51. Sweet
I don’t know how many times I get thirsty for Woland’s blood over the next few days. I remember the thrum of power under my skin, the glorious feeling of needing no food or sleep to live. Time and again, my hands itch to pull out the stopper and have even just one little drop.
Every time, I stop myself.
I wander through the woods, and the weather gets progressively chillier. The days are still warm, but there is a bite of autumn in the air. I spend the nights huddled under blankets of moss, shivering in the cold. Even though I know Woland’s blood would give me magic to warm myself, I don’t touch it.
Every night before I go to sleep, I try to do a spell in the hopes my magic might break through. Every time, I meet a wall.
At least, I’m not hungry anymore. Woland seems to have accepted I won’t cave because of discomfort, and so every time I wake, I find a tray of food by my side. I eat most of it and wrap the leftovers in a napkin to have in the evening. There’s always enough to keep me full all day long.
I don’t even try to thank him. Providing for me is the least he can do since I’m banished because of him.
I touch the gorgeous pendant, his blood, his collateral, dozens of times every day. It calms me and makes me nervous all at once.
As I walk, stopping often to admire flowers or have a dip in the river, I mull over what Wiosna said about using blood to control someone. It’s not much to go on, and trying to figure out the best way to turn Woland’s gift against him keeps me busy and focused.
If not for this goal, I would be a shaking mess.
Yet even without that problem to solve, I wouldn’t get bored. On the fifth day out of my remaining ten, I meet a licho—or at least, I think that’s what it is. It’s the size of half a man, its body covered in fuzzy black fur, its eyes huge and owl-like. It stares at me with hostility, and when I cautiously come over, it snorts with disgust and disappears in a puff of smoke.
On the sixth day, I meet two wilas. They dance among the trees, their skin golden, hair silver, and they are so beautiful, my eyes tear up from the sight. They beckon to me with their long, graceful fingers, but I don’t go, knowing wilas are as deadly as rusalkas. When they come over, intrigued, I point at my chin.
Their large, dark eyes grow wide, and they run away, each in a different direction. Both seem to drift through the undergrowth, all sinuous grace even when afraid.
When eight days pass, my anxiety grows beyond what I can handle. I spend a long time in the river, getting myself as clean as I can without soap. My dress is threadbare and stained after weeks in the woods, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I keep my hand on Woland’s collateral almost constantly. I’m afraid it will disappear, taking my meager chances with it.
He still doesn’t come.
I wonder what he’s so busy doing. Whom he would send to help me if I called his name. And what it will be like when he finally returns.
Whatever happens then, there is something final to it. The three weeks he gave me will run out, and whenever I try to figure out how he plans to force me to be his, I get jittery and restless. Everything hinges on me getting my magic back and then using it successfully to stop him.
This is such a bad plan. I have no guarantee it will work, and it’s all based on a rusalka’s bawdy joke.
Whenever I panic, running through a list of other ideas in my head, I always end up with the same conclusion. Woland is more powerful than anyone I know who could help me. Even Rod and Chors, when I spoke to them, were reluctant to act against him.
And still, the ninth night, I sit by the river and call on Chors, hoping against hope he might appear and somehow give me a way to hide from Woland. But it’s no use. The god of the moon doesn’t come.
On the tenth day, I walk without breaks until evening. I keep wondering why he agreed so easily to this trade—sex for telling me the truth. My mind goes to really dark places, trying to understand why he wants to fuck me before he claims me.
Maybe his way of forcing me will actually involve torture. Or maybe he’ll have to mutilate me somehow. Maybe he’ll take away my will and passion. Kill my zmora. Maybe he”ll blind and mute me, and that”s why he wants to enjoy me before I’m damaged.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe after he claims me forcibly, I’ll be incapable of having sex at all. I have no idea how a god can force a mortal to submit completely, and the mystery tears at the threads of my sanity. My thoughts run rampant, unchecked, and since I’ve never been in such a situation before, facing the unknown with no way out, I don’t know how to stop.
When Woland finally appears in the evening, just after moonrise, I jump away as if burned and eye him warily, my hands clenched into fists.
He has the audacity to laugh. “It’s good to see you, too, love.”
I bristle all over. “Don’t call me that.”
He tilts his head to the side, his antlers casting tangled shadows on the ground. He’s nude, like always, his skin gleaming dark in the silver moonlight.
“What’s wrong? Having second thoughts? I promise I’ll be gentle,” he says with a mocking grin.
Strangely enough, it’s easy to calm down when he is finally here. This is the Woland I know, and even though he’s evil and ruthless, I can’t imagine him torturing a yes out of me.
I shake my head in response to his question. I still want to have sex with him, of course, I do. This is the only way I know that might unlock my magic, and I’d try it even if it were disgusting and horrible.
But it won’t be. As I take him in, my body wakes up with a thrum of need, my anxiety settling and turning into another sort of tension. He’s beautiful, powerful, and strong, and yes, I want him. I want him in ways I could never want a mortal. I’m glad it will be him.
“No second thoughts.”
“Good.”
He comes over. I notice he holds his hand behind his back, and when he brings it out with a flourish, I gape, shocked and unnerved.
He holds a bunch of the most beautiful, magical flowers I’ve ever seen. They shine with gentle silver light, their petals half-translucent, their stamens gleaming like jewels. Then I notice the leaves. They are ferns.
“Tell me these aren’t fern flowers,” I say, my heart beating too fast in awe.
He arches an eyebrow, offering me the bunch with a small bow.
“You want me to lie to you? Fine, darling. These aren’t fern flowers.”
I finger the delicate, frondlike leaves and stare at the silver blooms that brim with magic, like fern flowers are supposed to.
These are legendary. The fern flower blooms on one night a year—Kupala Night. Whoever finds it will have riches beyond imagining, wealth, many children, and all other blessings. Every Kupala Night, a few bold youths go into the woods to search for the fern flower, but I never heard of anyone who found it.
The devil brought me these flowers that I didn’t even believe were real. And not just one—he brought me a bunch. I hesitate to take them, feeling like my touch might mar their perfection.
“You’re a liar,” I murmur, staring at the fragile beauty in his dark, clawed hands.
Woland laughs, thrusting the flowers into my arms. “Yes, these are fern flowers. They grow here and there in Slawa, so it’s not such a great rarity as it is in this world. Go on, take them. They are for you.”
I wrap my fingers around the ferns, glancing between the flowers and his face. He watches me expectantly, the silver glow reflecting in his golden eyes.
I can’t help it. I’m flabbergasted.
“Really, Woland? Flowers?”
Yes, they are magical and beautiful, but I’m thrown by how out of character the gesture is. I would expect him to bring me a knife or a poison, or truly, nothing at all. He’s arrogant and demands all the reverence and worship for himself.
Now that my awe and shock have worn off some, I’m suspicious more than anything.
Woland clearly doesn’t like my reaction, because his smug grin vanishes, replaced by a displeased frown.
“Yes, Jaga, flowers,” he says, mocking me. “You told the rusalkas you wanted this. Flowers, songs, stealing kisses. At least pretend to be grateful.”
I watch his face, trying to figure out why he’s so upset. Woland shoots me an offended glare and looks away, his jaw working when he swallows.
The strangest possibility comes to my mind. Maybe the flowers aren’t a trick. Maybe he simply wanted to make me happy.
I dismiss that thought as soon as it appears. No. He doesn’t do anything for the simple reason of giving another person pleasure. Everything serves a goal. Some kind of ulterior motive.
But I remember that I have a goal, too, and I shouldn’t make him angry. Besides, I do love his gift, even though it still makes me suspicious.
“I told the rusalkas I thought these things were romantic, not that I wanted them,” I say calmly. When he looks at me, I smile. “I have little appreciation for romance. My father was a bard, did you know? He left my mother on her own after I was born and then died like the useless maggot he was. So, please, don’t try to sing me songs, or you’ll completely spoil the mood. But the flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”
I set them aside by a tree, my eyes lingering on their magical glow.
He bares his teeth in a wide grin and then swoops in, picking me up like I’m his bride. I gasp, surprised, and hold on to his neck for support. Woland spins us slowly, and as we turn, the forest illuminates with tiny gold and silver lights dotting the trees and undergrowth. A diaphanous veil that glitters in the light appears above us, spreading around where we stand like a magnificent tent spun of moonlight.
“Look down,” he whispers.
When I do, I see countless cushions and soft blankets appear on the forest floor, making for the best bed I’ve ever seen. I yearn to lie down among those cushions and surround myself with softness, though I can’t shake a nagging feeling that this is all wrong.
When Woland stops, I stare at his face with wide eyes, speechless. He laughs, pleased by my awe.
But I am not awed. I’m terrified, because this isn’t him, and I wonder if it’s a stranger wearing Woland’s skin.
The devil I know is the man who created a throne for himself and made me kneel in the cold grass to pleasure him. He brought forth lights so he could see the tears on my face when he fucked my throat, not to impress me with silly displays of magic.
The bed of cushions is jarring, too. The last time he was about to take my virginity, he had me down in the grass, no magic bed, no flowers, no twirling around. He didn’t try any “darlings” or “loves” but threatened me with a punishment, and honestly, I wish he did the same thing right now.
This is uncanny. My desire dissipates, because I’m too spooked by all this.
When I fail to speak, Woland frowns again, watching me closely.
“You don’t like it,” he states flatly.
I purse my lips and take a big breath. I could pretend to be impressed to stroke his ego, but that’s not who I am.
“I’m unnerved,” I admit. “I wonder if it’s really you, because the devil I know would never do this kind of thing.”
Woland exhales in annoyance, looking away. “The one time I make an effort,” he mutters angrily, his jaw clenching. “Let’s get rid of it, then.”
I shake my head frantically, squeezing his nape where I still hold on for balance.
“No! It’s very pretty,” I say, because the soft blankets beckon. “Just… No more. And be yourself.”
His annoyance gives way to something harder when he looks at me, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. “Be myself? You mean the evil liar who killed all those people that now stand between us? That’s who you want?”
He’s bitter, throwing my honest words back in my face like he’s spent a long time thinking about them and raging. I breathe with relief when his shadows coil loosely around my throat, his tail lashing with anger. This is the devil I know and want.
“Yes, please,” I say with a grin, welcoming his fury like a familiar lover. “You being nice is getting me all dry. It’s not you.”
He blinks at me, surprised, and then finally, his anger melts away. He laughs warmly, making my heart flutter, and rearranges me in his arms until I straddle his waist, his clawed hands on my ass, my dress hiked up.
“All dry? We can’t have that, little witch. So you like it when I take from you what I want?”
My core spasms with need, and I nod eagerly, breathing faster. His eyes flash with heat, and then he tugs me roughly up until his mouth is on my neck. He bites down hard, making me scream in surprised pain, and sucks my blood.
That long, hungry pull colors the pain with pleasure. I feel it in my toes, in my heart, in my clit, tugging and bringing my desire to the surface. Woland drinks again with a low growl, and I moan, bucking against his torso in search of friction.
He tears his lips away from the wound and looks at me, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
When he kisses me, I taste my blood on his tongue. I writhe and buck against him, my body taking the lead. Arousal pools low in my belly, because this is him, and it’s what I want. The devil drinks my moans from my mouth just like he drank blood from my vein, and soon, I shake with the need for more.
He tears away, his eyes hooded, lips swollen from my kisses.
“This is what my poppy girl likes? To be devoured? To be…”
He transfers me into just one palm, and it’s big enough to support me as I straddle him. He wraps the other hand around my throat, loosely enough, but the pressure is there.
“…choked?” he finishes with a predatory smile.
I barely nod when he squeezes. I try to gulp in a breath but can’t, and panic hits me. He looks at me with dark eyes, his expression curious, but he doesn’t touch me. There is no friction, no pleasure to fly off to when my air is taken.
I struggle in his grip, clawing at his hand, and his breath hitches. He leans in to capture my mouth in a ragged kiss, but I don’t kiss him back, too busy trying to take in air that won’t come.
When my strength flags, he drops us to the ground, with him on top of me. My dress is gone in a blink, his body between my legs, and when he finally lets go and I take in the first breath that’s like a rush to my head, he drives himself inside me with a long, powerful stroke.
I choke on my scream, my body going rigid from pain.
And it’s not just between my legs. It’s everywhere, tearing at my chest, clawing up my spine, exploding behind my eyes with the brightness of the high noon sun. My body snaps into a taut arch, every tendon and muscle tensing to its limit, my bones groaning from the effort of keeping me whole.
I shake, and I can’t scream, because there is no air.
“What’s wrong?” his voice comes from afar, but I can’t speak. My eyes are squeezed shut, but there is a burning brightness spilling inside me until I’m terrified I can’t contain it.
This place is pure suffering and tension, all hard edges, being too full, being forced open and torn apart.
Something wets my lips, warm and sweet, and I swallow. Blood. My breath swoops rushing in, the pain pouring out of me, and I take shaky breaths, one after another, realizing I am well. I’ll live. Soon, all that remains of the pain is the fire between my legs. It’s the ache of having too much shoved inside me way too fast.
“Darling, what happened? Jaga, sweetheart, tell me… Here. Why did it hurt?”
He pulls out, hovering above me, and I gasp at the friction of him leaving my body. But that seal is broken. I would tell him to stay, because I’d surely get used to him inside, but I’m too busy breathing my fill.
Yet I need him. I feel shaky, unmoored, and so I clutch his arms braced on either side of me. I slowly open my eyes to look at his face.
It’s tense with worry and guilt, his eyes alert, searching me with frantic intensity. I take deeper breaths, holding on to him like he’s my lifeline.
Slowly, Woland’s forehead smoothes, his eyes narrowing. Panic spasms through me. He knows.
“You were a virgin,” he says, his voice deep. “I didn’t know.”
Gods.I’m so relieved, I want to laugh, but I push it back, giving him a tremulous smile instead. He tilts his head to the side, watching me curiously.
“I really thought it was obvious,” I say hoarsely when he adds nothing.
Not physically, of course. I’ve touched and penetrated myself enough for my virginity not to be apparent. But I thought it was clear from my sometimes bashful behavior. From my blushes.
He barks a short laugh, though he’s not amused in the least. I don’t know what he is. He seems chagrined and a little angry, but not at me.
“Was it? I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever fucked a virgin before. And you never struck me as very virginal.”
“I wish you didn’t repeat that word,” I say weakly, my cheeks flaming because of how awkward it is.
I’m sore between my legs, and now I feel like he’s rejecting me, although when I peek between us, he’s still very much erect.
Woland shakes his head, and then finally, he smiles. He drops a small kiss on my lips and moves down my body until his face is between my legs, his antlers caging my hips.
I hiccup when he looks up, his golden eyes pulling me in. This reminds me so much of the night we met. I really hope he doesn’t withhold the orgasm from me this time.
“What are you doing?” I ask when his eyes glitter softly.
“Making up for my mistake,” he says simply before kissing me.
He is so gentle. His lips are soft, his tongue slow and warm, and he tastes me with infinite patience. I gasp and clutch his antlers, the bone cool and hard, perfect to keep me anchored. He hums encouragingly and parts me with his tongue, putting gentle, soothing pressure where it hurts.
He’s so thorough. His touch is warm and wet, and not demanding like I’m used to with him. He doesn’t hurry me along. All he does is soothe me, and it’s almost not sexual but comforting instead. Every part of me that flamed at his intrusion is licked until the ache is gone, and then more, until I grow soft and warm, opening to receive more.
And I realize it’s an apology, though he’ll probably never say the words. My chest squeezes painfully, and I don’t know why, but I want to cry. I feel taken care of in a way that’s too intimate to put into words.
But sex with him isn’t supposed to make me feel so vulnerable. It’s a means to an end, and I wish I had managed to conceal my pain. If I had done it, he would have fucked me into the cushions and we would be done by now. He would tell me the truth. Instead, I’m trapped in this nightmare of being torn open not by his cock, but by his soothing, comforting tongue and patient touch.
“It’s fine,” I gasp, my core pulsing with eager heat that’s not an inferno but a slow sizzle. “Enough.”
He gives me a long, indulgent lick, teasing my clit, and looks up.
“Let me be good to you, darling. Just this once. I promise I’ll go back to my cruel ways soon enough.”
His voice is light like he’s joking, and still, I shudder with apprehension. But his touch grows more focused, more insistent, and soon I forget to be afraid. He pushes his tongue inside me, not far at first, and then licks and gently sucks my clit.
He takes me out of that tender, vulnerable space into more heat and need. Soon, I writhe against his mouth, and he holds my hips down to feast on me as he pleases, alternating between my clit and my pussy, and then, for a few licks at a time, slithering even lower down.
His mouth is busy, and yet he speaks, projecting his voice through magic.
“Remember how I told you to worship me? It’s my turn, my poppy goddess. You taste so good. Arousal and blood, all in your flavor.”
I moan and shake, my eyes opening and closing to the rhythm he sets. Sometimes, I descend into the darkness of my own mind. But then I emerge, looking at the gorgeous lights he put in the trees for me, and they dance around me, sparkles and shadows.
“You take this pleasure so well, even better than pain. Oh, the things I’d like to do to you. Maybe I’ll make you come so many times you will lose your mind and then drink your sated blood and take you while you sleep, exhausted. You will feel me in your dreams. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because there is no space inside me for anything but agreement.
When I come, I drench him with my juices, and he laps them up with covetous growls, holding my hips up in the air like I’m a sacred chalice he thirsts to drink from. I think he will be done then, my orgasm a payment for his wrongs, but he doesn’t stop. I protest when he sucks on my sensitive clit, so he plunges his tongue deep in my pussy and tastes me from within.
I fancy his tongue goes deep enough to tap at the entrance to my womb.
Soon, he makes me come again, harder this time, and I scream his name until I grow hoarse. His commanding nature shows through. He settles into a fast, demanding rhythm, and after the second orgasm, he spreads me wider still, tilting my hips up, and puts his mouth on my other hole.
He kisses me there, and I’m breathless from screaming in pleasure and dazed, so it takes me a moment to react.
“Why there?” I gasp out when his tongue dips inside me for the lightest lick.
“Because I want to. Because it’s yours. You can return the favor one day, if you want.”
And then I think about licking him like this, which is strange and yet makes me giddy with mischievous excitement. When he puts his mouth on my clit again, it only takes me a moment to come.
I’m floating, my body soft and liquid like sweet cream, the pleasure humming deep in my bones and core. The devil pulls away, sitting on his heels, a satisfied smile on his lips.
“There. Now let me try that again.”