Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Dahlia
Under the soft glow of worms, I pull Lagos’ black shirt off with one hand and cup my side with the other, supporting it. I ache, but I’m slow and careful as I move and stretch.
I leave my knickers on.
Prickles race across my thighs and arms; every little blonde hair stands to attention as the salty air kisses my skin.
There are rocks to get closer to the careening ceiling of the cave, closer to the downpour. I have always liked a bit of pressure when I shower. I take the steps and shiver as the cool ocean water blankets my body.
My breasts draw up, nipples stiffening on the small mounds. I am sure my body feels healthier than it should, thanks to Lagos. A hazy memory of his hands cleaning me in the cove, applying cool compression to my wounds, comes back in flashes. With them, guilt. I yelled at him. Lashed out.
I shouldn’t have.
I should thank him.
Sighing, I wash my arms and chest. The water pinches at my open wounds, reminding me that salt and minerals mingle in the clear fluid. That’s good. The Cradle’s natural antibacterial source.
Pulling my red hair forward over my shoulders, I work my fingers through the wavy tangles. I flick my hair back, the long, water-soaked strands slapping my spine. I feel good for a moment and forget, twisting to clean my backside when the pain in my rib roars.
A cry breaks my lips seconds before the thundering of heavy feet approaches from behind me.
“Flower—”
I turn around and freeze. Lagos is only a few metres away, staring at me naked and dripping with water.
The cave shrinks, a narrowed world that includes only his gaze and me. His eyes fall to my toes, lazily travelling upward, lingering at my trembling thighs, over my belly to my breasts.
His attention snaps to my eyes.
I blink at him. Speak. Say something . “I’m fine. I just… twisted in a...” I swallow as he strides toward me. “Strange way.”
“ Mine .” The depth of his tone rumbles through me, and I can’t breathe. As he stalks into the downpour with his clothes on, he adds, “To keep safe,” in a way that seems forced. As if that wasn’t what he meant at all. That ‘ mine’ was the word urged up his throat, cut from a deeper thought he wants to deny.
He stops a stony step lower than me. I peer up at him, standing so close that his massive body blocks me from the downpour, offering me only the rush of water that touches him first.
It is overwhelmingly intimate.
And I see his nictitating membrane for the first time. The third eyelid swipes from the side, clearing the tiny beads of water from his near-black irises. It is a unique Xin De trait that humans engineered. The gene was originally copied from birds or some other beast.
His warm hands grip my hips. “Turn around slowly.” He eases me to face the other direction. My heart races up my throat while I oblige, now staring at the rocky formation.
His body isn’t touching mine, but I feel the entire length radiating from my ankles to the last red hair on my head.
“I didn’t like that,” he states.
My brain is mush. “Didn’t like what?”
With one hand holding my hip, the other slides across my belly and up between my breasts. He washes across my chest lazily, possessively. “Filth coming from your sweet lips.”
I can’t move. Parts of me want to tell him to leave, and much stronger parts want every inch of him to stay. Close. “That’s a you issue, Lagos,” I manage to say, and am so proud of myself.
But he continues, unfazed. “You talking about sex and getting fucked—” His hand lowers, huge and warm, caressing my belly. “By some Common boy.” Every tiny muscle beneath his touch clenches and awakens. “Most of fucking all,” he grinds out, “I despise the way Tomar looks at you.”
I moan uncontrollably.
“Your moans are so fucking sweet. I wonder if you moaned in your sleep or if these are also mine.” His praise is a deep caress, and I want more. When his firm torso meets my back, the long, hard surface is like a wall closing in. I shiver. Oh my, I’m caught between massive hands and his body. Caught…
I feel a private place between my legs clench and unclench, restless. Demanding. My feet shuffle apart on their own accord, welcoming him. A big hand moves down into my knickers.
My heart thrashes in my neck, between my ears, beating all over my skin. It is any wonder I can hear him, but his voice is clear and depthless. So deep it might be spoken directly into my mind.
“Do you want to know what a Lace Girl is to a Trade man? What they really are?”
His hand cups me between the thighs, and it is so big that his palm holds my pelvis while his fingers thread under me. Unable to stop myself, I rock in the cradle of his hand, my head spinning with confusion and something else…
“A tight cunt to fuck his sorrows into each night. She stays sweet. Stays pure. Humble. And she doesn’t see the effect she has on him. How she makes him vulnerable, unravel.” He presses something hard into my lower back. As I realise what it is, my eyes widen on the rocky structure ahead. “How obsessed he is with her. The Trade doesn’t want her to realise how much control she ultimately has. Fuck no.” He grinds against me and his long, thick middle finger skims my slit, drawing a whimper of need up my throat. “They can't let her have it. It's their control.”
“ Lagos …” I should stop him, but then two strong fingers slide up and down messily, touching me. I grind against his palm, and he hisses, grabbing me there. Hard.
“Stop, little flower,” he rasps, his timbre like gargled gravel. “You’re hurt. Let me play with you while you’re fragile and can’t stop me. Stay still. It’s not your fault. You’re not giving me your innocent mind. I am taking it from you.”
I drop my head back, meeting his hard torso as he awakens nerves that I didn’t know I had. He builds them up, up, up. Then there is no cave. No water. No pain. No salty spray. Just his fingers sliding up and down, and then?—
He edges one inside.
My mouth drops open and long moans escape my lips.
“Are you okay, Dahlia?” Tomar calls from around the corner.
I panic.
“Lagos!” I squirm.
“Answer him,” Lagos orders.
“What?”
“Answer him, or I will. And I will tell him exactly what I’m doing to your sweet body.”
“I’m… I’m fine,” I call out.
“Do you need me?” Tomar’s voice sails from behind a rock.
I feel Lagos’ chest rumble with annoyance, so I quickly spit out, “No, I’m a bit naked at the moment. A bit…” Vulnerable. “I’m fine.”
“Alright…” The word plays along a dubious tone, tight with suspicion.
Lagos growls, and his hard length beats against my spine like a threat. “Good girl. There are many things you should despise about me. But the way I make you come with my fingers isn't one of them, little flower.” He slides two long fingers inside me but stops at his first knuckle.
“ Oh!” I squeeze my eyes shut, fending off any more stimulation, waiting for him to push through but?—
His body turns to stone at my back, and he pauses, stopping my mind from spiralling. Stops the pleasure, the build-up, the brewing of something explosive?—
A huff leaves me, my lips pursing. Sulking. I am pretty sure I’m sulking.
“What…” I pant and squirm. His fingers are still through my slit but not moving. “Why did you stop? Is it over?”
I don’t mind.
That was nice, but ? —
Dark energy rushes from him right before he growls, “I’m sorry.” The hand on my hip releases me, moves to cover my mouth, and it all happens fast. Like a bolt of lightning. Energy that fizzles out of control. He adds a second finger and spears them both deep into me.
I cry out. “Ah!”
“I’m sorry,” he grunts from low in his chest as pain assaults me. Then he spears me again. “I’m sorry, little flower, I couldn’t stop myself.”
I’m crying behind his hand, his fingers catching my tears and whimpers as sensation assaults me with pain and—so much pleasure.
I am reeling. And he doesn’t stop for a moment or allow me to resist, fucking me with two fingers until the pain lessens and pleasure rolls forward, taking its place.
“You’re tight,” he rumbles at my spine. “Too tight for me. It’ll hurt every time.”
I’m out of my mind because I want to moan that I don’t care. At this moment of frenzy, I don’t care. How do I possibly say that? Who would desire such a thing? That I want the pain if it means I get the pleasure—one of life’s great experiences. That I want his warmth at my back, his voice vibrating through my spine, and the way he stirs me inside, thickening my senses.
“I want it,” I admit.
“Good girl.”
There is a direct line from his fingers to my lower belly, and he coils it until it’s so tight it strains and stains and?—
Snaps.
I arch my back on a cry, and his hand covers my entire chest, supporting me while something infinitely wonderful floods my body. My rib protests the shudders, but I barely feel it. Barely feel anything else besides Lagos.
I pulse around his fingers. It does feel like exploding while peeing… Just like Maple said.
“Mine,” he grates, restless. “Falling apart. Falling into depravity. I suppose you were right. Some things do look prettier when they fall.”
Tightness grips my thighs and holds on. Shudders of energy spark through me.
As it all eases, I slump against the rock-hard body behind me, my eyes fluttering open for the first time since it all started.
I stare ahead.
Lazily, Lagos’ hand moves from inside my knickers and slides over my body in the slick water. The skin of his fingers is rough, calloused, hot, and impossibly virile. At this moment, I finally understand what I like. My desires. What I am attracted to. What draws me, impresses me. It’s rough, hard edges, excitement, and strength. It’s everything I’m not used to, and what he is at his core.
Exhaustion closes in on me, but he massages his big hands over my body, igniting every cell, keeping me awake and aware.
My breasts rise and fall as I pant. They are tight, nipples beaded while big palms roll over them, wash them. Wash me . Everywhere.
“Mine.”
I’m touched and stroked with a kind of possessive dominance. His grip is firm, his reach without bounds, authoritarian— claiming.
I’m nodding— yes. I’m yours… until I’m safe. Yours. One of his hands slides between our bodies, and he grabs himself through his jeans, hissing. For just a moment, I feel him palming his erection. Releasing it fast, his hand descends to my backside and slides between my cheeks.
“Lagos?” I hold my breath as his forefinger and middle slide over my hole, the muscle puckering against the attention.
“I can do that,” I gasp.
I mean wash myself, though I’m not sure that’s all he’s doing. My toes curl when his index finger circles the rim. Heat floods my face, cheeks set ablaze by his dark touch.
“Mine.”
His hand disappeared from that special place, and I find the courage to turn around to face him.
“Time to get you dry,” he says, voice hoarse with restraints.
“Okay.” Due to being on a few rocky steps above him, I don’t need to arch my neck to the point of pain this time. So I stare directly into his steel-coloured gaze, comfortable.
Lagos softens, as I gaze up at him. “Little flower. Look at these bruises…” He touches my cheek, and his jaw pulses as his eyes linger on each bruise.
“Do I look ugly?”
“Not possible.”
Warm affection swirls around inside me, giving me a little more bravery. Enough to say, “That was… an experience. I’m sorry I was too tight, that it… was hard to get inside me.” Oh, my. Am I saying this all wrong?
“You’re apologising.” The softness dissolves instantly, his hand dropping, my words landing a blow unintentionally. “I hurt you. Took—” He bites down, locking words inside a cage of teeth. “You should be running from me, little flower.”
I blink at him, feeling sad. Just let yourself smile. Be kind, Lagos. I can see it inside you. Why are you fighting it?
“Doesn’t it always hurt,” I say, “a bit?” Sweets told me it hurts… I reach for his hand so naturally—almost like I’ve done it many times—and hold it. He lets me. Across his fingers, the sight of blood makes me blush, prickles of embarrassment moving up my neck and over my face.
“That’s my blood.” I swallow, that embarrassment burning beneath my cheeks. “Is that normal?”
His frown deepens.
“Well…” I start. His fingers are twice the length and width of mine. I turn his hand over and over, studying the tattoos and scars that mark him, that tell tales of pain and hardships. “Your hands are a bit bigger than mine are.” I smile up at him, desperate for the softness to return to his features. I need it. I’m naked and vulnerable while he’s slowly emotionally shutting down. “Remember,” I press, “Like the shirt? You’re a bit bigger than me.” Oh, stop talking. I’m trying so hard it’s humiliating.
A muscle in his jaw tightens, but my tedious lips won’t stop, won’t listen, won’t take his hints.
“Do you ever smile?” I breathe. “I won’t get used to it if that is what concerns you.”
A corner of his mouth softens. Yes. “You’ve seen me smile, little flower.”
I beam. “When?”
He steps backward and reaches behind his neck, pulling his shirt over his head. “After I killed that Endigo.”
Before I can frown at that, he uses the half-dry side to pat me down. I’m distracted by the smooth muscles that ripple across his shoulders as he moves. I don’t move like that; my body doesn’t operate like a machine, built and designed. His ancestors were engineered, after all—all Xin De were.
“I've seen you grin and smirk,” I argue, gripping his shoulders, dizzied by the thick and powerful way they respond. He dries my legs, one at a time, and I try to keep my balance.
“There's a difference?” he grunts, not looking into my eyes as he finishes patting water from me so that I don’t have to twist. That is the only reason for this care and consideration. Surely.
“Yes.”
Straightening, he reaches for his other shirt—well, my shapeless dress—and helps me into it, minding my wounded rib. “And that is?”
“Grins are...” Annoyance hits my temples. “Ugh. I don't know. It’s in the shape of the lips.”
“Please, little flower, tell me about my not-smile.”
“A smirk and a grin are…” I make patterns with my hands. “Like, shaped odd and tilted…”
“Yes…”
“Cruel,” I punch out, dropping my hands.
“Shaped odd and cruel?”
I glare at him. “And mean.”
Finally, my arm feeds through the hole of the shirt, and I’m free of his intoxicating hands and attention.
“A grin isn’t always cruel, more mischievous,” he states. “Isn’t it? A smirk can be cruel and unpleasant.”
“What?”
A huff of amusement leaves him, and my walls of annoyance and frustration crumble. It’s deep. So deep I feel the timbre thrum between my legs.
“Never mind,” he says. “Stupid conversation with a silly girl.”
He doesn’t always talk—loves a good grunt response—but when he does… It hits me—I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Through his rugged appearance and rebellious attitude, it never even crossed my mind. Lagos is too educated to have been born in the waste, to be an outlaw. He studied. Suspicion sets into my gaze as I measure him up again.
“You’re educated,” I state.
He stiffens. “Hm.”
I beam at him. “Too educated to be a rogue brute.”
With what could be a chuckle but too controlled, he repeats, "A rogue brute?"
“Yes.” Smoothing the shirt down my body, I feel clear and level and buzzing from my first-ever… climax. A great experience, Maple. Truly.
And I’m getting to know him; if he’s educated, then he has a Trade. If he has a Trade… then he must have a Trade name!
“What does Lagos mean?” I ask, eyeing him, watching tension build through his muscles, pump into them. Warn me—I shouldn’t ask. I should stop, but I’m mindless with what just happened between us. “Is it a geographic name?”
He stares at me, his third eyelid flicking across. Thick tattooed arms the size of trunks fold over his broad chest, pressing each bicep out further. “Lake.”
“It means lake.” I nod slowly. “In which language?”
“ What language?”
“That’s what I said.”
“An old one.”
“So...” I wiggle my brows, excited to be talking to him like this, to finally see a glimpse of the man inside the brute. “You were born a Trade man!” That sentence falls out with warm joy because he was once like me. And looking at him, it’s hard to believe he has ever conformed, or that anyone could tell him where to be or what to do, but only Trade men and women have geographical names. “What was your Trade?”
Then it all changes.
His demeanour stills the air.
Cruel, unyielding detachment claw into his black gaze, severing my mood. I swallow and shrink backward, but it’s too late.
“I'm not a man at all,” he bites out, sharp like the crack of a leather belt, harsh and final and powerful enough to make me flinch. To flatten my smile and hurt my heart. “Stop humanising me! Just because your pussy has been wrapped around my fingers doesn’t make me human. Just because you want me to be won’t make it happen. You'll be disappointed, Lace Girl . Stick with cruel and mean and add further substitutes if you wish, perhaps brutal and vile and murderous.”
He called me Lace Girl…
My lower lip trembles. “Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean I have to!”
Suddenly, he snatches my throat and possesses me, leaning down until we are nose to nose.
“Your hate for me was the only thing I liked about you.”
If he punched me, it would hurt less. “You don’t mean that.” My chin dimples as I hide my need to cry. “I never really hated you, Lagos. I was afraid and lost, and you were mean, but you have shown me you care. You don’t have to pretend that?—"
“You’re embarrassing yourself! I just wanted your soft, young pussy on my fingers, Lace Girl,” he growls, releasing me with disgust. “I don’t care about you.” He turns from me.
I wrap my arms around my stomach, holding myself. Long legs take him away from me. I watch his naked back, muscles roiling beneath tattooed skin.
The cave around me fades and I’m suddenly alone with the weight of this moment pressing on my heart. I let him touch me.
Let myself enjoy it.
I can’t forget it.
Sleep it away.
And I don’t want to.
I watch him in silence, waiting for him to disappear from view before slowly heading back to the boat, because where else can I go? Nowhere.
My steps are slow, like my heart. By the time I get back to the room, I’m ready to burst into tears. I see Spero is awake but not making much fuss. He must have been fed by Tomar.
Absently, I scoop Spero into my arms. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pain and manage to get onto the bed with him. I lie down on my good side, which happens to be with my face to the wall, and tuck my tiny burden in the curve of my torso.
My skin still hums from Lagos’ rough, possessive touch, while between my legs, a heavy pulse resonates as if blood rushes to a fresh wound.
A tear slides down my temple, nesting in my ear. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking him personal questions, wanting to get to know him. He is just a brute, nothing more. Not a Trade man who I can maybe relate to, but a rogue. A Xin De monster with no heart, no kindness at all?—
I sigh. I can’t convince myself. Sobs fall heavier because it’s not true. There is kindness, sweetness, and a gentle touch. I have felt it—seen it.
Why is he like this?