Текст книги "Sinner's Heart"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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No sooner had he divested himself of these cumbersome obstructions than he lay fully on the bed, stretching out atop her. She purred as he settled himself between her legs, one arm wrapped around her shoulder, the other moving in heated exploration of her clothed body. She held his shoulders, stroked down his arms and back—all the while they kissed with a building, insistent hunger.
He learned anew her mouth, her flavor, her need as covetous as his own. She whispered against him, words that could have been a prayer or incantation or demand. Whatever it was she asked for, he was more than eager to give it to her. As her hands shaped over his straining back, he slipped from her mouth to graze his teeth along her jaw and down her neck. He inhaled her scent and warmth, and when he bit lightly at her collarbone, she arched up, moaning.
“Need to feel you,” he muttered thickly. He pulled at the fastenings of her gown, hands clumsy with desire. He knew his way around women’s clothing, yet suddenly everything became a mystery, an obstacle to her flesh.
She tried to help, though she knew the way of these garments far less than he. “Curse these modern fashions. Sewn by fiends.” She tugged at the ties beneath her stomacher, and the hooks attaching the skirt to the bodice.
“Let me.” He urged her up. With single-minded purpose, he stripped her from her gown and threw the whole thing aside in a flurry of peach fabric.
He allowed himself a moment to admire her in her stays and chemise, delighting in the contrast between the white cotton and the olive shade of her skin. Yet he could only admire for so long before he needed more.
He turned her around. Rather than immediately unlace her stays, he ran his mouth down the length of her neck, and lower, between the wings of her shoulder blades. The stays prevented him from moving farther down, so he traced the exposed flesh of her back with his lips, murmuring formless words against her skin.
“Please,” she gasped. “Free me from this cage.”
Quickly, he unlaced the stays, the stiffened material spreading apart until he was able to pull it off and cast it onto the discarded gown. She tugged off the chemise, dropping it to the ground, and turned back to him.
Thought fled. He could only stare at her as she sat upon the bed, nude, dark hair loose about her shoulders. She was lushly formed, narrow of waist, long of leg. Her generous breasts, full and round, had large coffee-colored nipples drawn into hard points. Between her thighs, her curls were ebony black. He drew his heated gaze up her body, lingering over her curves, to her face. She wore a look of changeless female power as she gazed back at him.
“In all my cursed life,” he rasped, “I’ve never seen anyone or anything as beautiful.”
She tipped her head in acknowledgment, and he smiled to himself, for she accepted his compliment as her due. This was a woman who understood her own strength and allure.
“I demand the same privilege,” she murmured.
He obeyed at once, throwing off his clothes with a lad’s haste. He no longer was the veteran seducer, who had divested himself of his garments with a seasoned and practiced air. All he desired at this moment was to remove all barriers between them.
Their clothing made twin piles upon the ground. The dust would stain everything. He didn’t care. He concerned himself only with the longing and desire in her gaze as she watched him disrobe. When he was naked, standing beside the bed, she sighed with pleasure.
“I could not conjure a man half so wondrous,” she breathed. Her gaze moved over him, seeming to take pleasure in all his hard surfaces, the body he had meticulously maintained as a weapon. Even his scars seemed to excite her. Yet when she looked upon the marks of flame on his chest, her eyes darkened, and her lips compressed. The markings had grown, dipping down all the way to his hipbone. Consuming him.
She appeared to deliberately move her gaze away from his markings, and her attention centered precisely where he showed his need for her most. His cock grew even harder under her scrutiny, pulling high and curved up toward his navel. A look of purest lust crossed her face.
“We’ve looked long enough,” he growled. He lay down upon the bed.
Then, finally, their nude bodies touched, and he understood that, of all his transformations, this one would be his last.
Chapter 13
The future kept itself swathed in shadow. If they had only this night, Bram would luxuriate in every experience.
His body partially atop hers, he touched her everywhere. Arms, legs, the soft curvature of her belly, the roundness of her hips, elegant and earthy. He felt a moment’s regret for the roughness of his calloused hands—practicing his swordplay without gloves had left him with hands far from aristocratic. Yet she writhed beneath his touch and seemed to draw further pleasure from the rasp of his rough palms against her glossy skin. He smoothed his palms over her breasts and growled.
God and damn and hell. She overflowed his hands, abundant, pagan. He teased her nipples to yet greater tightness, and then, when he had her gasping, he covered one with his mouth.
She moaned. Her fingers wove into his hair and pressed him closer. As he licked and sucked one nipple, he continued to toy with the other with his fingers. She was luscious beneath his tongue, vibrantly hot. And the sounds she made, throaty and unbound, traveled through his body and straight to his cock.
He moved his mouth to her other nipple, and his hand traveled along the architecture of her ribs, down her stomach. Until he found her soaking quim.
He growled against her flesh to feel her like this. Liquid, silken heat. He willed himself to a blind man’s sensitivity, discovering her most intimate place through his fingertips. The folds of her sex, the pearl that made her gasp and twist beneath him.
This is what he had been born to do, this was his purpose upon the blighted earth—to stroke and caress Livia, taste her skin, bring her pleasure upon pleasure by any means.
He touched her folds and moved lower, to circle her opening. Two fingers he sank into her, feeling all that clinging, tight heat.
Sounds of abandoned ecstasy tumbled from her throat, and he brought his mouth back to hers in a deep, demanding kiss, his fingers flowing in and out of her.
A rumble of surprise resonated in his chest when he felt her fingers wrap around his cock. Again, he wrestled with his control, needing to last even as the sensation of her hand on him pushed him perilously close to madness.
“You’ve magic in your hands, sorceress,” he managed to gasp as she stroked him.
“This is a spell only we can create.”
It seemed unreal, that the woman he caressed and kissed, and who caressed and kissed him back, was Livia, the woman for whom he burned but could not have. Now they were here together, in this conjured bed, making one another moan and sigh with pleasure. Carnal need built, testing his resolve to go slowly.
“Need my mouth on you,” he said, hoarse. “Need to drink you up, swallow you whole.”
“My appetite is far from sated.” She arched her eyebrow, the wickedest woman beneath the stars, and he the lucky bastard sharing her bed. “Lay back.”
He responded to her command, stretching out his long body. When she positioned herself above him, her hips over his mouth while she faced toward his feet, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. His hands gripped her hips, lowering her to his mouth. At the same time, he felt her breath upon his cock. The first stroke of his tongue against her was the culmination of every desire.
Yes yes yes yes.
Her flavor was exquisite, the feel of her on his tongue sublime. And the way she tasted him, drawing his cock in and out of her clever mouth . . . perhaps he had stayed in the realm of the dead. Perhaps he had been forgiven and this was the promised reward of perfect bliss.
He heard and felt her scream in release, his cock in her mouth, his lips drawing pleasure from her quim. He had brought her a kind of pleasure when she had been trapped in her ghostly form, but this was real, her shudders and cries were real. Hehad given this to her, him and no other.
They made this together, their shared selves creating pleasure.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to brand himself upon another. Mark her as his. Only one man upon the face of the earth would ever bestow this pleasure upon her. Him.
His possessiveness—unexpected, unfamiliar—shook him. Yet he was too far immersed in sensation. He could only obey the increasingly primal demands of his heart and body. So he continued to lap at her, thrusting his tongue inside her, and she cried out and trembled. Over and over, he brought her to climax. And all the while, she sucked at him, bands of fiery sensation radiating outward through his body.
Yet it still was not enough. He wanted all of her.
“More,” he demanded, pulling away. He moved quickly, flipping her onto her back. He knelt between her legs, hands gripping her taut thighs, gazing down at her. She looked up at him, eyes dark as mystery, skin flushed and lightly glistening with sweat, her arms stretched overhead to grip the edge of the couch. She was so vividly alivehis eyes burned and his throat ached.
“Everything, Bram,” she said with her siren’s voice. “I’ve been without for over a thousand years. Give me everything.”
He lifted her hips, raising them up from the cushion. Then, in one stroke, sank into her.
He sounded like a beast, like an animal, the wordless growls he made, but he didn’t care and he couldn’t stop.
Her hands clasped the edge of the couch, the sleek muscles of her arms tight as she pushed herself closer. Lamplight touched the rounds and hollows of her body. Her eyes closed. She threw back her head, exposing the curve of her throat, and cried out.
Much as he wanted to move and lose himself in the primal demands of his body, he held still, reveling in the sensation of her all around him, of him as deep within her as he could be. They had shared thoughts, and while that connection had been severed, they could share this profound closeness, their bodies joined so intimately.
He drew back his hips, then slid forward. His thrusts were deliberate, measured, for all that he wanted to simply pound into her. But this slow drag and plunge gave such boundless pleasure he refused to go any faster. This had to last forever. He would make their sex into the whole of the world.
“Yes, Bram, yes, you are so . . . yes . . .” Her words ran together, and he adored her, this cunning, ruthless woman who gave herself and took from him immoderately.
His thrusts grew stronger, deeper. Her breasts shook with the force of their bodies moving together.
“This is what you wanted,” he growled. “What we needed.”
Her only response was to moan and urge her hips closer to his.
With one hand on her hip, he brought the other between her legs. He stroked and rubbed at her pearl, feeling its readiness beneath his fingers. She arched up with a cry, contracting around him.
Seeing her in the throes of her climax, he could not stop his own response. His release poured forth, incendiary. He lost himself in the pleasure, in her, as it surged on and on. His body shook, his heart opened, he was ablaze with sensation. Only when the very last tremors wracked him did he sink down, spent and devastated and vast as the sun, to lay beside her.
They were quiet together, bodies slick with sweat, the only sounds their breath slowly returning to normal. He ran his hand along the length of her thigh and discovered goose bumps, and only then did he realize how chilled it was within the warehouse. He found a woven blanket draped at the other end of the couch, and drew it over them both.
She wrapped her body around him. Here was another sensation he’d never known—not merely the fulfillment of his own needs, nor the smug acknowledgment that he’d given his lover pleasure, but that they had created ecstasy together, a selfless giving and taking.
“A thousand years is a small price to pay.” Her voice was a sleepy murmur, gratifyingly satisfied. Her fingers traced shapes on his chest.
“Not if you know what you’re missing.” He waited for the sense of restlessness that usually arrived after he’d concluded his bedsport. It never materialized. There was nowhere he wanted to be more than here, in this drafty warehouse by the river, the gloom barely held back by the lantern, the scent of sluggish water and layers of dust heavy in the air. These were not a voluptuary’s ideal conditions. But having Livia nestled in his arms, both slack and languorous from what surely was the most intense lovemaking he had ever experienced—he could think of nothing finer.
He felt none of the clinging darkness within himself, the shadowed thoughts that invariably crept in. From bed to bed he had leapt, finding relief from that pall during moments of base pleasure. The darkness always quickly returned, however.
For once, his demons were silent.
The actual demons were still a danger, the war with them and the forces of the underworld looming like a storm. Success was uncertain. Yet for now, here were beasts he could defeat.
He felt Livia’s limbs relax against him, and he indulged himself by stroking her shoulder, her arm, and the curve of her waist.
“You should have been a priestess of Venus,” he murmured.
She made a soft scoffing noise. “I’d no interest in advancing the cause of love. That was for girls with no ambition. Choosing the path of magic brought us here.”
“All roads lead to this moment.”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “The other priestesses, they said that everyone’s fates were already inscribed. The three deathless sisters spun, measured and cut the threads of our life. What could any mortal do but let their thread be severed? Myself, I believe the gods merely watch, and do nothing. The thread is ours to spin. Whether it is to be knotted or straight, short or long, that’s for us to decide.”
“Not a very priestess-like stance.”
“When it came to the devotional aspects of my duties, I did not excel.” Yet she smiled as she said this, and he smiled with her.
His smile faded as he stared up at the shadow-shrouded beams. “A baron’s son, well-favored, rich. Obliged to no one, as a second son. The world bent to my will. So I thought. The Colonies taught me otherwise. Nothing but chaos and destruction there. A good man or a sinner, scrupulous plans or adrift on the current—none of it mattered. Everything resulted in death.”
Her arms tightened around him, and he realized how bleak his voice sounded.
“Only one end to this journey of life,” he said. “None of us can avoid it.”
“You did,” she noted. “Only today.”
He needed no reminder. That shade would chill him the rest of his days. “I’ll have to make that voyage again, with no coming back. It’s inevitable. However,” he added, seeing her solemn expression, “what we do with the intervening years, that is ourdecision, and the measure of our consequence.”
She levered herself up, leaning on his chest. Cupping his face with her hands, she bent forward and kissed him, a kiss of unexpected sweetness. She pulled back enough to look into his eyes.
“We aren’t paragons, you and I,” she whispered. “The way of goodness does not come easily to us. Perhaps therein lies the secret. To see the more difficult course, and to choose it, anyway.”
“Sage counsel.” He brushed back a few clinging strands of hair from her forehead.
Her smile was wry. “I had over a thousand years to reflect on my shortcomings. Given enough time, and with a proper amount of boredom, anyone can become a philosopher.”
He pulled her back for another kiss. Her mouth was supple and eager against his, and he felt himself stirring again, wanting her.
The kiss ended in sensuous increments, until they broke apart and she settled against him with a sigh. He loved the feel of her hands on him, her breath soft against his flesh as she fell asleep.
Gathering her close, he continued to stare into the darkness. He’d no knowledge what the following day would bring. More revelations. More danger. The hazard of death all over again. Worse, the possibility of literal hell on earth.
As she slept in his embrace, he remained awake, in vigil, refusing to grant himself slumber’s oblivion.
He’d died today. And his single thought, as he lay dying on the floor of his father’s deserted house, had not been for the Hellraisers, nor the fight against the Devil. He’d only thought of Livia. This same thought came to him now.
I’m lost without her.
Livia started awake. She had heard something, the faintest noise, yet it had penetrated the depths of her sleep. Sitting up, she felt Bram’s arm warm and heavy across her waist. It surprised her that, with his keen senses, he continued to slumber. There it was again, that sound. As if someone walked back and forth, sandals rasping against the stone floor.
The room in which she had awakened was not the warehouse. Glancing around, she saw elegant marble columns, frescoes of pastoral scenes, and mosaics inlaid upon the floor. Light from oil lamps painted the chamber in flickering gold. Platters of apricots, almonds, and spiced cake sat atop a low table. Someone in another chamber played upon a flute, the notes low and coaxing.
A bronze silk tunic lay across the end of the couch, and Livia slipped it on as she rose to investigate. Bram did not stir.
She walked from the chamber, down a corridor lined with burning torches. This was no warehouse, but a villa, precisely the sort she had known in Rome, and Londinium. Everything she passed sparked pained recognition, from the braziers perfuming the air to the pots of rosemary placed between supporting columns. Through the narrow windows, the night sky sparkled, free of coal smoke and choking fog. It had been an age since she had seen a truly clean sky.
The villa stretched on, and she followed the sound of footsteps. Yet as she walked, she passed no one. No other inhabitants, no servants, no slaves. Wariness marked her steps, but she did not stop. She needed to know who was pacing back and forth, and what they wanted.
Turning a corner, she found herself in an open courtyard. Here grew carefully trimmed Cyprus trees, and a fountain trickled in the center of the courtyard, a bronze sculpture of a nymph bearing an amphora standing atop the fountain. More torches burned here, and a feast had been set up, with roasted partridge, oranges, and goblets of wine.
She stepped into the courtyard. The footsteps grew louder, and she bit down an oath when a man emerged from the shadows beneath the arcade. He wore a nobleman’s silk tunic and robe, a large ruby-studded pin fastening the robe at his shoulder, and more gold and rubies adorned his fingers. His snow-white hair was short but brushed forward in the popular fashion. The irises of his eyes were also the color of ice, and just as cold.
The Dark One, appearing to her as he did when she first summoned him.
Livia raised her hands, readying a Minoan spell.
“That is a poor way to greet my hospitality.” He spoke the language she had not heard for a thousand years, her language. He smiled.
She did not return the smile. “Your largesse is unwanted.”
“Is it? Surely you’ll want to partake of some of the delicacies I have had prepared for you.” He strolled over to a bowl heaped with grapes, selected one, and popped it into his mouth. “Delicious. And straight from the vineyards surrounding your father’s villa. Surely you remember the flavor, the burst of sweet juice upon the tongue, the yield of soft flesh beneath the skin?”
She didremember stealing grapes from the vineyards when she was very small, crouching down in the dirt and devouring the fruit by the handful, alert should any of the servants catch her and go telling tales to the master, her father.
She had been so young then, free of the ambition and avarice that had driven her thousands of miles from home. Her greed then had not been for power or magic, but grapes. A child’s covetousness.
“And surely whatever food Bram has been able to provide for you cannot match any of this.” The Dark One gestured to the arrayed feast. “Of a certain, you must be hungry and thirsty. A millennium without a proper meal.” He tsked. “That must be remedied.”
Her mouth watered, yet she would not touch any of the food. She knew the dangers of the Dark One’s munificence. A single bite could enslave her for eternity.
“You brought me to this place for a reason,” she snapped.
“Your manners have always been appalling,” he answered, shaking his head. “It was always, I want thisor Give me that.Never a please. Never any humility.”
“Yet you came when I summoned you.”
His smile was indulgent. “Such conceit from a mortal amused me. And I knew that the ambitious ones were the easiest to sway. Simply dangle the prospect of a little power, and they fell into my grasp like overripe fruit.” The moment the words left his mouth, an orange appeared in his hand. “You, my dear, were too delicious to forgo. Seldom in my ancient life had I encountered another mortal as hungry for power as you. Now look at the wonders you have brought to pass.”
He waved his empty hand, and scenes appeared in the spray of the fountain. She saw herself as she stood in the underground temple, a room carved from rock. She watched herself summoning the Dark One. The bound Druid priestess and Indian slave lay upon the ground as she used a draining spell to rip magic from them. Alight with their power, Livia spilled ewe’s blood on an altar. She chanted as smoke billowed up from the altar, smoke dark as oblivion, and the temple shook. Her captives’ eyes were wide with horror as a door of black stone appeared, then, with an awful groan, swung open. The Dark One emerged, dressed as he was now, and laughing. Her triumphant laughter had joined his. She had done it—summoned the ultimate evil.
The scene shifted, and now Livia beheld the terror that harried Londinium. Brawls, fires, chaos, human depravity. She felt sick to witness the destruction all over again.
The images changed once more, revealing the Hellraisers in the temple ruins as they unwittingly opened the Devil’s prison. Images of horror followed—a demon attack on a band of Gypsies, a riot within a theater that spilled out into the street, Edmund lying dead in the street. Madness and death.
Her cheeks burned. She knew full well her culpability, but to see it played out before her in these garish shadows felt like swallowing molten lead.
“I will undo it all,” she said, tipping up her chin.
The Dark One snapped his fingers, and the scenes vanished. “The fight against me is impossible.”
“I defeated you once before.”
He scowled, but he smoothed out his expression to elegant blandness. “It was a mere temporary holding. No one can truly best me. Certainly not some Roman sorceress and her pack of dissolute rakes.”
“If you have brought me to this place simply to taunt me,” she answered, “then your efforts are wasted. I’ll not give up. Nothing you say or do will alter my resolve.” She moved to leave.
“I could offer you more,” he said, smooth as a polished gem.
She turned back, wary. “More?”
He was all consideration, his smile convivial. “Power, of course.”
“I already have power.” She lifted her hands, and shimmering magic surrounded her.
The Dark One scoffed. “Parlor tricks and mountebanks’ artifice. That is not truepower. A single snap of my fingers, and I could give you magic far beyond your reckoning. The means to reign over millions of mortals. You would have only to think of something you desire, anything at all, from wealth to the might of legions, and it would be yours.”
“None of that entices me.”
Yet he smirked. Neither of them believed her. “Is that not what you pursued for countless years? The acquisition of still greater magic, the means by which you could possess more and still more? Your hindrance had been yourself, the bounds of your own mortal capabilities. With my influence, all your aspirations will come to pass. The whole of the world’s magic would belong to you alone.”
Her mouth dried and her heart pounded. Oh, when he spoke like that, offering precisely what she had coveted, her every dark hunger roared back to life. Strength and power could be hers. So many spells, so much magic—hers.
She forced herself to shake her head, though her neck felt made of rusted iron. “Spare me your persuasion. You cannot offer anything I want.”
“Again you speak untruths.” He snapped his fingers, and suddenly they stood in the villa chamber where she had awakened.
Bram continued to sleep on the couch. He had rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head, so the lamplight gleamed along the contours of his muscles. The flame markings seemed to dance down his torso.
“Threaten him,” she growled at the Devil, “and I vow your destruction.”
“Threaten?” He pressed a slim white hand to his chest, the gems upon his fingers giving sly winks in the flickering light. “My dearest girl, I offer you not a threat but a promise of pleasure. You have tasted the joys of mortal life with your lover. But mortal life is a fragile thing, and brief. I could give you both eternity, together.”
She stared at him, too stunned to speak. He could not possibly be offering . . . ?
“So I do,” he answered, smiling. “Everlasting life for yourself and Bram. You shall not suffer the privations of age, but remain young and beautiful forever. Neither will watch the other wither and die. No sword will be able to pierce your flesh and spill your blood. You will have each other just as you are now. And with the power I will bestow upon you, there is nothing you both cannot have. You shall be as gods.”
Livia squeezed her eyes shut, a futile protection against the Dark One’s beguiling words. How could she possibly resist his offer? When he proffered precisely what she wanted most? Power—and Bram—forever. Everything she had suffered these thousand years, all the loss, and the wisdom she had gained, it all fell away like ash.
The pleasure she and Bram had shared was unlike any other she had experienced. Far more than two people creating sensation, more than simply taking him within her body, she had taken him within her heart. It made her feel godlike in her power, it made her feel vulnerable. Like a fortress surrounded by thick walls, yet a single, well-aimed mortar could turn everything to crumbling dust.
She forced her eyes open. “If I refuse?”
The Devil’s smile persisted, yet it had the bite of frost. “You shall be crushed.” He held up the orange still gripped in one hand, and, without any effort, squeezed it into pulp. Juice ran down his fingers to spatter on the floor.
“Consider it, child,” he said mildly, wiping his hand on a cloth. “Life eternal with your lover, unlimited power. Everything your heart covets. Or assured death. Agony. Watching Bram suffer abominably before he is killed. And the certainty that, after your own death, you will never see one another again.”
He dropped the cloth onto the floor. “Do not forget, I still possess this.” With another wave of his hand, the gleaming orb of Bram’s soul appeared, clutched in the Dark One’s thin fingers.
Sickness clogged Livia’s throat to see him holding the precious object.
“Should he die whilst I am the owner of his soul, which he assuredly shall, he spends eternity suffering the torments of the underworld. There are so many lovely punishments. Being flayed over and over, and the regrowing of the skin is just as painful as its removal. Or he may suffer constant, excruciating thirst, but his only means of relief to drink liquid fire. I have had a very long while to invent new means of suffering. Of a certain, I shall find something particularly novel for your lover.”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach but could not stop the wave of nausea churning through her. The Dark One spoke literally. Any of these torments awaited Bram. Simply thinking of them filled her with fury and despair.
The Devil stared at the radiant glow of Bram’s soul. “A clever woman like you—the choice should be obvious.”
She swallowed hard, then barely whispered the word, “No.”
The Dark One tapped his finger to his chin. “Shall I wake Bram? I think I ought. Give your lover an opportunity to hear you condemn him to eternal suffering.”
Having only recently rediscovered what it felt like to breathe, she lost her breath. She stared with burning eyes at Bram, slumbering and unaware. Would he revile her? Hate her?
She knew him, knew what he would want.
“No,” she said again, and then louder, “No. I’ll not succumb to your temptation.”
Rather than look angry, or storm and scream in rage, the Dark One continued to smile. “Take all the time you need to consider my proposition. Nothing needs to be hastily spoken.”
“My answer will be the same.”
“When you have decided to accept,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, “summon me. Ordinarily, I do not look favorably upon those who do bid me to attend upon them. I shall make an exception for you, my dear.”
“How gratifying,” she said flatly.
He laughed, the sound as ice upon bare branches. “I always thought highly of you, Valeria Livia Corva. You hold such marvelous promise. I can make all of that come to pass. Merely a few words from you: Veni, Maleficus. Both you and Bram will have everything. Or you will die in anguish as the world burns around you. Followed by eternal separation and Bram’s everlasting suffering. The choice is yours.”
A wave of his hand, and he and Bram’s soul vanished. At that same moment, flames erupted at the edges of the couch. Yet Bram continued to slumber, unaware that in moments the fire would cover the bed and he would be burned.
Livia tried to run to him, but her feet were rooted to the ground. She could not move. Could not open her mouth to shout a warning or lift her hands to cast a spell that would smother the fire. All she could do was watch as the fire crept nearer to Bram.
She had to do something, but she was helpless—and her helplessness fueled her rage.
Suddenly, her arms were free. Her body was no longer immobile, and she leapt forward with a shout.
