CHAPTER FORTY
40
Xul
I am many things.
There’s more to me than secrets, flesh, and the whispers of forgotten shadows.
I am a creature of pact and purpose, a being who has walked this earth shouldering burdens most wouldn’t dare fathom.
Pain, anger, loneliness – these are mere facets of the gem I am. They are the shadows that carve a man, but I am not just a man.
They call me Godmaster, a title I wear with quiet indifference. Some see me as a Prince of Wrath, a fearsome entity, but the truth lies far grander.
I am a god, a capital ‘G’ in all its terrifying glory. Draven may hold court, but I am the one who wields the power to make mountains crumble and oceans churn.
My wrath, when unleashed, is a force unlike any other. The kind that could make even the most stout spine turn to jelly with a flick of my metaphorical wrist.
Yet, for all my power, I don’t crave ostentation.
My power speaks for itself, a silent language etched in the lines around my eyes and the raw energy that crackles in the air when I’m near.
I am the godmaster, reserved, calculating, a silent observer.
I don’t court attention – my very essence speaks volumes.
This solitude, however, breeds a gnawing loneliness, a hollowness that even eons cannot erase.
I have seen and endured things that would shatter even the most resolute soul.
I’ve walked through the fires of hell, emerging unscathed.
Those flames didn’t touch me; they merely stoked the inferno that burns within.
They sculpted me from shadows, bone, and the very essence of power.
I am no mere being. I am a god.
A god needs no gaudy throne like Draven’s.
My throne is the brilliance in my eyes, the power that courses through my veins, the dominion I hold at my fingertips.
With a mere thought, I could crumble mountains, shift continents, unleash pandemonium upon the world, or drown it in an endless deluge.
And yes, that god is me.
Power doesn’t crave attention; it commands it.
Elarabeth Vance, my only solace, has glimpsed this truth.
In the depths of her beautiful honey brown eyes, I saw a flicker of recognition – a glimpse of the god beneath the man.
The “Shadows of Styxfall” is a dangerous game.
It lays bare the soul, be it god, demon, or mere mortal. It whispers secrets that can shatter the unprepared, truths too heavy to bear.
Tread carefully within its grasp, for knowledge is a double-edged sword.
I know what Elara craves. It’s me.
I know what her body craves. It’s me.
I know what her mind craves. It’s the ‘truth.’
I know what her soul craves. It’s ‘knowledge’ and ‘peace’ from a fragile truce my brother struck with a Chimeran leader years ago.
But what did I crave? Indifference. To be left out of the grand machinations of my brothers. Not destruction, like some craved, nor the fragile peace Elarabeth yearned for, nor Draven’s gnawing hunger for vengeance. I craved only the feel of her, raw and alive, pressed against my skin. The image of her lips wrapped around my length, the heat of her taking me in, deeper and deeper, ignited a fire in my gut. Fuck. I crave sex.
But I’ll honor the answers Elarabeth now seeks from me.
Who am I?
Her touch vanished from my chest, but my hand remained on her waist. This fucking waist of hers is going nowhere. “That’s not a nice way to ask about me, is it, my ‘One’?”
A heated breath escapes her. “You’re right. Let me start from the top. Who are you?”
“A godmaster,” I responded.
“Not that,” she snapped, her gaze unwavering. There was a challenge in her eyes, a desire to pierce through the veil. My past, my secrets – they were shrouded in a thick fog, impenetrable to all but the most determined. And maybe, just maybe, she possessed that kind of strength. It was a fascinating thought. “I’m asking, what really are you?”
I fought the urge to scowl. “Oh, what am I? A hybrid, of course.”
Disappointment flickered across her features, a fleeting emotion that sent a jolt through me. When her eyes darted down, away from my gaze, a wave of possessiveness, raw and unfamiliar, threatened to drown me. It felt like I could go insane.
“Look at me,” I commanded, a low rumble in my chest as her eyes met mine. Gods above, those were the very eyes that could unravel my sanity with a single glance. They darted back and forth, searching, trying to pierce the veil of my power. Naive. Reading a mage of my caliber was a feat beyond her current abilities. She knew it too, a tremor of uncertainty flickering in her gaze. Perhaps she’d only managed a glimpse before, a fleeting touch through the connection I’d forged by opening her eyes. That was all she got then, and it clearly wasn’t enough. It brought a silent amusement to my lips as I watched her struggle.
“You want to know who I am?” I asked, my grip tightening on her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. Her hand instinctively reached for my chest to steady herself, the closeness intoxicating. “I am a god, Elarabeth,” I declared, a deliberate pause hanging in the air. “And with my blood coursing through your veins, you are mine. My One, my sole vassal, bound not just to my will, but to my very heart.”
Her eyes, though entranced, held a flicker of unsatisfied curiosity. “Is there more you seek, my One?” I inquired, easily parsing the thoughts swirling behind those captivating irises.
“Yes,” she finally breathed, her voice regaining some semblance of control. “Does a god… my god… control the shadows of Styxfall?” she whispered, the question revealing a deeper purpose behind her inquiries.
Ah, Elarabeth Vance, my curious creation. Your thirst for knowledge is insatiable.
A slow smile played on my lips. “And why, my love,” I rumbled, a hint of danger lacing my voice, “do you pry into such matters, Elarabeth, after I’ve already addressed your previous inquiry?”
“You did something impossible and unexplainable, Xulin. Either you created the ‘shadows of Styxfall’ or...” She trailed off, her voice faltering.
I dipped my head, eyes locking onto hers. “So, you think I created the ‘shadows of Styxfall’?”
“As you said, you’re a god. It only makes sense that it was you,” she replied, her eyes searching mine. “But did you really create the ‘shadows of Styxfall’?”
“No,” I said curtly, my forehead pressing against hers. “But I did create you, my ‘One’ and ‘Only.’“ With my blood coursing through her veins, half my power now hers, Elarabeth Vance was indeed my creation. “Does that answer your question, love?” I asked, our lips mere inches apart.
“Hmm,” she hummed, a flicker of something new igniting in her gaze. “So how did you do it? How were you able to manipulate the pages of the ‘Shadows of Styxfall’?”
“Haven’t I answered that already?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Then guess,” I leaned in, capturing her lower lip between mine. Her breath hitched, a delicious tremor coursing through her body. “Have you guessed it?” My lips drifted upwards, taking hers in a slow, possessive kiss.
A muffled moan escaped her lips, a response far more eloquent than any words. “Mmm...” she breathed, her body melting against mine.
“Then whisper it, my ‘One,’” I rasped, our tongues dancing in a heated tango. “Tell me the answer you’ve unearthed.”
Her voice, laced with breathless surrender, echoed in the space. “You’re a god...” It was no surprise; I’d quenched that particular thirst before. Still, a flicker of satisfaction sparked within me. A correct answer, after all. Wrong one, and I wouldn’t have minded shredding those flimsy clothes and claiming her right here, right now with nothing to hold onto but the air around us. Still, a correct answer deserved a reward.
“Call me your god, El,” I rasped, my voice a seductive purr. “I crave the sound of it on your lips.” My tongue delved deeper, igniting a firestorm within her.
“You’re my god, Xulin,” she breathed, her words laced with a raw hunger that mirrored my own. Our kiss deepened, a desperate exploration that threatened to consume us both. I wanted to lose myself in her, to devour her with kisses until the world faded away. Just as I was about to cross that line, she pulled back, her eyes widening in surprise.
A single page from the ‘Shadows of Styxfall’ hovered in the air between us, seemingly beckoning our attention. As the Godmaster, particularly the Godmaster of Time, I couldn’t ignore its significance.
While the ‘Shadows of Styxfall’ had begun as a physical book, it now existed as a living entity, its pages constantly rewriting themselves with new chapters and stories.
You might wonder who writes these pages, but the answer is no one. It’s the Fates themself weaving the narrative, and this new page demanded our attention.
“A new story,” I murmured, realizing she had noticed it before I did, my mind still clouded by our heated exchange. “Shall we see what it holds?”
Her eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. She nodded eagerly, and I leaned down for one last, lingering kiss. This time, I held back, allowing her to savor the sensation before it inevitably faded. After all, I wouldn’t want to deprive her of all feeling – not yet.
Withdrawing reluctantly, I straightened, a grin cracking across my face. With a flick of my wrist and a surge of power that caused my eyes to glow, I guided the single page closer until it rested at a comfortable distance. Spells and magic demanded complete focus, and this was no exception.
Elarabeth’s gaze locked on the levitating page, the inscription sucking her attention like a black hole. Her fingertips hovered just above its surface, a hesitant dance yearning for contact. I knew the consequences, the jolt that awaited a curious touch.
“Don’t—” My warning came a split second too late. Elara, unable to resist the lure, brushed her fingers against the shimmering paper. An immediate electric shock ripped through her, sending a yelp and a flinch in its wake.
“—touch it,” I finished lamely. The damage was done.
“Bloody hell, Xulin! What in the nine hells was that?” she spat, rubbing her stinging finger.
“These pages,” I explained, “aren’t written with mundane ink. They’re etched by the Fates themselves, imbued with an energy that can be… volatile. A brush of the hand and you get zapped like a fly on an electric fence.”
“You could’ve warned me sooner,” Elara huffed, her voice laced with a playful pout. “Something like, ‘Please, Elarabeth, refrain from manhandling the forbidden pages of destiny, lest you incur their wrath.’“ Her attempt to mimic my tone sent a spark through me, a warmth that intensified at the sight of her sucking on her singed finger, a childish attempt to soothe the sting, did little to quell the sudden heat scorching my insides. Fuck. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“I did try to warn you,” I countered, the word heavy on my tongue. “But you, Elarabeth, have a talent for ignoring both warnings and common sense. Didn’t Emilia ever teach you to keep your curious hands to yourself?”
“Mom’s warnings rarely stick,” she mumbled, removing her finger with a flick of her lips. Then, a sly smile spread across her face. “But I might listen to you...” she added, tilting her head and batting her eyelashes with an exaggerated innocence. “My ‘One’?” The endearment sent a shiver down my spine.
Elarabeth listening to me? Now that was a concept worth pondering, considering her rebellious nature. “We’ll see how long this newfound obedience lasts,” I muttered under my breath.
Her playful facade momentarily forgotten, Elara refocused on the levitating page. “So, what does it say?” she asked, inching closer with a cautious curiosity. I mirrored her movement, our eyes locked on the inscription as we drifted closer, a silent agreement to decipher the secrets held within the Fates’ handiwork.
A grimace twisted my features as I wrestled with the archaic script sprawled across the parchment.
The Shadows of Styxfall, notorious for its cryptic pronouncements, boasted a dizzying array of handwritings – none adhering to a singular, decipherable language.
Thankfully, years of deciphering such indecipherable scribbles had honed my skill.
Elara, frustration etched on her brow, finally voiced the question burning in her honey brown eyes. “What tongue is it written in?”
“Uncertain,” I admitted, a touch of smugness coloring my tone. “The Shadows are known for a dialect understood only by the Godmasters...” I trailed off, catching a playful glint in her gaze.
“Oh, how very convenient for a powerful god,” she quipped, rolling her eyes. “Now, spill the beans, what does it say?”
My gaze scanned the page meticulously. Though the script remained a mystery to the naked eye, a familiar hum resonated within my skull.
The arcane words seemed to meld and coalesce, forming a comprehensible message in my mind.
What appeared a lengthy passage to Elara condensed to a single, potent word upon translation.
This revelation confirmed the gnawing unease Elara had meticulously planted within me.
A weighty silence descended upon us. Elara’s sharp eyes darted between me and the text, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face.
“Well?” she finally prodded, her voice barely a whisper. “What does it say?”
My gaze drifted from the archaic script on the parchment, snagging on Elara’s inquisitive glint. “War,” I declared curtly. With a sharp flick of my wrist, the levitating page crackled in mid-air, not a tear – this was no ordinary paper. It was a reflection of words, a mirror of sorts. The crack that snaked across the surface revealed a true mirror beneath, the writing still faintly reflected to Elara’s wide-eyed astonishment.
“What the…” her voice trailed off, laced with confusion.
“The ‘Shadows of Styxfall’ pages have a way of deceiving, El,” I explained, gesturing towards the cracked mirror. “What appears on the surface isn’t always reality. This…” I continued, referring to the cracked mirror, “is the true form of the ‘Shadow of Styxfall.’ It manifests as a mirror now, but touch it, and it becomes electrified. It allows passage within, to witness what lies beyond…”
Elara remained visibly confused, and with good reason. She was a novice, still navigating the complexities of spells and the witch’s way of life. A long, treacherous path lay ahead.
Her eyes darted from me to the cracked mirror, her breathing quickening. The inscription remained visible, but its meaning eluded her. A silent curse escaped my lips.
“You were right, Elarabeth,” I conceded softly.
“What?” she snapped, her gaze returning to mine.
“You were right,” I repeated with emphasis. “My brothers are definitely plotting, and for the first time, the ‘fates’ themselves seem to believe it might succeed.” The emphasis on “for the first time” was deliberate. This wasn’t their first attempt to overthrow Draven, defy him, shatter the seven-hundred-year truce between humans and vampires. But their efforts had always failed. Anytime they tried to draw me in, I extricated myself. It was either Vorax or Cassian leading this charade. Their plans always unraveled, and the ‘fates’ remained silent unless they sensed genuine danger. Now, with their pronouncement, it was more than war – it was an inevitable bloodbath.
To underscore the severity, I added in a low voice, “There’s going to be war, Elarabeth.”
A sliver of hope, however faint, flickered in her voice. “We can stop this,” she declared, then faltered, “..well, you can. If you can just reason with your brothers for once. Don’t join them. I know this chaos, this war on the horizon, can be averted.”
“So you’re suggesting we rewrite the fates themselves?” I almost scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
A frown creased her brow. “Before seeking you out,” she began, her voice firm, “I foresaw war brewing, peace fracturing, laws trampled upon. Lord Draven, I believe, is the catalyst. If he can be made aware of this...” she trailed off, searching for the right words. “If he can be persuaded to speak with his disgruntled brothers, perhaps this war, this so-called decree of the fates, can be forestalled.”
I couldn’t deny her a certain regal air, the way she spoke of intervention with such conviction. “So, you propose I inform Lord Draven...?” The question hung in the air.
She nodded curtly. “Indeed.”
“Absolutely not,” I rumbled.
Her surprise was evident. “But why? You’ve read the prophecy – war is imminent, peace shattered, unless action is taken.”
“Draven,” I spat, a surge of anger coursing through me, “undoubtedly dreamt of this conflict. A powerful mage like him wouldn’t miss such a premonition. Perhaps he doesn’t care. Perhaps he seeks to exploit this chaos, to use it as a bridge back to his deceased wife, now that her reincarnation resides within the very walls of his manor.” The last part tumbled out, a confession fueled by simmering fury.
A strangled gasp escaped Elara’s lips. Her eyes darted to mine, but I couldn’t meet them. My gaze faltered, drawn instead to the cracked mirror. It reflected something Elara couldn’t, wouldn’t see.
“Wh-What?!” Her voice spiked with a tremor. “You mean Morwenna Petrova... she’s actually Victoria’s reincarnation?”
Elara’s body vibrated with unspoken questions. Yet, when I remained silent, a frustrated sniff escaped her. “I know. I fucking know,” she muttered, suspicion lacing her words. “After that ritual, the way the spirit reacted to her… it all makes sense now. Morwenna, unknowingly, channeled the spirit.”
Her voice cracked. “Lord Draven. He’ll consume her, hoping to resurrect his wife.” A humorless chuckle escaped her lips. “And of course, you won’t intervene. You won’t do a damn thing to save her.”
“I know,” she pressed on, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, “that it wasn’t just my mother who forged Morwenna’s amulet.” A pregnant pause hung in the air, as if pieces clicked into place in her mind. “...It was you.” She swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “You forged the amulet, and my Mother simply assisted. She wasn’t much for spells, preferred the rituals of the Brothers of Sin. Magic wasn’t her forte. You, on the other hand...” Her voice trailed off, a choked laugh echoing in the space. “You never gave a damn about anything or anyone. War brewing, innocents dying – all background noise to your self-imposed solitude. If you couldn’t be bothered with your own kin, I doubt you cared for Lord Draven’s late wife.” Her gaze narrowed, a challenge sparking in its honey depths. “So, Godmaster Xulin… what was the real reason? Why did you forge that amulet twenty-six years ago? Why the sudden… concern?”
The way she phrased the question made it abundantly clear. This wasn’t a plea for answers. Elarabeth Vance, damn her, was reading me. She was peering through the fog of my own darkness, dissecting them with chilling accuracy. Impossible. No way in hell could she be... Unraveling me. Understanding me. No. Just... no.
“...unless you did this ‘kind’ act because...” Elara’s voice trailed off, laced with suspicion, “...you shared a past with the late Victoria... du Saint-Clair.” My fists clenched, knuckles white-hot. The mere utterance of Draven’s wife’s name sent a searing fire through me.
As if sensing my turmoil, she pressed on, her voice unwavering, “...a past you desperately seek redemption for, yet one you shy away from embracing—”
My fist clenched, the raw power surging through me causing the levitating mirror to shatter completely. Shards spun through the air, aiming for Elara with deadly intent.
But with a flick of my wrist, I commanded them. Time slowed, the fragments hanging suspended in mid-air, a shimmering halo of destruction inches from piercing Elara’s skull.
Her breath hitched, a gasp escaping her lips. Her eyes widened in a mix of surprise and terror.
A single downward gesture of my finger sent the shards plummeting. There was no ground here, only the inky expanse of time and space, yet they obeyed, falling endlessly into the abyss. Elara blinked repeatedly, confusion clouding her previously suspicious gaze.
The utter disbelief in Elarabeth’s honey brown eyes was palpable. It was an impossibility. Breaking the Fates’ decree, a feat beyond even a god’s reach. But then again, I wasn’t just any god. I was the Supreme. Now, she saw me differently, not as a mere hybrid, but as something extraordinary.
The shattering of the mirror wasn’t a conscious act. It was a whirlwind of emotions, triggered by Elara’s mention of Victoria’s name. A name that resonated within me, a part of me I desperately wished to bury.
My past. I shrouded it in a veil of darkness, a locked prison within my chest. The key, long discarded, ensuring its secrets remained buried. Until Elarabeth Vance came along. Unlocking that prison, defying every notion of the impossible. Elarabeth Vance, in her own maddening way, had unearthed a part of me I’d sealed away for good: my past.
A past that was supposed to be dead.
Silence clung to her like a shroud. Fear radiated off her in palpable waves. She clearly yearned to flee, to vanish from this place, from me.
Elarabeth was right on one point - I used to be utterly apathetic.
Back then, nothing and no one mattered.
Now, however, there was one exception: her.
My aid to Alina Petrova sprung solely from Emilia’s request, fueled by her need for a forged amulet to protect Alina’s newborn daughter.
As one of the Council of Elders’ top three witches, my offer was borne not from empathy or Emilia’s pleas, but from a flicker of recognition in the babe’s eyes.
It was Victoria staring back at me, a newborn destined to be branded either a “blessing” or a “curse” by a world quick to judge.
This was why I intervened. Victoria had been more than just an acquaintance before her passing, before she became Draven’s wife.
Draven, the ever-obsessive fool, wouldn’t hesitate to raise Victoria from the dead after a millennium of searching. Me? I wouldn’t be dragged into his mess, nor any of my brothers’ affairs for that matter.
After our last altercation, I made it abundantly clear: he was never to address me as brother or subject again. Godmaster, that’s my title. He’s the heir apparent, but for the infernal throne, he can be the almighty lord and leader for all I care. Power means nothing to me.
So, I swore that encounter would be the last time, the absolute final time I’d think of his dead wife. The very last. Until Elarabeth, bless her ignorance of Victoria’s demise, inadvertently resurrected the memory.
I suppose I’ll let this transgression slide. After all, she wasn’t even a flicker in existence when Victoria perished. Otherwise, a serpent might’ve found its way around her mouth, a fittingly silent punishment for her imprudence while I fucked her. A rather…unpleasant, yet undeniably tempting thought.
My voice, a low rumble, echoed through the space. “Elarabeth Vance,” I addressed her by her full name, a subtle power lacing my tone. “Do not. Ever. Mention my past. Again.” It went without saying that this past involved a woman who had no place in my present.
Silence stretched as she attempted to float backward, desperately conjuring a spell to vanish. But Elarabeth seemed to forget a crucial detail: she couldn’t leave or enter without me, her Bound. she was my ‘One’ and ‘Only. Then a primal urge flaring in my gut that threatened to cloud my judgment. Christ, I’m getting fucking horny now.
With a swift movement, I clamped a hand over her face, my grip firm. Her lips pressed together in a silent protest. My size advantage was undeniable, allowing me to easily overpower her fleeing attempts. “Did you hear me, Elarabeth?” I growled, the dark timbre of my voice a threat in itself. Yet, defiance glinted in her eyes.
“I heard you,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice betraying her fear. “But I won’t promise to remain silent about the woman who haunted you before...” Her voice hitched. “Before me!”
A snarl ripped from my throat as I tightened my hold, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her cheek. The pressure would have choked anyone else, but the shared blood coursing through her veins rendered her immune.
“Tell me, Xulin,” she breathed, her voice surprisingly steady considering the situation. “Did you and Lord Draven shared the same woman? Is that why you refuse to speak of her? Did she haunt you just as I do? How did this woman manage to capture your heart, Xulin? Did you woo her, or was it a mutual seduction?” Her questions came in rapid succession, a barrage of feminine curiosity even in the face of danger.
Gods be damned. This infuriating woman. My hand tightened further, caught between the urge to silence her and the raw need to possess her.
A low growl rumbled in my chest. “Quit talking about her.” It wasn’t a request, it was a barely veiled threat.
“Give me answers, or I’ll find them myself from the source: the damn ‘shadows of Styxfall’,” She countered, her voice laced with defiance.
A dark chuckle rose in my throat, but I choked it back.
The audacity of this woman was almost… arousing.
None of my brothers knew the tangled history I shared with Victoria, except for Draven. He kept his lips sealed from the others. Thank the stars for that.
I’d been doing my damnedest to bury those memories, until Morwenna Petrova, Victoria’s reincarnation, entered Draven’s service. Now, the ghost of that past haunted not just one, but two of us in this realm: Draven and me.
Elarabeth’s thirst for truth, for the whole truth, sent a jolt of unease through me. The shadows of Styxfall wouldn’t hesitate to spill it all. And that, I couldn’t allow.
“I think we’ve gathered enough ‘knowledge’ for today,” I muttered, weaving a spell into the very air. The world around us shimmered, then dissolved into a thick, suffocating fog.
“Coward,” Elarabeth hissed as the blackness swallowed us whole, transporting us to a new and unsettling environment.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I lacked the courage to face the full brunt of her discoveries. Maybe I was terrified of what she might learn from the shadows. Because if the truth came out, she’d see the real reason I chased her all those years. And I wasn’t ready for that confrontation, not yet. Because as they say, the truth is a bitch, and it always hurts, one agonizing reveal at a time.
The chamber stretched before me, an expanse of sterile emptiness punctuated only by a single, gleaming table. Its height was neither oppressive nor underwhelming – just right, like everything else in this stark, fabricated reality.
Atop the polished surface lay a simple arrangement: a rope, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.
My own vice, you see. A crutch for those moments when the mind craved a distraction, a reason to focus on something other than the suffocating silence.
Unlike the dank, oppressive chamber I’d dragged Elarabeth from, this one pulsed with a sterile brightness. It felt…appropriate, somehow.
Here, in this manufactured loneliness, I envisioned a self-imposed purgatory.
A place to smoke myself into oblivion, the tendrils of smoke swirling around me like mocking flames. Flames I used to conjure with a flick of my wrist, desperate to feel something, anything. To sear this skin that refused the searing touch like some twisted mockery of my vampiric nature.
Unlike my brethren, fire held no sway over me. It was a cruel irony – an invoker of demons, yet immune to their fiery embrace. Demons that served as an invisible shield, protecting this cursed flesh.
And here, in this fabricated solitude, I craved the most primal connection – to consume Elarabeth whole, to possess her utterly.
Her gaze flickered over the sterile environment, a frown etching a furrow between her brows.
My hand still lingered on her jaw, a possessive reminder.
I released my grip, leaving an angry red imprint that mirrored the heat in my veins.
“I thought you were going to teleport us out of here, not into... whatever this place is,” she spat, her voice laced with defiance. Her fingers brushed the reddened flesh, and I found myself fixated on the gesture.
As she began to sidestep me, a flicker of movement in her periphery caught her eye. Reacting with lightning-fast reflexes honed by centuries of existence, I snatched her wrist, vampire speed propelling her towards the solitary table. A gasp escaped her lips, a strangled mix of fear and frustration.
“What the hell?” she hissed, eyes blazing. “If you think I’m going to have sex with you in this… this… godforsaken place, then you’re more delusional than I thought. Answer my questions, then let me go!” Her struggles were admirable, even pathetic. The potent cocktail of my blood in her veins might have granted her enhanced strength, but I, after all, was the apex predator.
A sardonic smile played on my lips. “You wanted to know the truth, huh? Why don’t I tell you,” I murmured, my voice a dangerous caress that sent shivers down her spine despite her best efforts. Elara raised an eyebrow, skepticism clouding her beautiful features.
“You know what? I don’t care,” she scoffed, the fire in her eyes a flickering ember struggling against a rising tide of indifference. “Your lies are tiresome, Xulin. It’s not like you’re going to stop your brothers’ machinations. You don’t involve yourself in any of it, just like you don’t seem to care about anything else. So, I don’t care either. So, keep your secrets. Whatever you shared with Lord Draven’s late wife. I no longer give a damn.” Her voice hardened, laced with a desperate defiance. “Now unhand me.”
A low snort escaped me. I knew she wanted to uncover the truth, yet struggled against caring. For now, I chose to respect her wishes.
“As you wish,” I purred, my voice a low rumble that sent a tremor through her. I released her wrist, the faint trace of my touch lingering on her pale skin.
She flinched, a fleeting movement that spoke volumes.
Her gaze remained locked on mine, uncertainty flickering in its depths that I would so readily relinquish control.
Perhaps it was best she didn’t trust her instincts. Elarabeth Vance, after all, wasn’t one to simply walk away. Not from me.
Her hesitant step back spoke volumes.
Silence hung heavy between us, broken only by the rasp of her breath.
Each retreat fueled a smirk that crawled across my lips, dark and predatory.
Then, without a whisper of an incantation, a tendril of smoke materialized at my fingertips.
Just as she pivoted to flee, the ember flared to life, erupting into a lick of hungry flame.
Her body flinched with a primal fear as the fire roared to existence, encircling us in a tight ring.
“What the hell?” she spat, voice laced with a tremor. Each tentative step forward was met with a ferocious upsurge of the flames, driving her back.
The heat intensified, a physical manifestation of her terror, radiating off her skin. I tasted it, metallic and sharp, in the air. It did nothing for me. Years of dancing with fire had rendered my flesh impervious to its touch.
As the flames danced closer, consuming the air with their hungry breath, she pressed backward until her body met mine. The contact sent a jolt straight to my dick, a searing response at odds with the inferno that surrounded us.
The flames obeyed my unspoken command, halting their advance.
They formed a flickering wall, reaching high enough to create a fiery dome, but not daring to consume us.
It was then, with a sickening certainty that she understood. I, Xulin Vimic, did not relinquish what belonged to me.
Escape offered the searing kiss of pain.
Submission promised a different kind of agony.
The heat between her legs mimicked the inferno surrounding her – a promise of an exquisite torture if she dare defy.
Elarabeth Vance would be mine, one way or another.
The flames or… me? The choice was hers.