Serpentine Desires

The prey

Darkness. Warmth and a strange pull.

I opened my eyes slowly trying to force out the haze of sleep clinging to my mind, wrapping me in a fog that made it hard to tell where I was or why everything felt so off. The sheets beneath me were warm, soft, and unfamiliar in a way that sent a jolt of confusion through me.

For a second, I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight like someone was pressing down on me, keeping me pinned in place. I shifted slightly, trying to sit up when I felt it—an arm draped over my waist, heavy and possessive and fingers splayed against my bare skin beneath my shirt.

Everything rushed back in a wave that nearly knocked the air from my lungs. Judas.

Oh heavens...

Panic surged through me like ice in my veins. My body went rigid and my heart hammered so loudly it filled my ears. His arm was still there, holding me close, his skin warm against mine. My breath hitched as I tried to pull away, to free myself, but the movement only caused his grip to tighten, the rough skin of his hand pressing harder against my side.

I bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood, trying to suppress the terror rising inside me. My mind screamed at me to run, to get away, but my body wouldn't cooperate. I barely moved an inch before I heard him stir behind me, and felt the slow, deliberate shift of his weight as he groaned low in his throat.

"Stay still." His voice was thick with sleep, the command heavy and unquestionable, slurred but clear.

I froze, my breath catching painfully in my chest. His body shifted behind me, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his chest pressing against my back, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. The closeness was suffocating, overwhelming, every nerve in my body screaming to get away from him.

But I couldn't move. Not without making it worse.

Did I sleep in the same bed as him? My mind raced, the events of last night a blur. The gun, his hands, and the way he had toyed with me dominated me with nothing more than his touch. I had fallen asleep—or passed out—from sheer exhaustion, and now here I was, trapped again. Under him. Inside his grip.

His fingers shifted, sliding over my skin in a way that made my stomach clench, panic clawing at me. The heat of his palm burned into my side, the slow, lazy stroke of his thumb against my skin sending unwanted shivers through me. I wanted to scream, to fight, but instead, I lay there, frozen beneath his touch, my body betraying me again.

I had to get out. I had to move.

My skin was all warm and flushed. Strange for the coldness that marred Russian streets. Lord help me, cause everything about this situation was catastrophic.

I shifted. His grip tightened. Fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hip, holding me in place with a force that left no room for struggle. I bit back a whimper.

The way his body pressed against mine, the way his breath fanned over my skin—it made me feel trapped, but also something far worse. Captivated.

He was so close, and despite everything, despite the terror and revulsion, I could feel the pull of him. That twisted allure, the darkness he carried like a shroud, the way his presence overwhelmed everything around him. It drew me in, even though I knew it would destroy me.

Damn him and his infuriating presence.

A person like him had no right to be this warm.

I could feel him—all of him—pressing into me, and with a slight movement, his body became heavier.