Braith
Iwake to the sound of breathing that isn't mine.
For a moment, I lie perfectly still on the dark furs, disoriented by the unfamiliar space.
Pale light filters through tall windows, and the scent of cold stone and iron fills my lungs.
Then memory returns—the Orchard, Jesseth, the way I climaxed in front of strangers while Kiakoa fed from my throat.
He lies beside me on the massive stone bed, closer than when we settled down last night. His face is turned toward me, dark hair falling across sharp cheekbones. In sleep, he looks younger, less controlled. The harsh lines of constant vigilance have softened into something almost peaceful.
I study his features in the morning light. The pale skin that has been warming since our first feeding. The mouth that has tasted my blood, my pain, my pleasure. The strong line of his jaw, relaxed now in a way I've never seen while he's awake.
My body responds to the memory of those lips on my throat, those teeth piercing my skin. Wetness builds between my thighs at the recollection of his hands holding me steady while I shook with release.
His eyes open, golden and instantly alert. One moment asleep, the next fully conscious. Those burning eyes fix on mine, and I feel the familiar pull of connection between us.
“You're staring,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
“You're worth staring at.”
Something flickers across his expression at the compliment. Surprise, maybe. Or uncertainty. As if he's not accustomed to being seen as anything other than a threat or a lord to be feared.
“Did you rest well?” he asks.
“Better than I have in years.” I don't expect to be so direct. “You?”
“I did not expect to rest at all. But yes.”
We lie facing each other in the weak morning light, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
The connection forged in the Orchard hums between us, stronger after a night of sharing space.
I want to touch him, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, to see if his skin is as warm as it appears.
Before I can act on the impulse, a sharp knock interrupts the moment. He sits up immediately, the peaceful expression vanishing behind his usual mask of controlled alertness.
“Master.” Scratch's voice carries through the heavy door. “Forty-eight years, seventy-one days until my service ends. And we have uninvited guests.”
He rises from the bed, his movements economical and swift, crossing to the door. When he opens it, Scratch's six eyes take in the scene—me rumpled and disheveled on the furs, the clear indication that we spent the night together.
“Details,” Kiakoa commands.
“Small force approaching from the west. Eight riders, flying no banners but wearing Vasek's colors.” Scratch pauses, his attention flickering between us. “They maintain proper distance from our gates, but their intentions appear... observational.”
“Scouts.”
“Most likely. Though they make no effort to conceal themselves.”
Kiakoa nods curtly. “Alert the border guards. Standard positions, but no aggressive action unless they breach our perimeter.”
“Already done, Master.”
The door closes, leaving us alone again. In daylight, the dress looks intimate rather than formal, clinging to my body in ways that emphasize every curve.
“Eight riders isn't exactly an invasion,” I say.
“No. But it's not diplomacy either.” He moves to the tall wardrobe, selecting practical clothes—dark leather and wool that will allow freedom of movement. “Word travels fast. One of Jesseth’s guards must have been in Vasek’s pay.”
“What does he expect to learn?”
“Whether I am truly strengthened by our connection or simply distracted by it.” Kiakoa fastens a sword belt around his waist, the familiar weight seeming to settle him into his role as protector. “Whether you are an asset or a weakness.”
“And what will he find?”
“That depends on how we handle the next few hours.”
The walk back to my chambers takes longer than it should. He keeps stopping, finding excuses to touch me—brushing hair from my face, checking the healed bite marks on my throat. Each contact is brief but deliberate, as if he needs physical confirmation that last night happened.
“We should prepare for—” he starts, then stops when I turn to face him in the narrow corridor.
“For what?”
“For whatever comes next.” His hands come up to cup my jaw, his thumbs brushing against my skin. “I have never had anything worth protecting before. The feeling is... unsettling.”
“Good unsettling or bad unsettling?”
“I don't know yet.”
I rise on my toes, bringing my mouth close to his. “Kiss me.”
“Braith—”
“Not feeding. Not politics. Just... kiss me.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat, then his mouth captures mine. The kiss is gentle at first, almost careful, as if he's afraid I might break. But when I press closer, demanding more, his control cracks.
His lips part mine, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my pussy throb. I can taste cold stone and something uniquely him. When I bite his lower lip gently, he makes a sound that goes straight to my core.
We break apart breathing hard, both of us flushed and wanting more.
“Later,” I promise, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “After we deal with whatever Vasek is planning.”
“Later,” he agrees, but his eyes burn with promise.
I change into more practical clothing while shadow servants flutter anxiously around me. Dark wool and leather, garments that match Kiakoa's choice—functional but well-made, allowing movement while maintaining dignity.
As I dress, I notice the shadow servants behaving strangely. They cluster near the windows, their wispy forms pressing against the glass before drifting toward the walls. One phases through the stone, disappearing for several moments before returning with obvious agitation.
Three more servants join the first, all of them flickering with unusual intensity. They swirl around me, reaching for objects on my desk—a quill, a piece of paper, anything they can briefly grasp to get my attention.
“What is it?” I ask them directly.
They can't answer in words, but they drift toward the window again, more insistent this time. I follow, looking out at the landscape beyond the castle walls.
The eight riders are visible now, positioned on a ridge about a mile from our gates. Professional spacing, clear sightlines to our defenses, but maintaining respectful distance. Exactly what I'd expect from a reconnaissance mission.
But the shadow servants grow more agitated, not less. One phases through the wall again, bringing back two more when it returns. Soon, a dozen wispy forms cluster around me, all trying to communicate something urgent.
Understanding strikes me suddenly. They're not trying to show me the riders I can see. They're detecting something I can't see.
“What is it?” I whisper.
They lead me through corridors toward different windows, each offering views of various approaches to the castle.
At first, I see nothing unusual through each pane of glass.
Then one servant manages to grasp my wrist—cold pressure that barely registers as touch—and guides my attention to a specific section of forest.
There. A flicker of movement between twisted trees. Then another, in a different location. And another.
The eight visible riders aren't the real threat. They're the distraction. While our attention focuses on them, other forces are moving into position around the castle. But these aren't just random scouts—they're moving toward something specific.
The Bone Orchard.
“Where's Kiakoa?” I ask the servants.
They swirl around me, agitation increasing. One points toward the main hall, another toward the armory. He's handling the visible threat while the real danger approaches his most valuable possession.
I run.
I find him on the castle's main wall, studying the visible riders through a spyglass. Border guards occupy defensive positions along the battlements, arrows nocked but not drawn. Everything looks controlled, professional, appropriate for the level of threat they can see.
“The Orchard,” I gasp, slightly out of breath from running. “They're moving on the Orchard.”
He lowers the spyglass immediately, golden eyes focusing on me. “Explain.”
“The shadow servants detected movement in the forests. Multiple groups, all positioned to approach the fruit trees while we're distracted by the riders.” I point toward the visible scouts.
His jaw tightens. “How many?”
“I couldn't get an exact count, but at least a dozen. Maybe more.”
He hands the spyglass to one of the guards and turns toward the stairs leading down from the wall. “Show me.”
We move quickly through the castle, taking a direct route across the inner courtyards. “They're using the riders as a diversion,” I explain, my words coming in short bursts as I match his long strides. “The servants showed me at least a dozen more moving through the forest, heading for the grove.”
Shadow servants swirl around us, their forms more coherent than I've ever seen them, as if my understanding gives them strength to manifest more fully.
“They're already harvesting,” Kiakoa says, his voice a low growl. His pace quickens.
We emerge into the grove just as the attack begins.
The bone-white trees stretch toward the sky, their intertwining branches creating a canopy of clicking, hollow sounds. The fruit hangs heavy from twisted stems—heart-shaped pods pulsing with faint red light, each one containing decades of concentrated pain.
And moving between the trees, dark figures in nondescript leather.
There are more of them than I expected. At least a dozen thieves work quickly between the bone trees, using curved knives to cut fruit from the stems.
Kiakoa freezes beside me, his entire body going rigid as he processes what he's seeing. His breathing changes, becoming slower and deeper. The temperature around us drops several degrees.
“They're stealing decades of growth,” he says, and his voice has changed. Lower, rougher, carrying undertones that make my spine tingle with warning. “Generations of cultivation.”
The man near the closest tree looks up from his work, alerted by the sound of voices. His eyes widen when he sees us standing at the grove's edge. He draws a breath to shout a warning to his companions.
But the sight of Kiakoa stops the words in his throat.
The lord I've grown accustomed to—controlled, diplomatic, careful—is gone. In his place stands something else entirely. Something that makes the thief's hand shake so violently he drops his curved blade.
The other thieves notice their companion's terror. One by one, they stop their harvesting to stare at the figure standing motionless between the trees.
Kiakoa's golden eyes burn brighter than I've ever seen them. His hands curl at his sides, fingers positioned more like claws than human appendages. When he takes a step toward the nearest thief, his movement carries a predatory quality that makes every instinct I possess scream warnings.
The first thief tries to back away, stumbling over the gnarled roots that snake across the grove floor. His breathing comes in short, panicked gasps as Kiakoa approaches with deliberate, unhurried steps.
“You,” Kiakoa says, his voice carrying clearly through the grove, “have made a mistake.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with promise of violence. The other thieves begin reaching for their weapons—short swords, fighting daggers, tools designed for close combat in confined spaces.
But they're too slow.
The first thief opens his mouth—to call a warning, to surrender, to beg. He never gets the chance.
Kiakoa moves.