over the ghost of the last.

“How is divorce sounding now?” he growls, his voice a low rumble in the room. “Still denied?”

I whimper against the hairs that rise along my arm. “You asshole!”

His next strike is quieter. Not due to lack of precision, lighting a fire across my skin that burns its way between my legs, but because he chuckles.

“Is this the love you spoke of, Elara? Hmm?” His next slap is duller somehow, mutating into a throbbing heat that spreads low in my belly, letting a current of energy tingle around my clit. “Can you feel it yet?”

My mind spins, fading the cruelty of his strikes. The dominance of his heavy hand holding me down no longer feels caging. It feels…steadying.

A shameful, liquid warmth unfurls between my thighs. My muscles ease, no longer bracing against the next impact. When his hand lands again, my hips don’t jerk away in recoil; they buck backward, a subtle, involuntary

seek for the friction.

That’s when the rhythm breaks.

Vale stops.

He hovers there behind me, breathing hard, the violence in the room suddenly suspended in a thick, confusing silence.

Why did he stop?

Slowly, his hand slides from the burning curve of my ass, down, down, until his fingers curl beneath me. He brushes against my folds, seeking the entrance, and slips effortlessly into a slick, drenched heat.

I shudder, my forehead resting against the desk, unable to hide the evidence of my body’s strange reaction. He drags two fingers through the heavy cream, coating them, noisily testing the viscosity of my desire with a smack of his tongue.

“Interesting…” His voice is thin, breathless. “I cannot tell if I struck too hard…or not hard enough.”

With a rough growl, he slides his fingers inside me again, letting a beckoning motion scrape against my inside. My knees buckle, knocking against the wood, but his other hand presses down harder, keeping me bent, keeping me steady.

“You are impossible, Elara,” he snarls as he drives his fingers in a rhythm that is urgent, angry. “Frustrating, maddening woman. You’re so damn stubborn that you refuse to indulge me even with your pain.”

The pleasure is immediate and blinding, fueled by the adrenaline of his violence. I gasp, my head tilting to its side, chasing the friction. I’m close, so shamefully close, my body winding tight, a sob gathering in my throat—

His fingers vanish.

Crack.

His palm strikes my raw skin. Not hard enough to injure, but sharp enough to shock the pleasure right out of my body. The climax dissolves

into a frustrated ache.

He tsks. “Don’t you dare.”

Vale immediately resumes the assault, harder this time, his thumb grinding down on my clit while his fingers plunder the wet heat inside. He’s relentless, stealing my breath, forcing the sensation back up the mountain at a breakneck pace.

“You cling to the things that should repel you,” he mutters, his breaths coming faster. “You should be running away, Elara. Why aren’t you running?”

I can’t answer. I can only keen as the pressure builds again, higher, hotter, a wave crashing over my head until—

The next blow lands on the other cheek, stinging and rude. The orgasm shatters again, leaving me trembling and whining, frustrated tears pricking

my eyes.

“Please,” I beg.

“Please, what?” His tone is a taunt. “Please stop? Please hurt you more?” Before I can answer, he growls, “Be still.”

The command is guttural, making me freeze before I feel the pulsing, searing warmth of his crown press against my drenched entrance. “Vale,

please…”

But he doesn’t push inside.

Instead, he drags the weeping, velvet head of his cock through my slick folds, coating himself in the mess I made. He groans, a low vibration that rattles through the oak, hips jerking slightly as if it takes every ounce of his ancient willpower not to bury himself to the hilt inside me.

“You want this, don’t you?” he whispers, sliding the broad head up and down, lubricating the path, teasing the entrance but refusing to enter. “Want me to push inside. To fuck you. To bed you.” He pulls back an inch, denying me. “Bringing you one imaginary step closer to that deluded goal of yours.”

I mewl in frustration, my hands scrabbling against the parchment on the

desk. “Please make me finish.”

“I can’t. I’m a poor lover, remember?”

He presses the head of his cock directly against my swollen, tormented clit and begins to grind there. Intense, rhythmic slides, the ridge of his length gliding over my nerve endings, over and over, while the air fills with the sounds of his own unraveling.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, every thrust of his hips punctuated by a guttural groan.

He wants inside. I can feel the desperate, jerking seek of his body. I can feel the way he bears down, as if he is about to shatter his own rule and impale me, only to violently drag himself back up to my clit at the last second. He’s panting, ragged, harsh gasps tearing from his throat.

He’s right there, teetering on the edge with me. I can feel his tremors shaking into mine, until he slams his groin against my ass one last time, ruthlessly grinding his hard shaft against my swollen bud in little pulsations.

The sensation is too much—too heavy, too direct. My world whites out.

I scream, my body seizing in a violent release that ripples through every

muscle.

And it shatters him.

With a roar that sounds like it was ripped from the chest of a beast, he stiffens behind me. I feel the hot, wet release as he spills over, his seed spurting in heavy, rhythmic jets that coat my curls, run to collect at my lower lips, only to pearl down the insides of my trembling thighs.

The heavy weight of his hand finally lifts from between my shoulder blades, leaving a cold phantom impression where his heat had grounded me.

He steps back, adjusting his clothes with shaking hands, his chest still heaving as he looks down at the mess he made.

“Hopefully that improved your mood,” he says, his voice raspy, stripped of its usual smooth cadence. “But I refuse to indulge your delusions.”

I turn slowly, my knees trembling, and lean back against the edge of the desk for support. I should be frustrated, but I’m too thoroughly unraveled, my body feeling heavy and loose, buzzing with a satiation that borders on narcotic.

Besides…what is there to be frustrated about?

I look at him—hair disheveled, eyes dark and blown wide. My husband gave me something far more valuable than a simple bedding. He gave me a tell.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Vale, it is that where he offers no resistance, there’s no value. But where he fights?

There’s the path.

I catch my breath and gift him a languid, knowing smile. “For an act you claim is inconsequential to the curse’s undoing,” I murmur, tilting my head, “you certainly try to avoid it desperately.”

His hands slow on the fastenings of his breeches. The tension returns to his jaw, but he doesn’t scowl. Instead, a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile curves his lips.

“There is a…new element, my love. One I would rather avoid, lest we complicate things further.” He reaches out and slides a finger deep inside once more. I gasp at the intrusion, sensitive and swollen, as he swipes through the slickness, only for him to withdraw. His eyes lock onto mine, darkening as he brings the finger up between us, the scent of coins filling the air. “You, Elara, are starting to bleed again.”