Chapter 30 #2
Her heart hammered, but she forced her expression to be neutral. "The ball is in two days. I'm trying to understand the world I'm about to be formally presented to."
"By reading about dark compulsions and blood magic?" His smile was all predator. "Most humans preparing for their first fae ball focus on etiquette. Dance steps. How not to offend ancient powers with a misplaced curtsy."
"Maybe I should add those to my reading list."
"Maybe you should." He circled her table slowly, like a hunting cat. "Or maybe you should tell me what's really wrong. You've been acting like prey with a fox on its tail ever since his lordship left."
"Nothing's wrong."
"Little rabbit." His voice dropped, deceptively gentle. "I've been hunting for longer than your bloodline has existed. I know the smell of fear. The look of something trapped." He stopped directly in front of her. "What are you afraid of?"
She opened her mouth, to lie, to deflect, but found herself saying, "The ball. The court. Being presented as his... companion." All true, if not the whole truth.
"That's part of it." He leaned against her table, too close for comfort. "But not all. You're looking for something specific in these books. Something urgent."
"I told you—"
"You told me carefully crafted half-truths." He picked up another book, one about breaking fae curses. "Just like you told me about the garden. Just like you're telling me now."
Frustration boiled over. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth would be refreshing."
"I can't!" The words burst out before she could stop them.
His eyes sharpened. "Can't?"
She pressed her lips together, the compulsion tightening like a noose. Even that admission had been too close to the truth.
"Interesting," he mused. "You want to tell me but can't. Which means..." He straightened, understanding flickering across his features. "Someone's been playing with binding magic."
She couldn't confirm it. Could only sit there as he studied her with new interest.
"Well, well. Our little rabbit has been making dangerous friends.
" He moved toward the door, then paused.
"A word of advice? Some compulsions break naturally when their purpose is fulfilled.
Others..." He glanced back. "Others require the compeller's death.
Do be careful which type you're dealing with. "
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with useless books and a truth she couldn't speak.
She slumped in her chair, exhaustion hitting like a wave.
Hours of research, nothing to show for it.
It was enough to make her want to weep in frustration.
Instead, she pulled another book toward her with grim determination.
There had to be something. Some loophole, some ancient remedy, some way to warn Eliam before—
The pages of the new book were blank. Every single one.
She laughed, sharp and bitter. Even the library was against her.
But she reached for another anyway because what else could she do but keep trying?
The darkness in Briar's room pressed close, heavy with frustration and need. She'd kicked the covers off an hour ago, nightshift rucked up around her waist, skin flushed despite the cool air. Her fingers moved between her thighs with practiced rhythm, chasing release that danced just out of reach.
She thought of his hands and how they'd learned every sensitive place, how they could coax pleasure from her with expert precision.
Her own touch felt hollow in comparison, a pale imitation of what she craved.
She pressed harder, changed the angle, tried to recreate the way he'd touched her with exactly the right pressure.
Nothing.
A whimper of frustration escaped her lips. Three days. Three days since he'd touched her, and her body had forgotten how to find satisfaction without him. She was wet, aching, right on the edge, but couldn't tip over.
"Having trouble, little thief?"
Her whole body jerked, hand flying from between her legs as her eyes snapped open. He stood beside the bed, a shadow among shadows, but she could see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. No sound of door or window. Just his sudden presence and the scent of winter forest filling her lungs.
"Eliam." Heat flooded her face. How long had he been watching? "I didn't hear you come in."
"No, you wouldn’t…. you were rather distracted." He moved closer, the bed dipping as he sat on the edge. His gaze traveled over her, the way her nightshift bunched at her waist, her thighs still parted, the evidence of her arousal glistening on her fingers. "Don't stop on my account."
She scrambled to pull the nightshift down, but his hand caught her wrist, holding it still. Not her clean hand, the one still wet from her unsuccessful efforts.
"I said," his voice dropped to that dark honey tone that made her shiver, "don't stop."
"I wasn't—I mean, I was just—"
"Thinking of me?" He brought her hand up, inhaling the scent of her arousal on her fingers. His eyes never left hers. "I'm flattered. Though it seems you weren't finding much success."
The mark on her arm pulsed with recognition, sending warmth through her chest. Home, it seemed to sing. He's home.
"It's not the same," she admitted, voice small. "Nothing works without—" She caught herself before finishing.
""Without…? Show me," he commanded, pressing her fingers back against her sensitive flesh. "Let me see exactly how you've been failing to satisfy yourself."
Her breath hitched as he guided her hand, using her own fingers to stroke through her wetness. Between her touch and his control she found her hips lift involuntarily.
"My my," he murmured, watching her face intently. "Were you this desperate every night? Touching yourself in my bed, unable to find release?"
"Yes." The admission burned her throat. Her fingers circled her clit under his direction, the pressure finally right, finally enough. "I tried everything. Nothing worked."
"Nothing?" He increased the pace slightly, still using her hand as his instrument.
"How frustrating that must have been. Your body knowing what it needs but unable to provide it.
" His free hand came up to cup her breast through the thin nightshift, thumb brushing over the stiffening peak. "Tell me what you thought about."
"Your mouth." The words spilled out as pleasure built under their combined touch. "The way you use your tongue. How you know exactly when to be gentle and when to—" She gasped as he pinched her nipple, the sharp sensation making her clench. "When to be cruel."
"Like this?" He abandoned her hand, trusting her to continue the rhythm while he focused on her breasts.
The nightshift was pushed higher, baring her to his gaze.
"Cruel would be making you stop now. Making you wait while I undress and tell you about my journey.
" He lowered his head, breath ghosting over her nipple.
"Would you like that? A lesson in patience? "
"No." Her fingers faltered as he drew her nipple into his mouth. "Please, I've been patient. Three days of patience."
He hummed against her skin, the vibration making her arch. His hand returned to cover hers between her legs, but instead of helping, he pulled her fingers away entirely.
"No!" The protest tore from her throat. She'd been so close, finally, with him here, with his presence making everything sharper.
"Shh." He brought her wet fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate thoroughness. His tongue traced between each digit, gathering every drop of her arousal. "I'm here now. I will take care of you properly."
He stood, removing his travel clothes with efficient movements.
She watched through heavy-lidded eyes, taking in the lean lines of his body, the way moonlight caught on his skin.
When he returned to the bed, he didn't settle between her thighs as she expected.
Instead, he stretched out beside her, propped on one elbow, studying her like a puzzle to solve.
"Take off the nightshift," he said. "I want to see all of you."
She pulled the garment over her head with trembling hands, tossing it aside. The mark on her arm seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. His fingers traced the new growth, following each twisted vine across her collarbone, then stopped abruptly.
"What are these?" His voice carried genuine surprise as his fingertips found the tiny white buds scattered among the thorns. He shifted closer, studying them in the moonlight. "They weren't here before."
"They appeared while you were gone." She shivered under his scrutiny. "The second day, I think. Maybe the third. They don't hurt."
He traced one of the delicate buds with unexpected gentleness, as if afraid it might crumble under his touch. "I've never..." He paused, something unreadable crossing his features. "The mark has never bloomed before. Not on anyone."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know." The admission seemed to cost him. His fingers continued their exploration, cataloguing each tiny bloom. "They're beautiful. Like stars caught in thorns." His hand stilled against her throat. "The mark is changing. Evolving into something I didn't create."
"Does that frighten you?"
He met her eyes then, and she caught a flash of something raw and uncertain. "Nothing about you follows the rules I understand."
Something flickered in his expression—not quite fear, but a recognition of unknown territory. His hand continued its exploration, moving from the mysterious buds to her breast, down her stomach, circling her navel. Always touching, never quite where she wanted.
"Eliam." His name came out as a plea.
"Yes?" He traced the curve of her hip, maddeningly casual. "What do you need, little thief?"
"You know what I need."
"I know what your body needs." His fingers ghosted along her inner thigh, gathering the wetness there. "But I asked what you need. There's a difference."