Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“We should probably rejoin the party,” I say, although the last thing I want is to share her attention with anyone else.
“Probably,” she agrees, but neither of us moves.
Before either of us can say anything else, the band’s music changes, taking on a more prominent role as the room’s energy shifts. A woman with dark hair pulled back approaches with a guitar in her hands, her smile warm and inviting.
“Saylor,” she says, offering the instrument. “We heard you’re a singer. Any chance we could convince you to join us for a song?”
I watch Saylor’s energy shift from dark satisfaction to something lighter, more playful. She glances at me, then at the small stage area where the band has set up their instruments—a double bass, violin, banjo, and mandolin arranged in a semi-circle with space for a vocalist at the center.
“I don’t know if my style matches yours,” she says, but there’s interest.
“Try us,” the woman encourages. “We’re pretty adaptable.”
The crowd has started to notice the exchange, conversations dying down as people turn their attention toward us. I can see the expectation building, the way Grimlock’s residents are settling in for what they clearly hope will be entertainment.
“What do you say?” I ask Saylor, nodding toward the instruments. “Let them hear what Peter Mitchell’s daughter can do.”
Her chin lifts slightly at the mention of her father—pride, maybe, or determination. She takes the guitar from the woman with steady hands.
“One song,” she agrees. “But don’t blame me if I scandalize your dinner party.”
“I’m counting on it,” I say, following her toward the stage area.
The band members nod respectfully as Saylor positions herself in their center, quickly conferring about key and tempo. I find myself a spot near the edge of the crowd where I can watch her face, where I can catalog every look that crosses her features as she prepares to sing.
When the opening notes ring out—a haunting bass line that seems to rise from the earth itself—the entire room goes silent. The violin joins next, weaving a melody that sounds like mourning and celebration wrapped together. Then the banjo and mandolin create a complex harmony that transforms the ballroom into something haunting and wild.
But it’s when Saylor opens her mouth that the world stops.
Her voice pours out rich and dark as aged whiskey, carrying notes that seem to bypass the ears and sink directly into bone and bloodstream. She’s chosen something that sounds like a traditional folk ballad but with lyrics that speak of love and loss and the beautiful violence that connects them. The melody rises and falls like breath, like heartbeat, like the rhythm of skin against skin in the darkness.
She moves as she sings, her body swaying with the music in ways that make my blood run hot and my hands clench into fists. The copper silk dances and flows around her curves, and the way the candlelight catches her face makes her look like some goddess of war and desire. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back, completely lost in the music she’s creating.
My throat goes dry watching her. Every movement, every note, every breath she takes seems designed to unravel what’s left of my self-control.
When she reaches the chorus—something about drinking from the cup of vengeance and finding it sweeter than wine—her voice takes on an edge that makes every person in the room lean forward. There’s something primal in the sound, something that speaks to the part of humanity that remembers when survival meant being willing to kill or be killed.
The song builds to a crescendo that seems to shake the walls themselves, Saylor’s voice soaring over the instruments with power that makes my cock throb harder. God help me, it does.
She’s not just singing. She’s casting a spell, weaving magic that transforms the ballroom into something wild and raw and impossible to resist.
When the final notes fade away, there’s silence for several heartbeats before applause erupts that sounds more like worship than appreciation. But I’m not clapping. I’m staring at the woman on the stage who just proved that everything I suspected about her darkness was true.
Saylor opens her eyes and finds mine across the crowd, and the smile that curves her lips is pure sin. She knows exactly what she just did to me, exactly how completely she just destroyed any remaining boundaries between us.
She hands the guitar back to the woman and makes her way through the crowd toward me, accepting congratulations and compliments with gracious smiles that don’t quite hide the satisfaction in her eyes.
When she reaches me, she rises up on her toes to speak directly into my ear, her breath warm against my skin.
“How was that for scandalizing your dinner party?”
“Perfect,” I manage. “Although I think you just made every person in this room want to ravage you.”