52. Tharen
52
THAREN
G lass shattered.
Tharen swept an arm over the table, bottles of liquid and empty vials and pieces of parchment crashing to the floor of his apothecary.
"Place her down here!" he barked.
Azgorath did as Tharen said, too overcome with fear to voice his displeasure with being ordered, no doubt.
Time had not changed any of them. Not in the least.
They were still as hot-headed and arrogant as the day when everything changed.
Tharen shoved the thoughts from his mind. He had to focus on his little lamb now.
And what a beautiful lamb she was. Even gripped by shadowed death.
The others crowded around them, looming over where Luella lay limply on the large wooden table. The light in his apothecary was dim as there was little natural light, and with a snap of his fingers, flame burst to life on the many scones fixed to the walls, casting shadows over the edges of the room. The small, rusted gasolier that swung above the worktable held many an unlit candle, but with a blink, orange light flickered to being.
The light made everything worse.
Tharen could see. See it all.
The blood that soaked the side of her arm, smudges of it on her pale cheeks and exposed skin. A large maroon handprint marred the side of her face, right where Vale had attempted to jolt her back to wakefulness with a slap.
He could have gutted the dragon for it.
Even if Tharen loved the thought of hurting the Princess. He was the only one who could. Anyone else was asking for death by his blade if they laid a hand on her pretty skin.
Wishing it was Vale’s neck instead, Tharen gripped the clasp of Luella’s cloak and tore it from her body, then fit his hands on the neckline of her dark and dirtied blouse, giving it the same treatment. The fabric ripped jaggedly down to her stomach. An off-white, silken brassiere cupped her breasts, and Tharen wanted to rend it from her body, too. But he didn’t. He would leave her with that one small cover.
It was only a matter of time. He would see all of her eventually.
He could be a patient male—sometimes, at least.
Tharen brushed a hand softly down the swell of her chest, a deep groan threatening to tumble from his mouth, but he swallowed it down before it could escape.
From his side, Bastian reached in and aided him in removing her shirt, leaving her in only her brassiere and snug, black pants; they molded to her body, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Gods, she was small. She looked so breakable.
Tharen wondered if she would break easily. Something in him told him no . She was fiery; little embers burned within her. Only needed a hint of air to fan the flames and turn those embers into an inferno of fury.
"Back the fuck up." Tharen nudged Bastian away with his elbow, reaching up with his other arm to fix the candlelight overhead, directing it to shine down on the cut on Luella’s arm.
It was bad.
"Godsdammit," Vale hissed. The King ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the golden strands. The male was the most out-of-sorts Tharen had ever seen. And all because of some naive fae.
Azgorath echoed the curse with one of his own, a guttural cry muttered in the language of demons.
Bastian pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders shaking as he forced himself to breathe steadily. "She smells so… enticing."
Tharen gave the vampire a weighted look. "Get out. I won’t have you eating my patient." He lifted Luella’s arm, and it was so light in his grip. Turning it, he inspected the web of darkness that radiated from the cut. "Not yet, at least."
Azgorath growled low, and Tharen met his amber eyes, knowing his own were glowing faintly with unnatural blue.
"All of you," Tharen addressed. "If you cannot shut up and let me work, get out ."
They all grew silent, unwilling to leave him alone with her.
Really .
Tharen wouldn’t do anything when she was in this state. He almost felt offended.
Graves was the only one who didn’t bother him with unnecessary talking. But that was not anything new.
Tharen crooked a finger at the male, beckoning him closer.
Graves forced himself from his spot near the wall with reluctance, standing on the other side of the table, looking at Tharen. "What do you need?" Graves’s voice was gruff, and the stubble on his jaw was more pronounced than usual. He looked haggard.
They all did.
"Keep her steady for me. Hold her down."
Graves placed his gloved hands on the little lamb’s shoulders, stilling her as much as he could. She thrashed, tiny whimpers escaping her every so often as she fought off the darkness sweeping throughout her.
It looked painful. Her brows twitched, sweat dotting her forehead, and her legs kicked out weakly. But she still did not open those beautiful eyes.
He hated that she was in pain. Why did he hate that she was in pain?
Tharen loved pained. Wanted to see her in the midst of it.
But only by his hand.
That fucking bastard had gotten to her, driven those sinful whimpers from her lips before Tharen could. For that, the Tenebrae would pay.
Lines of darkness webbed from the small cut on her arm, and Tharen pressed his palm right over it. She moaned out at his touch, and Graves’s hands tightened on her shoulders.
Vale breathed down Tharen’s neck but stayed silent, thank the gods. Tharen didn’t think he could put up with the King’s orders. Not ever, but especially not right now.
Tharen closed his eyes, allowing his Body magic to work, flowing through her veins.
Her heart pounded irregularly, a loud, discordant thundering in his ears. It sped up, then slowed down. Stuttered, then leveled out.
He felt the air she drew through her lungs as if it were his own. Felt the blood that trudged throughout her veins, something dark and sinister flowing right along with it.
He pushed his magic deeper, drowning out the hushed whispers that had started up from behind him.
Tharen drowned it all out, diving down, down, down into the heart of her. He pushed away the sound of her heartbeats, the labored breathing that was short and sweet and pained. His hands searched her just as his magid did, moving from the cut on her arm and skimming over the veins in her body. He traced her pulse point, swirling up to the inside of her soft elbow and her arm, over the blue-green vein that he knew flowed right to her heart, skimming down the softness of her breasts. He pushed his fingers into the inside of her brassiere, roving lower as he followed that aching call that screamed at his magic.
And then he stopped.
Tharen’s palm rested on Luella’s lower stomach, her soft skin rising and falling under his touch. Her belly quivered as he brushed a finger below her navel, but he ignored it, brows furrowing as he concentrated on her .
There, deep within her soul, something resided.
Magic, so faint, Tharen nearly looked right past it, but no, that was the call of power. It fought and fought, pushing back the darkness that threatened to turn it into something ugly. He knew it wouldn’t work. She was far too powerful to be turned.
The mage grinned slowly, eyes popping open.
"She is powerful." The words were an awed and grating tumble that fell, unbidden, from him. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry.
Tharen had never felt magic so…
He wracked his brain for the right words to describe what he had felt.
It was vividly irresistible and compelling.
He could have drowned in her—consumed her. The power that called to him like a moth to a flame.
He wanted to… eat her.
Tharen barked a laugh at the thought, causing the males before him to look at him strangely. He paid them no mind. Most didn’t understand him. He didn’t fucking care. Especially when his thoughts were being consumed by a certain little captive.
"Care to share what’s so amusing, Prima?" Vale asked, a bite to his tone.
Tharen arched a brow, a hand still settled on his little lamb’s bare stomach. He felt the rise and fall under his palm and resisted the urge to press harder. "I don’t think my thoughts would be received well."
Bastian jumped in then, ever the pacifist. "What did you sense?" the vampire asked, switching the topic around before fists could fly.
Barbed words were about all they could manage, anyway, with their inability to maim each other. But blessedly, they could still use threatening words or the occasional fist if the intent was not to kill or cause serious injury.
There were loopholes, of course. Like shoving a troublesome demon deep below in the dungeons, supplying him with just enough food and water to keep him breathing… Or sparring. For some reason, training with swords or fists did not seem to hold the intent to kill, even if Tharen wanted to do it most times when he was in the ring with one of them.
"She’s powerful," Tharen repeated his earlier words. "Very."
The demon interjected, "We knew that already." He sounded pissed.
Tharen grinned.
"To feel and to know are two entirely different things, beast. But that’s a foreign notion to you, hm?" Tharen taunted. "You never did have a problem with believing in things you couldn’t see, unlike the rest of us." He jerked his head toward Vale. "It took the Princess being right under his nose in his palace before he realized how severely he had fucked up."
"I didn’t fuck up, Tharen," Vale snarled. "I would do it all over again to have her. Her kingdom"— the word was punctuated with a sardonic laugh—"and her freedom both are small prices to pay for our salvation."
"You just wanted her for what she could give you. You don’t care about her." Azgorath touched a bloodied hand to Luella’s lips, tracing them with reverence. Even as he spat cruel truths, he touched her with such care.
Vale scoffed but did not respond.
Tharen thought it a false claim on the demon’s part. Maybe to start, the King didn’t care, but Tharen knew now that he did. If not the male himself, then his dragon would sway him with its possessive nature. Already, Tharen knew the King was gone for their captive, even if he showed it in less than favorable ways.
And the mage could not wait until the King admitted to himself—that he had been wrong.
Graves grumbled, "If you’re done…" He made an, on with it, gesture with a gloved hand.
Bastian stood silently, a hand pressed over his nose and mouth so he would not be tempted by the scent of her. The vampire had always had a thing for fae blood. Being near her must be like being taunted by the finest blends of wine perfectly curated just for him…
They were cracking. All of them.
Tharen eyed the Princess. How could something so small be the cause of such turmoil?
Graves’s gloved hands gripped Luella’s shoulders, her skin indenting under his firm touch. The raven shifter had always been an enigma. Tharen couldn’t sense if the male was as obsessed with her as Azgorath was or wanted nothing to do with her. Tharen thought it to be a little of both.
Tharen pressed down on her lower stomach, watching the way her flesh dimpled, the tiny whimpers that puffed from her parted lips. "The little heirus is fighting." He held each of their eyes as he said, "And she will win."