33. Wolfgang
33
WOLFGANG
T he silence hanging over us like a thunderous black cloud heralds an insufferable sense of rationality. It squeezes my lungs with an unfamiliar sense of regret. Surely, we’ve just co-signed our death—or at the very least our mutual downfall. But the selfish part of my nature would do it again if it meant reliving the same bliss I just experienced.
I’ve known pleasure before but this was … euphoric.
I expect Mercy to push me off immediately but she does nothing of the sort, letting me slowly pull out and roll onto my back beside her. I catch my breath as she does hers, the closeness of her body next to mine radiating an undeniable heat that dares me to find her hand and lace my fingers with hers.
Instead, I push myself off the floor and gingerly stand on my two feet. When my thigh throbs with renewed vehemence, I lose my balance but right myself quickly. Mercy, still on the floor and now resting on her elbows, fixes her intense gaze on mine but says nothing.
I offer my hand. “Our wounds need to be tended to.”
A shadow crosses over her eyes, letting a loaded moment pass between us before slipping her palm in mine. I pull her up, but as soon as she stands, she withdraws her hand and my instinct is to clutch her hand tightly and keep her palm in mine.
I do nothing of that sort.
There’s a darkened hallway behind us and I turn to it, sensing Mercy following from behind. The underground quarters are small, and there’s no need for an extensive survey of the space to ascertain where everything is located. At the very end of the hallway is the small kitchen with the bedroom situated closest to the receiving room.
Opening the plain door of the bedroom, I turn on the lights, illuminating the large bed that is pushed against the wall and flanked by two small bedside tables. To our left are large wardrobes which I assume now hold clothing to suit both our needs.
Heading for the ensuite, I push the door open. It creaks on its hinges, Mercy following me without a sound except for the soft clicks of her heels.
There’s no bath in sight, instead, we find a large open shower area, black tiles covering the entire space. A rainfall showerhead hangs from the ceiling and a half-wall with the same black tiles offers a rather feeble attempt at privacy.
But privacy is not something I currently crave when having Mercy here alone with me.
I don’t bother asking if she wants to be left alone. I don’t want to leave her alone. To my relief, she doesn’t request it, her emerald eyes steadfast and penetrating before she slowly steps out of her heels. Dropping a few inches in height, her gaze lifts to remain fixed on mine before she turns around wordlessly. She doesn’t ask for help, and I’m sure I’d be standing here for centuries if I waited for her to use her words.
I approach her silently and start on the small leather straps on her back holding the chainmail tight around her chest. It falls with a ripple of clinks next to our feet. My fingers drag over her hips and then her waist before reaching the zipper of her gold dress.
Slowly sliding it down until it reaches the small of her back, I then drag a knuckle up her spine. I witness her skin break out into goosebumps before I smooth my hands under the silk and push it off her shoulders so it can pool around her feet.
Now naked, she steps out of the dress and turns to face me. Her expression is so serious that I can barely make out if this is affecting her as much as it is me. She approaches me, her eyes never leaving mine. I hide a hard swallow as her fingers trail over my shoulders, sliding what’s left of my shirt off. But even with my trousers still unbuttoned from before, I grip her wrists, my face barely concealing the pain.
“Careful,” I whisper harshly.
Her mouth is faintly agape, chin slightly lifted while her eyes continue to pierce through me like a well-sharpened blade. She says nothing, yet it doesn’t unnerve me, not when her actions say more than her words ever could.
Her gaze drops to my thigh. Her touch is soft and tender as she peels the trousers off of the drying blood stuck to my skin before finally pushing them all the way down. She’s about to start on my briefs, but I stop her. An itch of vulnerability is beginning to dig inside my chest, and my first instinct is to avoid the feeling.
“You can start on the shower, I’ll be right there,” I mutter.
Taking a step back, I turn to face the mirrors. I track Mercy even here. Although it’s just her reflection, I can’t look away, watching her step under the spray while she unpins her hair, dark strands falling down her shoulders one by one, her family sigil tattoo brazenly visible on her back. It’s only when I manage to tear my gaze away from her and find myself staring back in the mirror that I realize the implications of what I just did.
I sought her reflection before even thinking to seek mine.
My heart squeezes in my chest as my throat goes dry.
The significance of what this could mean feels too weighty for me to explore. Especially at a time like this, when everything feels too dire and the exhaustion is slowly engulfing my sanity.
I sigh deeply and undress fully. No need to linger on any of this now.
I step into the shower, the steam rising from below. Mercy’s eyes are closed, her head fallen back as she lets the water wash away the blood from her face. I notice a few bruises that are beginning to appear on her skin, as I’m sure similar bruises are appearing on mine.
I don’t think I can use the word luck while speaking of today’s events, but our injuries could have been much worse.
Mercy senses my presence and straightens up. Her eyes open through the water and her soulful gaze meets mine. The blood turns the water red as it trickles down her face, and I am struck by a vivid memory of her.
Of Mercy covered in blood, bathed in moonlight inside the maze on the night of the Feast of Fools. She was mystifying then, and she is mystifying now.
It’s hard to believe that was only a month ago.
So much has happened since then. So much has happened between us .
And here we are now. At the very crescendo of our forbidden dance.
A dance macabre, where even the threat of our own deaths did not stop us.
And all I wish to do now as I watch her stand here under the water, naked, bloody, and fucking glorious, is to dig our graves even deeper.
To revel in the fatality of our choices.
To dig and dig and dig until I reach our gods and demand to keep her, mind, body and soul.
The collision of our bodies is as brutal and intense as before. Wet lips and silky skin. Clawing fingertips and teeth sinking into soft flesh.
Her sigh turns into a long, needy moan and all I want to do is lift her up so that her legs wrap themselves around my waist, her back slamming against the wall behind us. But my injury smarts at just the thought and I groan in protest, my hand tilting her chin up so I can deepen the kiss.
While her lips never leave mine, Mercy pushes me until it’s my back that is shoved against the half-wall, the edge digging into my hips. Before I can piece together what’s happening, Mercy pulls away, her eyes blackened with desire as she falls to her knees before me.
I am breathless.
Never could I have envisioned such a thing as Mercy on her knees, her fingers curled around my hardening shaft as her lips wrap themselves around my cock.
“ Mercy ,” I say, her name turning into a low hiss when she swallows me deep into her hot mouth. I barely manage to stay upright, leaning against the edge of the wall, my palms digging into the tiles while my head falls backward in rapt pleasure.
Her free hand cradles my balls and she squeezes them, over and over, the sensation almost too intense when paired with the head of my cock hitting the back of her throat. She chokes and gags but never stops, her cheeks hollowing around my hard shaft and the sound of her is as divine as any melody I could ever play on the violin.
As I find the back of her head with my palm, I grip her hair and pitch my hips forward to feel even more of her around me, I realize she has become my ruin in every sense of the word.
Because nothing will ever compare to having Mercy like this.
Peering upward, she slides her mouth off my cock and licks her lips.
Then she speaks, and I am undone.
“I’ve tasted your blood before,” she says breathlessly, “Now let me consume even more of you.” Her hand strokes my cock, her eyes burning with wild flames. “Show me what ruinous desire tastes like.”
I chuckle darkly, thrusting her head toward me. “Your mouth is just as greedy as your pretty little cunt, I see,” I drawl, trying to pretend her words didn’t send me halfway into orbit already.
She opens her mouth for me again, and I shove my cock deep into her throat, her hands now digging into the sides of my hips as I begin to fuck her throat with every morsel of possessiveness I have left in me. She watches from under her eyelashes, her gaze severe but aflame. And it only takes a few more thrusts and the feel of the wet glide of her tongue for me to come down her throat with a strangled groan. The pleasure shooting through my limbs is once again incomparable to anything I’ve experienced before. It almost feels … undeserved.
And maybe it’s because it is.
It’s Mercy cloaked in the forbidden.
It’s having what I can’t have.
A wave of righteous indignation pummels through me, and I lift Mercy by the neck and shove her backward until she hits the wall on the opposite side. Her lips curl into a small snarl, her eyes cutting with irritation, but I kiss her all the same.
I kiss her with such desperation that it’s almost as if her breath, her very air, is what I need to survive. I kiss her like this might be our last.
The hours pass, and still, no one has come to retrieve us. The realization that maybe we’ll be stuck here for the night has somehow managed to wrangle our volcanic feelings into something more dormant. What is left is pointed silence. After the shower, Mercy found a first aid kit and forced me—with quite an effective glare—to let her stitch me up. I’m convinced she took pleasure in repeatedly digging a needle into my skin. Her wound, however, was less deep than mine and only required a few butterfly bandages.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, now having changed into whatever clothes we found in the bedroom wardrobes. Mercy has chosen a black satin set of shorts and tank top, while I slipped into a relaxed pair of loungewear.
“No I’m just …” she pauses, her eyes lingering on the bed, “Tired.”
“Rest it is then,” I say, pulling the covers back and climbing into bed.
Mercy stands awkwardly on the other side of the bed, her face painted with a faint layer of vulnerability. “What are we—” she begins to say but I cut her off, uninterested in having any type of discussion about any of it. Not now.
“Pretend,” I plead.
The word lingers between us as I extend my hand, wordlessly inviting her to bed. She tries to conceal a small sigh, toying with her lips, but eventually, she turns off the lights and climbs in.
I pull her into me before she has time to shrink away. Her head falls to rest on my chest while my arm wraps tight around her waist. I fall asleep with Mercy in my arms, knowing full well that by morning this will all be over.