BOUND TO THE BULLIES

14 | A Dangerous Transaction

Darcy

"Beg me."

The words hang in the silence of the library, heavy and cruel.

I look up at Alastair. His face is calm, composed. He isn't sweating. He isn't shaking. He is in complete control, while I am falling apart at the seams.

My body feels like it’s being torn in two. The emptiness inside me is a physical claw, scraping against my ribs. My core is pulsing, swollen and weeping for friction.

I try to summon my pride. I try to summon the Royal Voice to command him to back off. But the heat has stripped me bare. I have no defenses left.

"Please," I croak, my voice breaking. Tears of frustration prick my eyes. "Alastair... please. Touch me."

A flicker of satisfaction crosses his eyes.

"Good girl," he whispers.

He moves.

He doesn't rush. He slides his hand under the hem of my nightgown, his cool palm dragging up the inside of my burning thigh. His fingers are rough against my sensitive skin, grazing over the sweat-slicked flesh until his knuckles brush against the junction of my legs.

The contrast of temperatures makes me gasp, my hips bucking off the leather sofa involuntarily.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice right by my ear. "Let me take care of you."

His fingers find the waistband of my panties. He doesn't ask for permission, he slips beneath the fabric, his fingertips instantly coating in my slick heat. I am so wet it’s humiliating, soaking through the cotton.

I cry out, burying my face in his shoulder. He smells so good. Like salvation.

Alastair begins to move. His thumb finds the swollen nub of my c**t and circles it with maddening, clinical precision. He presses down, firm and rhythmic, dragging a broken moan from my throat.

He slips one long finger inside me, pushing past the tight, wet folds. He stretches me slowly, testing my depth, while his thumb keeps up that relentless, torturous pace against my c**t.

"You feel that?" Alastair asks softly, pumping two fingers inside me now, matching the rhythm of my hips. His other hand strokes my hair, comforting me while he brings me to the edge of insanity. "Your body is responding perfectly. Biology is fascinating, isn't it?"

"Don't talk," I moan, gripping his shirt. I clamp my legs around his forearm, riding his hand, desperate for more friction. "Just..."

"But we need to talk, Darcy," he interrupts gently.

He doesn't stop his movements. In fact, he twists his wrist inside me, hitting a sensitive spot deep within that makes my vision go white.

"Did you know why we hated you?" he asks conversationally.

I shake my head, unable to focus. "What?"

"Our fathers," Alastair whispers. "They told us your mother was a thief. They said she stole from the Pack treasury and ran away to live with humans. They said you were the daughter of a traitor."

My heart stutters. "No... she didn't..."

"I know," Alastair says soothingly. He drives his fingers deeper, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that makes me arch my back off the sofa. "Shhh. I know it was a lie now. The bond proves it. But for years... we thought we were punishing a criminal."

My mind is spinning. He is rewriting history, excusing their cruelty, all while making my body sing with pleasure. It’s confusing. It’s manipulative.

"I’m sorry, Darcy," he whispers against my neck. He bites lightly on my pulse point. "Let me make it up to you."

He slides his hand lower. Deeper. He uses the heel of his palm to grind against me while his fingers work inside.

I am melting. The heat is unbearable now. I am close. So close. My walls are clamping down around his fingers.

"Alastair," I beg, digging my nails into his shoulders. "Please... I’m going to..."

"Let go," he commands. "Come for me."

He speeds up. My world narrows down to his hand, his scent, his voice. The tension coils in my belly, tight and hot, ready to snap.

Riiing.

The sound shatters the atmosphere like a gunshot.

The antique phone on the mahogany desk shrills loudly. Once. Twice.

Alastair freezes. His hand stops moving instantly.

"No," I whimper, the loss of friction leaving me aching and hollow.

"Hush," Alastair hisses. His demeanor changes instantly. The seducer is gone, the strategist is back.

He pulls his hand away—leaving me cold and trembling—and stands up. He walks quickly to the desk, smoothing his shirt as if nothing happened.

He picks up the receiver.

"This better be important," he snaps, his voice low.

Silence.

I watch him from the sofa, pulling my nightgown down, feeling exposed and ashamed.

Alastair’s face drains of all color. His eyes widen behind his glasses. His hand grips the phone so hard his knuckles turn white.

"Father," Alastair says. The word is stiff. Fearful.

He listens for another moment. Then, he looks at me.

His eyes aren't hungry anymore. They are terrified.

"Yes," Alastair whispers into the phone. "Yes, she is here."

He hangs up the phone slowly. The click echoes in the large room.

"What is it?" I ask, sitting up, pulling my knees to my chest. The heat is still there, but the fear is colder.

Alastair looks at the door, then back at me.

"That was the Council," he says, his voice trembling slightly. "They know about the violet eyes, Darcy. They know you used the royal voice."

My blood runs cold.

"And?"

"And they aren't happy," Alastair says grimly. "They just gave us an order."

Before I can ask what the order is, the front door of the mansion slams open downstairs. Heavy boots thunder up the stairs.

Ronan is coming.