Chapter 22 Wants of the Flesh
WANTS OF THE FLESH
GRAVES
The utter darkness of the sea at night should be terrifying. It was a chasm. Abyssal. No stars were reflected on the surface. The clouds were too thick, too consuming, to allow one speck of brightness to penetrate.
Graves loved it.
They were halfway into their journey to the Fallen Isles.
The first few days had passed swiftly, like the thick storm clouds and rain that had beat down upon them as Luella slept.
When she had awoken, time seemed to drag to a halt, ticking by at such a slow pace that he could barely stand to breathe, knowing that every inhale of air that filled his lungs brought them closer to…
That godsdamned place.
Time dragged not only because of where they were headed, but also because of Luella—ripe berries, sweet cream, and perfectly blooming roses permeated every bit of space on this damned ship.
But they had been right. Pleasure made her storm calm. Calmer, at least.
The clouds still shifted from white to rain-filled black. The wind roared, raging on, before easing to a whisper.
Her power was greater than anything any of them had ever seen thus far.
He doubted a few kisses and touches could fix what she had wrought.
And as the days passed, and Graves saw Luella stumble from below deck—her eyes trained at her feet, flinching with every pounding wave, forcing the wind to beat harder and whip her thick scent straight toward him—he wondered if she missed causing chaos.
If she yearned for the fear she had forced into them all.
Though, she rarely emerged, trapped in her cage of wood, swaying hammocks, and lonesome nights.
But not so lonesome, Graves thought, tapping a finger over the wooden railing as he stared out at the sea. Her nightly company sent ripples of pleasure down their bond, forcing them all even further to the edge on which they teetered.
Graves was so fucking sick of it all. He wanted to shrug off his barely held control and let himself fall.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, leaning over the wooden railing at the bow of the ship, wind ripping through his shirt. He tipped back, fingers tightening on the rails, anchored only by his grip.
Graves closed his eyes and felt.
Air roared around him, and as the ship sailed onward, the sails rippling above him in loud swaying movements, he could almost pretend that he was not on the ground, that he was not at sea, and that maybe—just maybe—he was somewhere else.
That place he had not been since he was young and foolishly wild.
He smelled her before he saw her. Felt her before she spoke.
"I’m surprised you’re this close to the edge. I didn’t think you wanted to dance with water ever again."
"I felt you," Luella said. "I was drawn up here because you felt so… lonely. Yet free. I wanted to see what could incite such emotion."
Graves opened his eyes and turned, leaning back against the railing. The wood dug into his spine, and he crossed his arms, relishing in the weightless recklessness of relying solely on the railing to keep him from toppling down into the dark, depthless waters.
Luella stood in soft tan breeches and a too-large blouse cut for her folded wings—Bastian had worked tirelessly through the clothes for her to find something small enough to fit. Her feathers rippled in the wind, white hair fluttering.
She hugged herself, looking small and breakable, swaying slightly with every gust.
Her scent was ripe, but not as thick and heady as it had been the few times he knew her demon had touched her.
Graves let out a heavy sigh. Good. He did not think he could handle her sweet, enticing scent in his current state.
With every bob of the ship across the waves, they grew nearer to their destination, and he felt himself change.
The pieces of jagged rock he had built to protect himself cracked. His heart’s guard shifted from centuries-forged steel to crumbled stone. Like the castle they had left behind, he felt himself fall apart.
Eyeing her wings, jealousy raged inside him.
Gods, he would have to keep her safe. They had all talked about their plan when they reached the Isles, but Graves was at a loss. He knew he would be forced to do something he did not wish to, but if it meant keeping her safe, well…
Graves would endure it. He would endure much for her.
"Graves?" she hesitantly asked, breaking him from his staring. He could stare at her for hours. Fuck, he had before—many times.
"Luella," he countered lowly.
Her teeth dug into her bottom lip, and she hugged herself tighter against a harsh gust of wind. Was that her wind?
"I’m sorry. I’ll go." Luella turned to leave, eyes downcast.
Graves stopped her with a hand reaching toward her. "Wait," he rasped, and she stilled. "Don’t go. Stay."
Not turning, she whispered, "It is hard to be so close to the edge."
He took a step forward, leaving the safety of the railing that dug into his back. As he reached for her, he felt what she did—loneliness, hopelessness, and yearning all wrapped in delicate threads. He didn’t want her to feel that way.
"Do you remember," Graves started, "that day, when we spoke on the balcony of your room?"
Her small hands gripped her elbows, the base of her wings twitching.
She didn’t respond for a few moments, and he found himself holding his breath.
Had she forgotten? Graves never had. He visited that memory often, remembering the feel of her in his arms as he held her on the balcony, how she had leaned back into him, so trusting, as he spoke low in her ear.
Graves let his eyelids drift shut. "You used to imagine you were a bird."
"I did," she said softly, "but that was… foolish of me."
"Why?" He felt like he might die if he did not know every one of her secrets, crack open her mind, and peek inside.
Gods, he was so envious of the vampire, but Bastian was trying to win her back, so he didn’t even allow himself to look.
If Graves could search inside her mind, he wondered if he’d ever even leave, or if he would build a home inside her head and let himself drift through the halls of her thoughts, forevermore.
Luella finally turned, wobbling as the wind blew around them, so loud it drowned out the sound of her voice—but not from him, never from him. "Because now I can f-fly, and I’m still trapped. Having wings does not equate to freedom." A sob echoed her words.
She had no idea.
Graves held out a hand for her, palm upturned and awaiting. "Let me show you that you can still fly."
The tip of her nose was red from the chill; though, the air warmed as they neared the Isles. Soon, even he would be shrugging off his thick cloaks in lieu of the breezy garb they all wore.
Luella took a hesitant step closer to him, and his hands closed around hers, feeling her delicate bones thread through his fingers as he held her dearly. The ship rocked, and she stumbled into him with a soft sound of protest.
It was all Graves needed to take her fully into his embrace. "There, now we’re both at the edge," he said.
Her hands fisted in the folds of his cloak, and for one moment, he wished he did not wear it, so as to feel her body pressed up against his entirely.
But his cloaks were a second skin to him.
He had spent so long shrouding himself in shadows and secrecy, he wondered if he would ever truly be able to rid himself of it.
The wind ripped through their hair and clothes, stinging against his face as he held her. Slowly, he walked backward, keeping her in his arms as he felt his back brush against the railing. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the churning, dark sea.
"When I held you on the balcony, I showed you what it might be like to fly. Do you want to try again?"
Her chin brushed his chest as she stared up at him, blue eyes wide, like the sea in the summertime—not at all like the thick, pressing wintry night they faced.
"Yes," she breathed.
Graves gently turned her in his arms, facing them both out at the sea.
She grew tense, but he held her carefully.
Between them, her wings brushed his chest, and it took everything inside of him not to lean down and let himself skim his lips over the soft upper curve of them, blow sweet breaths over the feathers, and make her shiver from his touches. He knew how sensitive they were.
Facing the sea, her hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.
Her fear flowed thickly down their bond.
Tharen and Vale were overseeing the ship this night.
He could not see him from where they were, but he hoped they would not come, feeling her fear—the other two were below deck, sleeping, supposedly.
But he wasn’t sure how long that would last if she kept sending her terror to them all like a cry for help.
"Sweetheart," he grumbled against the top of her head. "You need to relax. I’m holding you, and I’m not going to let you go. It’s just like that day on the balcony. You were the one to tell me that day, that it felt as though you were flying. Let me show you how to fly now."
"It’s so different now. Because I am able to fly." Her backside pressed into his front as she spoke, and he bit back a groan at the soft feel of her. "Though, I cannot. And I wonder if I could, would I want to?"
"You would. Trust me. Once you have a taste of the air and freedom, you will never want to relinquish it.
" Graves spoke more freely when it was just the two of them.
He often felt like no one would ever know him as well as himself, but with her, it was different.
He was saying too much, revealing too much.
He knew, soon, it would all be in the open, but gods, he wanted to have this for a while longer.
Luella’s innocent trust was as consuming as the wind.
His hands moved from holding her shoulders to brushing against her waist. Under her flowing shirt, he felt the harsh ridges of her bandages around her midsection. He rubbed over it delicately. "How do you feel?"