WHEN THE SHADOWS KNEEL
1013 Words
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Mine Until Death – Part 18
Title: When Shadows Kneel
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The morning after the m******e was far too quiet for a house that had just drowned in blood.
Lyra stood by the balcony, a satin robe sliding off her shoulder as early sunlight traced her collarbone. Her mind still burned with fragments of last night—the bodies on the floor, the smell of gunpowder, the way Elvis’s voice broke through the storm like fire through ice.
She could still feel his gaze on her skin, like invisible fingers, even though he wasn’t in the room. Or maybe he was. With Elvis, she could never tell if he was watching or hunting.
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The Mansion’s Whisper
Downstairs, the air carried laughter, sharp and teasing. Johnny’s voice sliced through like a blade coated with mischief.
“Well, well, well,” he chuckled loud enough for half the mansion to hear. “Our little queen finally found her king last night. Or was it the other way around?”
Lyra froze, heat crawling up her neck as she gripped the balcony rail. She didn’t need to turn to know who he was teasing. Her. Of course, him too—but mostly her.
When she descended the grand staircase, the mansion came alive with stares. Men who had seen death without blinking suddenly smirked like schoolboys. Women whispered behind manicured nails, their eyes dancing with scandal.
Johnny leaned casually against the wall, his grin wicked. “Didn’t know my sister could scream like that.” His tone was a dagger dipped in honey.
Lyra’s heel caught on the step for a second. He didn’t…
Oh, but the look on Johnny’s face said he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Johnny…” Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of warning under the silk.
“What?” He raised both hands, feigning innocence. “I’m just concerned. You look… flushed. Tired, maybe. Was the bed too small?”
Snickers echoed. Lyra clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palm.
Then silence fell like a curtain being ripped down.
Because Elvis had entered the room.
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The Predator in Silk
He didn’t walk—he prowled. Dressed in black, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at sin, his presence swallowed the room whole. Conversation died. Breathing became optional.
His gaze swept past the crowd like a storm scanning for a target, and when his eyes landed on Lyra… everything else ceased to exist.
The same fire that burned through her last night now glowed darker, hotter, like molten steel. There was no tenderness there—only hunger sharpened to a knife’s edge.
“Breakfast,” he said, voice low, commanding. “Now.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a claim.
Lyra swallowed hard, her feet moving before her mind could fight. She felt everyone watching, felt Johnny’s grin widen like a demon enjoying chaos.
Elvis didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his presence trailed her like a shadow made of heat and sin. Every step she took toward the dining hall, she could feel him close behind—his breath teasing the back of her neck, his silence louder than any threat.
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Collision Course
The table glittered with silverware and fruit that tasted like nothing, because the real feast was the tension stretching between them.
Elvis sat at the head of the table like a king carved from darkness. Lyra tried to focus on the food, but the weight of his stare pinned her in place.
She raised her glass of water—and nearly dropped it when his voice sliced through the hush.
“Why are you avoiding my eyes?”
The words curled around her like smoke. She dared a glance. Bad idea.
He leaned back lazily, one hand draped over the chair arm, the other tracing the rim of his glass in slow, hypnotic circles. His lips tilted in a smirk that promised nothing good.
Lyra’s pulse betrayed her. She hated that he could hear it, feel it, taste it without touching her.
“I’m not,” she lied softly.
He chuckled—a dark, sinful sound that rolled down her spine like whiskey and fire.
“Then look at me,” he ordered.
The room might as well have vanished. The air thickened, pressing her lungs, bending her will. She lifted her eyes, and his hooked into hers like chains.
The triangle method—oh God, he was doing it again. Eyes locked on hers, then her lips, then back up. Slow. Deliberate. Each shift was a kiss without contact, a promise without mercy.
She shifted in her seat, heat pooling low in her belly. He noticed. Of course he did.
And then—he smiled. That wolfish, devastating smile that said he owned the air she breathed.
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The First Move
It happened fast. Too fast for her to think.
One second, she was rising to leave. The next—her back slammed gently against the corridor wall outside the dining hall, his arm barring her escape.
“Elvis—” Her voice cracked, shamefully breathless.
“Say my name like that again,” he murmured, leaning close, his lips brushing her ear. “I’ll make sure you can’t speak for hours.”
Her knees weakened. The scent of him—dark cologne, smoke, something purely male—wrapped around her like chains.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered. “Is it fear? Or something else?”
She hated herself for it—but she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Every nerve screamed for him even as her mind screamed to run.
His fingers traced her jaw slowly, like a predator savoring its prey. His thumb brushed her lower lip, teasing the soft skin until it parted.
“God, Lyra…” His voice was rough now, raw hunger scraping against velvet. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
Before she could answer—his mouth was on hers.
And the world ignited.
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- Writer
