9. Elowen
ELOWEN
B athe him. My heart begins a riotous beat in my chest. I hardly notice Forsythe shut the cell door behind me, locking me inside. My gaze lifts to the male before me—the one of my actual dreams.
Long black hair frames his preternaturally handsome face, even if it is… strange. Each angle of it is somehow both broad and sharp. Those two gilded lines streaking across his face glow, just as I’d suspected. Three more spill down his throat and branch out into a larger but simple geometric design that frames star-like points dotting his sternum and extending over the tops of his thickly muscled arms, the biceps of which are adorned in gold cuffs. I can’t help but notice more of those designs fall beyond the low-slung waist of his trousers.
I can feel his gaze passing over me like a heated touch as we take one another in—even though his eyes have no whites, and I shouldn’t be able to sense where he’s looking. They’re a solid dark grey, even darker than his smooth, hairless, dark grey skin. The same color as a thundercloud, ready to burst with rain and lightning. His full lips part slightly as he openly stares, revealing a hint of his lethal, bright-white fangs. His broad chest rising on elevated breaths. The wings at his back—also adorned in dark golden lines—settle, closing against his back like the lowering of a ship’s sail as Forsythe’s footsteps retreat.
The only clothing he’s wearing is a pair of filthy, torn linen trousers, yet despite the chill of this subterranean basement, I can feel his body radiating heat.
My heart ratchets beneath his gaze, and I find myself awkwardly stepping forward and offering my hand. Despite who I sense this male is to me, it doesn’t make our introduction any less awkward. If anything, the weight of it makes it doubly so.
“Hello. My name is Elowen.”
He attempts to step forward, but the chains prohibit any further movement. I dare another step to where his hand can finally reach mine. Calloused and impossibly long, thick fingers embrace my offered hand, and I swear to God—every atom in my body seems to vibrate with blissful energy as heat coils low in my belly, weaving itself with the tendril of fear that this could all go very, very wrong in the blink of an eye. That doubt slithers into the back of my mind, whispering that I am as mad as my mother—wholly negligent of the fact that I never truly believed her mad, but merely misunderstood and endowed with a gift that even she couldn’t fully grasp.
My survival instinct feels like I’m toeing the line with death, taunting it. Yet here I am. Ready to fling myself bodily at the male before me.
He repeats my name as if savoring a pleasant flavor. “Elowen... My name is Sariel.”
My reply is breathless. “Sariel… It’s lovely to meet you. Despite the abominable circumstances.”
His smile is sad, and it inspires a soul-deep longing within me—to make it reach his eyes. To witness what I know would be an awe-inspiring sight. My tongue sweeps out nervously to lick my lips, and even though he has no pupils, I can feel his eyes track the movement. Electric energy seems to course between us as he continues to hold my hand between his, only finally letting go when we hear the scuffing of boots and squeaking wheels approaching.
Sariel gives a subtle tug, pulling me closer to him before he releases my hand just as Evandriel appears, pushing a cart that boasts a variety of objects. If there’s a daemon, in any sense of the word, in this room, it is him. A grin that makes my gut churn with dread spreads across his deceptively handsome face. “I see the two love birds are getting along.”
Fear spears through me—that somehow this male knows—though I refuse to show it.
Evandriel unlocks the cell and rolls the cart inside before lifting a large, steaming bucket of water from the bottom shelf of the trolley and setting it down on the floor. “Bath.”
He then tosses a large sponge and a bar of soap inside and sidles up to the cart, lifting objects to explain each one’s purpose. “Iodine. After you bathe him, swipe the sample site with this sterile gauze and use this scalpel to make a one-square-centimeter-sized incision—in both width and depth—and place it within this receptacle.”
If my stomach wasn’t roiling, I might be in awe of the crystalline jar glowing a pale blue that is quite obviously magical in some way.
“You want me to cut out a chunk of his flesh ?”
Evandriel heaves a sigh. “Unless you want Forsythe to come and put another bullet in his brain so he can collect it himself, I suggest you get comfortable with blood.”
At my pained silence, he continues, lifting a large, needled syringe. “Which is precisely what these are for. Come here.”
Chains rattle as Sariel steps forward as if to stop me, but I’m already closing the distance between Evandriel and myself. He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a thickly muscled forearm. Between thumb and forefinger, he lifts a rubber tourniquet. “Wrap this tightly just above the elbow, and the veins will reveal themselves. Choose a prominent one. Like so?—”
Dropping the tourniquet, he flexes his arm, and the veins rise. He prods a thick forefinger at the largest one in the crook of his elbow. “Apply the alcohol to the skin, then gently insert the tip of the needle to the sterilized area, about 2 millimeters in, and carefully pull the plunger until the barrel of the syringe has been filled. Then…”
Evandriel grins, mischief twinkling in his eyes, as if this is all some big joke to him, and it makes my hatred for this male burn even brighter. Reaching for another glowing pot, he holds it aloft, waggling his cursed eyebrows.
“ La pièce de résistance.”
My eyes narrow. They don’t exactly teach French on the streets of London, and he damn well knows it.
The words are growled with annoyance. “The what?”
Evandriel chuckles. “The semen sample.”
I train my expression to remain neutral, even if internally, I’m now squealing my delight despite our twisted circumstances.
Perhaps I am more of a monster than I’d previously thought myself. Even so, a certain protectiveness rises within me.
“What the fuck could he possibly want with a semen sample?”
Evandriel’s expression settles into something thoughtful, as though genuinely considering my question.
“Well for one, blood and tissue samples can only provide somatic DNA, whereas semen will provide germline DNA, along with unique epigenetic markers, specialized genetic markers—which is what I imagine Forsythe has a personal interest in—and of course, the seminal plasma which would provide unparalleled insight into the epimorphic regeneration—the rapid healing.”
I don’t bother to mask my shock at his insight. Clearly, I’ve thoroughly underestimated this man. And the fact he has so thoroughly hidden such keen intelligence under the guise of a brute only makes it all the more unsettling. It also makes me realize, this is the most I’ve ever spoken to him.
Evandriel gives me a knowing smirk but chooses to keep the subject on the tasks at hand.
“ You may collect the semen however you wish, which will conclude your final task. Savvy?”
I don’t bother to mask my scowl. If Sariel’s semen belongs to anyone it’s-fucking-me. My reply is spoken through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
“Excellent. There’s some clothes here once you finish,” Evandriel points at what appears to be a thick black pile of clothing. I’m not entirely sure how we’re supposed to get Sariel’s dirty ones off and the clean ones on while Sariel’s in manacles, but I don’t bother to ask.
Evandriel turns to face Sariel, and something like electricity—so dense I can taste it in the air—crackles over my skin. In the next moment, Sariel is naked. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. The only indication he’s even noticed is the low growl that leaves his throat. I, however, gasp in shock—both at the display of magic and, despite trying my best not to lower my eyes, the sight of Sariel’s cock.
While I’ve seen it countless times in my dreams, seeing it in real life is so much better.
Evandriel’s eyes openly ogle Sariel, brows lifting.
“Good for you, mate.”
He turns and strides out of the cell, shutting the door behind him. I don’t miss the knowing glint in his eyes.
“Take your time. The doctor will be leaving shortly to teach his classes and visit his patients. I have my own work to attend to in the morgue and a great many errands to run… things to prepare for.”
Evandriel’s eyes study me keenly, and I can’t help the sinking dread I feel at those last words. I don’t have it in me to ask what it is he has to prepare for.
“Those containers will keep everything preserved in the meantime. Forsythe will retrieve you this evening. I’ll return tomorrow.”