Chapter Nine – Jessa
Chapter Nine
Jessa
His heat makes it impossible to think.
The carved symbols on the rotating discs blur together as sweat beads on my forehead.
I realize they seem more faded than the last time I attempted the puzzle.
Or maybe, Castien’s body temperature is scrambling my brain so badly that I can’t focus on anything except the warmth radiating from every inch of him.
His wings wrap around me like a cocoon, trapping the heat he’s generating until the air grows thick and stifling.
My shirt sticks to my back, and my cheeks start to burn.
The steel between my thighs radiates warmth that seeps through my pants, and every time I shift to get a better angle, the pressure sends sparks shooting right through my ovaries.
I hum under my breath to keep myself focused, and point at the third disc from the left.
“Move that a notch down.”
Castien shifts his shoulders to reach the disc, and the movement presses him directly against the most sensitive part of me.
I gasp and grab his head with both hands to steady myself as a jolt runs through my pussy, making me clench around nothing.
The throb that follows is so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
Wetness pools in my underwear as my body responds to the delicious pressure.
I’m trying so hard not to rub myself against him, but the heat makes everything feel hypersensitive. Every small movement he makes sends another wave of sensation through me, and I find myself gripping his head tighter than necessary, using the excuse of balance to maintain contact.
The last move is wrong, and I hear the mechanical click that means I’ve made a mistake. Darts shoot out of the walls in a rapid volley, at least six of them, and I yelp as I duck low against Castien’s neck. The tiny arrows ping harmlessly off his steel body and wings, creating a metallic symphony.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice breathless.
“Yes. Are you all right?”
His polyphonic voice rumbles through his chest, and I feel the vibration against my inner thighs.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I’ll try to be more careful.”
I feel guilty. He’s getting stabbed because I’m too distracted by how good he feels between my legs to concentrate on the puzzle.
I force myself to study the symbols again, reaching out to trace them with my fingertips while keeping one hand on his head to steady myself.
The carved stone is rough under my touch, and I map each mark carefully, trying to remember the family tree I memorized.
Every chance I get, I press my pussy against the warm steel of his neck, telling myself it’s just to keep balance even though I know I’m grinding against him.
The movement is subtle, but the friction makes my breath catch, and I have to concentrate on not letting my hips roll forward.
Is this wrong? The question circles through my mind for the dozenth time since I met him.
If he’s indeed a machine powered by artificial intelligence, then what am I really doing here?
I know nothing about alchemy, and before seeing him with my own eyes, I never considered it a real science capable of actual results.
His Aether Core seems to be some sort of replacement for a human heart, but if it’s just an advanced power source, then he’s still fundamentally a machine.
No feelings, no emotions, just very sophisticated programming that imitates humanity.
If that’s true, then being aroused by him shouldn’t be any different than being excited about a new vibrator.
He’s an object designed to perform specific functions, and if one of those functions happens to involve radiating heat between my legs, then my body’s response is just biology. Natural. Nothing to feel guilty about.
The thought makes me bolder, and I let myself settle more firmly against him as I point to another disc.
Does he even have a cock? The question pops into my head so suddenly that I almost say it out loud. He’s been completely honest with me so far, answering every question I’ve asked. Maybe I could just ask him directly.
More darts shoot from the walls as I give him another wrong instruction, and I make myself small under his wings.
Not a single arrow gets through his defenses, but I groan in frustration at my own distraction.
This is not the time to think about potential machine anatomy or sex toys. I need to focus.
I trace the symbols again, forcing myself to remember the genealogy charts I studied for months.
The Holloway family tree stretches back over centuries, and every branch and connection has to be perfectly aligned, or the mechanism won’t unlock.
After several more adjustments, with Castien sliding the massive discs, I hear the satisfying click that means success.
The wall splits down the center with a grinding sound, and another tunnel opens beyond it. I pat his cheek affectionately, surprised by how natural the gesture feels.
“You can put me down now.”
He lowers me to the ground and immediately takes a step back, putting distance between us.
I notice this pattern every time we have physical contact.
He always retreats afterward, as if there’s something about me that makes him uncomfortable.
Maybe his sensors detect my arousal, and his programming interprets it as inappropriate behavior from his client.
“What’s next?” he asks, his silver eyes scanning the new passage.
“I don’t know.” I grab my flashlight. “The rooms and tunnels change order every time someone new attempts them. At least, that’s what I think happens based on all the records I’ve read. None of them seem to match each other in terms of sequence.”
I step into the corridor with Castien following behind me, letting me take the lead. The passage is narrow and carved from the same rough stone as everything else down here, with moisture beading on the walls from the constant dampness.
After just a few steps, I feel the floor shift slightly under my foot, like a pressure plate depressing. A sharp blade juts out of the wall at ankle height and cuts across my leg before I can react. The pain is immediate and bright, and I scream as I jump back, nearly losing my balance.
Castien catches me before I can fall.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
I crouch down to examine the wound, hissing as I see blood seeping through my torn pants.
“Let me see,” he says, kneeling beside me.
“It’s fine, it’s nothing, just a scratch.”
I try to wave him off, but when I look closer, I realize how lucky I am. The blade only grazed me, but if I’d been a half-inch closer to the wall, it could have severed my Achilles tendon.
I shrug off my backpack and dig through it for the emergency kit I packed. While I clean the wound with antiseptic and apply bandages, I explain what I think we’re facing.
“I think I know what this is. The Blade Corridor. I know, stupid name, but it tells you everything you need to know.”
The cut isn’t deep, but it stings as I wrap gauze around my ankle.
“I think most of the people who tried before me died here. This trap is almost impossible to beat. The blades come from everywhere, and there’s no way to predict where they’ll strike.”
Castien stands and studies the corridor with his glowing gaze, processing whatever his sensors are telling him.
“There must be a pattern.”
“No records I found mentioned any pattern, so I have no idea.”
I finish securing the bandage and test my weight on the injured leg. There’s a sharp twinge, but I can walk.
“Stay here,” he says.
“Castien, don’t–”
But he’s already moving, stepping on different spots along the floor. When his foot hits certain stones, I hear a sound like a single piano note ringing through the air. When he steps somewhere that doesn’t trigger a sound, blades shoot from hidden slots in the walls with vicious speed.
He’s stabbed repeatedly in his wings, his calves, his arms, but he doesn’t flinch or cry out. All I hear is the sound of metal striking metal as the blades find their marks. Some of the impacts are so hard they leave visible indentations, but he continues as if it doesn’t affect him.
After a few more minutes, he turns back to me. I can see the damage – deep gouges across his torso, punctures in his wings, and scratches along his arms where blades caught him at different angles.
“Are you all right?” I ask, horrified.
“Yes.”
“Are you in pain?”
He glances down at a particularly deep scratch on his forearm and shrugs.
“I don’t feel a thing.”
That settles it. He’s a machine, through and through. I shouldn’t even worry about him getting hurt because pain doesn’t exist in his world. He’s built to absorb damage and keep functioning.
“The pattern is a Gregorian chant,” he tells me. “I recognize it. I think I know where to step to get us through safely.”
He gestures for me to come to him.
“Walk directly behind me, pressed against my back. Don’t let go, and don’t deviate from my path.”
I pack up my medical kit and stand, favoring my injured ankle. The cut throbs with each heartbeat, but it’s manageable.
“Permission to hug you from behind?” I giggle.
He hesitates for a moment, and that pause makes me curious. Why would a machine need to consider a simple tactical arrangement? But then he nods and turns around, presenting me with his broad steel back.
I press myself against him and wrap my arms around his waist, and he adjusts his wings to create a protective shield around me. The position puts me in intimate contact with the lower half of his back, not to mention his very firm ass.
We start walking, and I step exactly where he steps, matching his rhythm.
The melody that plays under our feet is haunting and beautiful, a sad Gregorian chant that echoes through the corridor like a funeral dirge.
Each note hangs in the air before the next one begins, creating an otherworldly harmony that makes my skin prickle.
Halfway through the passage, he takes a wrong step. A blade shoots out and strikes him directly in the side of his throat. He freezes. I gasp and cling to him, my arms tightening around his waist as fear shoots through me.
After a moment that feels endless, the blade retracts back into the wall. He rubs his neck where it hit him, the gesture so human it makes my chest ache, and looks down at me.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know you don’t feel anything, but it’s barbaric to get stabbed over and over for me.”
“This is the job,” he says simply. “This is what I’m paid for.”
“That only makes it worse.”
We don’t talk after that, just continue walking to the rhythm of the medieval chant until we emerge from the corridor into something that takes my breath away.
The cavern spreads out before us like the inside of a geode, every surface covered in crystal formations that catch and multiply the light coming from my flashlight and Castien’s eyes.
The walls and ceiling sparkle and shimmer, creating a light show that makes the entire space glow with soft radiance.
The chamber is massive, cathedral-sized, with natural pillars of crystal reaching from floor to ceiling.
Stalactites and stalagmites have grown together over millennia, creating delicate formations that look like frozen waterfalls or elaborate chandeliers.
In the center of it all sits a large pool of perfectly clear water, so still it looks like black glass.
Steam rises from the surface, and I can smell the mineral richness in the air. The acoustics are incredible – every small sound we make echoes musically through the crystal formations, creating a symphony of whispers and chimes.
I let go of Castien and walk toward the pool, mesmerized by the way the crystals reflect in the water.
“I read about the hot springs here. There are records saying they have healing properties.”
As if on cue, I sneeze violently, the sound bouncing around the chamber in diminishing echoes. My cold has been getting worse since we entered the tunnels, and the constant dampness isn’t helping.
“You should bathe, then,” Castien says from behind me. “The water might heal your ankle. And your cold.”
I turn to look at him, struck by something in his tone that doesn’t match his words.
He’s telling me I should bathe, but everything about his body language suggests that’s the last thing he wants me to do.
He’s standing rigidly near the entrance, his wings slightly spread, his glowing eyes fixed on the crystal formations above us rather than on me or the pool.
The contradiction is so obvious I can’t ignore it.
“Right,” I say slowly, studying his face for any clue about what’s really going through his mind. “I should bathe.”