Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  Without hesitation, she leans in, lifting her breast just enough to slide her nipple into his mouth. Smoke curls from his nose as he exhales, tonguing her breast at the same time.

  Things seem to progress quickly between them from there. Or maybe I’m just fucked up on weed, it’s hard to tell. It isn’t long before I’m watching her tits bounce as she rides him across from me.

  A hard smack echoes through the cave as Jude slaps her ass. “I knew you were a whore. Dick gobbling slut.”

  She seems to like this, her lips stretching with a smile. “Come, Young Master. Fuck me.”

  The thought of my dick in close contact with Jude’s leaves me shaking my head, but it isn’t long before they finish, and Jude’s bellows of pleasure echoes through the cave. With his come likely dripping down her thighs, she crawls around the firepit toward me, like it’s my turn. As she buries her face in my neck, the scent of her perfume mingles with sex, and I set my hand on her shoulder, giving a small nudge to push her away. Her brows lower with telling disappointment, and she paws at me a second time.

  Again, I push her away from me. “I don’t fuck seconds.”

  Jude snorts, and Solange sits back on her heels, her naked body perfect, glowing in the dimming flame of the bonfire.

  “I should’ve let you have me first, then,” she says, shoving two fingers up inside her. “I’ll just have to pretend.” Biting her lip, she tips her head back, fingers plunging in and out, and I watch as they shimmer on each withdrawal. Falling back onto her outstretched arm, she holds herself up, thrusting her pussy in my face, while she fingers herself.

  I’d be lying if I said I don’t want to take her right now, but I meant what I said.

  I don’t do sloppy seconds, no matter how hot she is, or how high I get.

  Within minutes, she’s moaning, thrusting faster. Behind her, Jude lights up the second joint and smiles as he passes it to me. My dick is harder than the rock I’m leaning against just to keep myself upright, as I watch this chick go to town on her cunt, the wet sounds audible over the waves in the distance.

  As I hit the joint, everything feels good, and when she cries out, I almost don’t recognize my name bouncing against the walls of the cave. “Lucian!”

  Her fingers are soaking wet when she withdraws them again, and she leans forward, cramming them into my mouth. “This was for you. Next time, I’ll have you first.”

  Chapter 6

  Isadora

  Present day …

  I tap my fork against the plate, staring down at the fancy dinner I had the chef repeat the name of twice when he served it. Roasted chicken with fennel panza-something.

  The long dining table could probably seat about two-dozen guests. It seems to go on forever, but here I sit by myself. Apparently, everyone, except Rand, Nell and Makaio, has already cleared out of here for the night. Even the chef who graciously served me had one foot out the door. The Blackthornes seem to like their privacy in the evening, too, but for whatever reason, they insist that I remain on castle grounds all five days of the week.

  Not that I mind. It’s not every day a girl from Tempest Cove gets to sleep in a castle. I just thought it’d be a bit more bustling than this. That’s what I get for watching Annie too many times.

  After Nell put Mrs. Blackthorne to bed earlier, there really wasn’t much for me to do, aside from sitting in that unsettling room full of dolls, until Nell suggested I go grab something to eat. Kinda depressing, really. Nell sat on her phone, smoking cigarettes out on the balcony most of the time, while Mrs. Blackthorne lay passed out all afternoon. Can’t say I’d have the energy to do much of anything, if that was my life.

  I shove another forkful into my mouth, focusing on the taste of the oniony green stuff mingled with the succulent chicken flavor. For a girl who grew up on seafood and cans of spam most of her life, I actually have a fairly picky palate. Gourmet food is something new to me. Something I’ll have to get used to while living here.

  Movement in my periphery draws my attention, and I slowly turn my head to where an enormous figure sits off to the side, watching me. A black, beastly animal that looks like a dog and a horse had a baby sits on its haunches, staring at me. Its head is level with mine. Meaning it could lean in and chew my face off, if it felt so inclined.

  A monster.

  My muscles turn rigid. My jaw stiff.

  Slowly, so as not to set it off into attack mode, I look around for a master, anyone who might claim ownership of this thing, but it’s just me and the beast.

  Staring at one another.

  “Um. Hi.”

  Its ear twitches as it slides its gaze toward my plate. A long string of drool falls from its chops, and only when I lift my fork does the animal break its stare to look up at me, though only for a second, or two, before returning its attention to my food.

  At least there’s enough chicken on my plate to maybe afford me a few minutes to reach the door, before it can tear after me and make me its next meal.

  “Do you … um. Like chicken?” So as not to draw too much attention, I slide my hand into my lap to grab the napkin there, and more drool oozes from the dog’s mouth. A downward glance shows a tiny pool of it on the floor in front of its enormous paw. Jesus. Like a lion’s paw.

  With as much subtlety as I can muster, given the tremble running through me, I set the napkin onto the table, not bothering to look where, and pat around until my fingertips hit the wet meat on my plate.

  “Let’s just … see if this will buy me some time. Okay?”

  My muscles spring on instinct, and I toss the chicken to the dog, who makes a snorting sound as he catches it midair. Not a second later, he straightens again, tongue sweeping over his jowls, eyes locked on my plate.

  “Did you even taste that?” I could set the plate down and run, or leave it on the table and hope the scramble to get to it affords me extra time. Doesn’t look like it’ll buy me much, considering this beast just scarfed down a chunk like it was air.

  The fork clinks against the china as I lower the plate to the floor, noting the unwavering attention of the dog staring down at the food once it’s set before him. He doesn’t make a move, though. Only a quick glance up at me breaks his concentration before he goes back to staring down at the food.

  Like he’s waiting for something.

  I take the opportunity to slide out of my chair, pushing to my feet. Still, the dog doesn’t go after the plate of gourmet chicken I’ve just offered him. Hoping that’ll buy me a few extra seconds, I back slow and easy toward the other end of the dining table.

  An endless strand of drool hangs like a shimmering cable from the dog’s mouth, but for some reason, it won’t. Touch. The food.

  “What the hell are you waiting for? Eat!”

  As soon as the words pass my lips, the dog lunges for the plate like it’s in a hurry, its body poised to run as soon as every bite of chicken is gone. Taking the cue, I spin on my heel, and race out of the room and down the hallway.

  The surrounding darkness conceals the path ahead, and for a moment, I’ve lost my bearings in this house. Momentary brainless with fear thrumming through my veins--not a good combination.

  Any second now, that beast is going to come plowing through the dining area, looking for me. Why the hell would they let it roam unattended?

  I search the obscure walls for something familiar to help lead me back to my room, and when I dare a backward glance, I see the dog barreling straight for me.

  “Oh, my God!” The air withers in my chest as I force speed from my legs, and when I look back again, the damn beast has already gained on me, hoofing it on all fours.

  It’s going to maul me right here in this hallway.

  The staff are going to come back tomorrow morning to find my body half eaten by a monster.

  Aunt Midge was right. This was stupid. So fucking stupid it hurts.

  An unyielding force hits me from the side and something grips my shoulders. A scream rips from my chest as the a
che of the blow settles into my bones, and I look up to see a massive chest with a light covering of dark hair behind the few unbuttoned clasps of a black shirt. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric that clings tight to massive biceps that’re bunched at either side of me, while fingers dig into my arms. A chiseled jawline, dusted in a five o’clock shadow, bears grisly scars and slices, the fine lines of contractured skin fanning out from each wound.

  He releases me and I take a step back, my whole body quaking as I stare into liquid amber eyes, which are narrowed in a royally pissed-off expression that screws up the mangled half of his face. Ghastly to look at, but nowhere near the monstrous appearance I’d heard others describe. Personally, I think he’s kind of handsome, in a rough, edgy sort of way, but I’ll keep that to myself. In a matter of seconds, my eyes suck in as many details as they can grasp.

  The flawless half of his face lends insight into how he might have once looked --olive-toned skin, deep chestnut colored hair that has a slightly ruffled appeal, the perfect symmetry just begging to be captured by a sharp charcoal pencil, while the other half is ruined by the scars for which he’s known.

  Shadows hide much of what I imagine is hard to look at in bright light, but those eyes practically glow with malice as he stares back at me.

  Don’t stare. Shit!

  “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I was just …” The dog. Christ, the dog! I turn away from the man to find the dog sitting at attention behind me, its tongue lolled out to the side, tail wagging.

  As if the bastard was playing with me?

  Turning my attention back toward the man, undoubtedly Lucian Blackthorne, whose stature and size leaves me feeling small and insignificant, I lower my gaze to his hands, the right mutilated by fewer scars than his face. Strong with long fingers and a map of veins that extends up into his forearms, they seem well designed for throttling, if he gets the notion. “He chased me.”

  “You run. He chases. That’s what dogs do.” His voice is a deep, rich sound that practically vibrates on the air. Smooth and immaculate, it doesn’t match his scars. It’s a sound that hums in my chest, the kind of hypnotic timbre that lingers in the ear after he’s spoken.

  “I didn’t realize it was in play.”

  “You’re the new girl.” It isn’t a question, because it’s apparently obvious, and he says it as if he’s just tasted something sour and bitter and is looking to spit it out. In spite of the fact that I’m on his payroll, making more money here than any of the odd jobs I’d find downtown, he doesn’t even know my name. Imagine that. A place in this town where someone is disgusted with me as a person and not simply because I’m Jenny Quinn’s daughter.

  “Yes. I’m Isa. Or Izzy. Whichever you’d prefer.”

  “I’d prefer that you watch where you’re going.”

  “Takes two to collide.” It’s a bad habit, talking back. One that’s gotten me in trouble more times than I care to admit, but it’s also completely reflexive. I can’t help the things that fly out of my mouth sometimes, and it sucks, because he’s obviously been through some stuff. I know from my own experience how things like rejection and ridicule can turn someone into a stony wall of Back the hell off. “I just mean, you could’ve easily stepped aside when you saw me coming.”

  “Smartass?” Leaning forward just enough that I can feel the heat of his frustration rolling off his skin, can practically taste the delicious cologne he’s wearing, he drills those fiery eyes into me as if they’re laser beams shooting out his sockets. “You’ll find the best way to stay employed in this house is by staying on my good side.”

  I literally have to bite my lips together to keep from asking which half he considers his good side. Again, reflexive, brought on by years of torment at the hands of my asshole classmates, when I was forced to stand my ground, or swallow their crap.

  This job means too much to me. My freedom. My independence. And I am singlehandedly blowing this first meeting, so to respond with, “My apologies,” requires a kind of tongue-biting self-control I’ve not yet mastered.

  “Your boots are loud and clumsy. I can hear them all the way in the east wing. Find a different pair, if you insist on running through the halls.”

  “These are the only shoes I brought with me.” Eyes on his, I lift my leg, bending my knee as I stand on one foot, hopping to keep balanced while I slide the boot off and set it to the floor beside me. Same with the other. “Anything else about my outfit you don’t like?”

  Chin tipped at a condescending angle, he dips his gaze, and a sneer tugs at his ruined lips. “Perhaps a pair of pants that don’t make you look like you were in a brawl with a wolverine.”

  This guy is something else.

  “Would you have me remove those, too?” Biting my tongue once again, I set my fingers to the buttons of my jeans in mocking, as if to take them off, and catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement, maybe? A dare?

  Ignoring my question, he steps past me, as if already bored with our exchange, and snaps his fingers. “Sampson.”

  The dog follows after him, down the hallway.

  There’s a regal arrogance to the way he walks, the easy stroll of a powerful man who doesn’t give a shit about some local Townie clown who wears fishing mucks for shoes.

  I turn away toward my path again and exhale a shaky breath. I’ve never met a human being so intense in my life. As if the very air crackled around him, threatening to strike out at me. Which probably would’ve felt better than the fly-in-the-soup attitude I got instead. Like I was nothing in this guy’s day, aside from the nuisance who didn’t watch where she was going.

  All this time, I’ve given him some measure of credit, benefit of the doubt, and all that.

  Turns out, the Devil of Bonesalt really is an asshole.

  Light physical, mostly emotional support, I text to Aunt Midge, when she asked what was wrong with Lady Blackthorne that she needs a companion. She’s probably lonely after her husband’s death.

  If I tell her the truth, that the entire family is bat-shit crazy, or moody as hell, she’ll not only tell me she was right, but it’ll be passed around The Shoal for the next week like a donation basket at church, everyone adding their version of the story. I refuse to give this town more gossip to devour.

  Well, I’m sure she’ll find you a good source of entertainment. How’s your room? They lock you in a tower?

  I lift my gaze to the room I’ve been assigned, and just like the first time, my eyes can hardly imbibe the magic of it all. Tall windows curtained by thick, black drapes allow in the shimmer of moon’s light. The bed and vanity are a heavy, but ornate dark wood that I’m guessing would take a half dozen men to move. The linens are velvet grays and black, with only a splash of white for the sheets. A black crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room, giving it a gothic Victorian appeal. In spite of the incessant chill that hangs on the air, the bedroom is cozy, and the fireplace across from me crackles as it burns.

  Perhaps the only thing I’d change is removing the creepy doll that’s propped on the nightstand beside my bed. One of Laura’s, I’ll bet. Long, blonde hair and blue eyes hardly detract from the stern angle of its brow and the devious smile stretching its lips, as if it might come to life while I sleep. Other than that, the room is somehow fitting for me.

  Like a fairy tale, I text back.

  Yeah, well. Fairy tales are just that. Tales. Don’t get too caught up in it.

  Like I would. Try not to have too much fun while I’m gone.

  In the time it takes Aunt Midge to text back, which is three times as long as it takes me, there’s a knock at the door, and I nearly drop my phone on the floor.

  Climbing off the bed, I type back, Talk later. Love you.

  The floors creak as I make my way across the room, and I throw back the door to find a woman with dark bronze skin, about the same age as Nell, though slightly less gloomy and fairly attractive. Silky black hair is pulled into a tight bun that sits at the back of her head,
and bright red lipstick adds a pop of color.

  “Hi, I’m Giulia. You must be Isa.” The first person besides Rand who actually knows my name. “I’m a couple rooms down. Just thought I’d stop in and say hello.” The gray double-breasted dress with white collar and cuffs, and a white apron tied to the front, is a dead giveaway that she’s housekeeping.

  “Thought all the employees in this place left for the day.”

  “Blackthornes keep me overnight. Just in case. But I’m the only one, besides the nurse. And you, it seems.” She peeks past me, as if trying to see into the room. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” She’s probably been in here to clean it at some point, anyway. Who am I to tell her she can’t come in?

  Ambling to a stop in the middle of the room, she tips her head back, as if she’s absorbing something in the air, and when she turns to face me, there’s a slight smile on her lips. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Never in a million years did I think someone with my background would end up living in a castle by the ocean.”

  “Your background?”

  “Poor. I lived on the streets. My daughter and I did.”

  “She lives here with you?”

  “No. Didn’t think this was a place for children. She stays in a boarding school now.” Nodding toward the fireplace and back, she asks, “Are you comfortable in here?”

  “Yeah. It’s a little drafty, but other than that, I’m fine.”

  “This was Amelia’s old room.”

  My enthusiasm for this place deflates like a balloon. The long, drawn out squeal of a balloon.

  Of the many rooms throughout this castle, why the hell would they place me in the dead wife’s?

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  She glances over her shoulder toward that creepy-looking, porcelain doll. “Here, I’ll put that in the closet for you.”

  “Thanks. Was kind of giving me the creeps.”

  “Used to give Roark the creeps, too. He refused to come in here.”