Chapter 7 Silva
Silva
She didn’t know how they always wound up on the same pillow.
She would start the night on her own, she was sure of it.
Her face would be pressed to the cool-white cotton, her back tucked against his chest. His arm was a heavy, solid pressure over her, his breath a warm huff above her head, his knee pushed through her legs .
. . but without fail, she would wind up turned the other way entirely, pressed to his front, her nose bumping his own from a shared pillow.
“It’s because you’re a bleedin’ octopus with no concept of personal space.”
He was laughing before she even had a chance to react, gasping in outraged offense.
His hands caught her wrists easily, anticipating her movements a second before she made them, trapping her in place as she tried to fight her way free, her pride on the line.
Silva tried to kick, but he’d shifted his body sideways, an unfair advantage of both height and weight, covering her thighs and trapping her against the mattress.
She tried to rain her fists down on his back, but her wrists were pulled back, held above her head.
She was captured, held down as if she were as weak as a flitting pixie, his laughter transcending sound.
“I’m going to start sleeping on the sofa,” she moaned pitifully, her pretend misery melting into a grin as he continued to shake in now-silent laughter against her.
“I’ll be right out there with you, breaking my fucking back all night just to keep you warm. How am I supposed to know which pillow is mine if your head’s not on it, dove?”
Silva found herself pinned entirely beneath him then, the long line of his body covering her own, her thighs spread as he settled between them.
“There’s no other octopus I’d rather have capture me.”
His mouth was hot against hers, and at the first press of him within her, Silva’s head lolled back, gasping as he kissed down her neck, his cock seating within her in one slow press. She whimpered, sinking her fingers into his hair when he began to move.
“I want you to make me a promise.”
His voice was a curl around her ear, a curious reverberating echo moving through her head. He felt too far away, which didn’t make any sense, as he was right there with her. His hips were moving faster now, a driving pressure that made her moan.
Faster still, too fast. Her own pleasure hadn’t kept up with the pace he’d set, far too fast for her liking.
Silva shifted beneath him, wiggling her hips in an effort to realign them, something he always did, always ensuring she was comfortable, that it felt good for her too, that she was teetering on the edge of her own orgasm before he began chasing his own.
That he’d not done so now was entirely out of character.
“Promise me that you're going to live your life, little dove.”
There it was. She wheezed once sparks of pleasure began to light up behind her squeezed-shut eyes, finally rocking against her in just the right spot. His voice was still an echo in her head, dissipating like smoke. Her fingers tightened in his hair.
Promise me.
A reverberating echo, rattling her skull.
Silva felt him shudder above her and his hips surged, still deep within her as he finished, all she ever wanted.
Her teeth found purchase against his skin, the line of muscle between his neck and shoulder being too tantalizing to resist, the same place she’d bitten him before.
He groaned as he came, her teeth sinking into his tender flesh.
Don’t wait for me, Silva.
“What the fuck?!” A cry of pain, and then she was roughly dislodged. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Silva?”
She gasped, the room spinning. It wasn’t the bed she was expecting, not the room she thought to find herself in.
Tannar. It was Tannar. Her husband. Tannar who’d been atop her, Tannar whom she’d just bitten.
He was bleeding from where she’d broken the skin, his eyes moving between the bite mark and her in horror.
Reality swept in with a crushing wave, dragging her down in its undertow.
Tate was gone, and this was her life now.
Silva nearly fell in her scramble to get off the bed, the room pitching like a boat as she crossed to the bathroom, barely making it over the threshold of the door as she retched.
The door swung shut as she dropped to her knees before the toilet bowl.
The wave of nausea was interrupted only by her sobs.
She could hear Tannar cursing in the bedroom beyond, storming out after a moment, likely to the bathroom down the hallway to wash off his bleeding skin.
Bleeding because you bit him like an animal.
The cracks in her performance were beginning to show.
She wasn’t a warrior, wasn’t anything like the elves of old, bloodthirsty hunters who would have crossed the veil without a moment of compunction, dragging back her intended and leaving a trail of fae blood in her wake.
She’d gone back down her rabbit hole, back to those dark corners online that could not be found unless one already knew of their existence, learning what might actually await her if she used her key.
They’ll trick you. There’s no getting out once you’re in.
They’ll hunt you for sport, they’ll make you a slave to their queen.
No one mentioned anything about being eaten, but Silva had decided the cat-like man at Bell, Book it’s just putting books away.
It’s not like I’m suggesting signing up to be a blood bag at a vampire clinic.
” Not that a vampire would ever willingly choose to live someplace as boring as this.
“What?”
Her eyes snapped up at his peevish tone, widening when she realized her internal thoughts might have slipped out of her mouth without her notice.
“You don’t need to work, Silva.” It had been the first time she could remember him sounding truly irritated with her, entirely disinterested in placating her. “That’s going to make us look bad.”
“Why would it?!” she’d exclaimed, unable to keep her own frustration from overriding her sweet, Silva of the Daytime voice for a moment.
Silva of the Nighttime was bolder, less of a doormat, less of a mouse.
She could tell immediately that Tannar didn’t like this version of her, his eyebrows turning down.
“You’re acting like we didn’t literally meet at work!
Where we worked with plenty of other elves! There’s no expectation that—”
“I thought a traditional marriage was the point of all this,” he’d snapped coldly, the chill of it making her stiffen, silencing her. “I thought that was literally the point. What we both wanted. Why we did this. A traditional marriage, to make both our families happy.”
Silva had the realization then, foolishly for the very first time, that he was using her in the exact same way she was using him.
Oh, he was decent and unobjectionable and kinder than many of the other options she likely had, and she had gotten very lucky, but that didn’t change what this was.
For either of them, evidently. A means to an end, a respectable life in their community set on easy mode.
The right sort, as her grandmother would say.
You’ll meet and marry some perfect, purple-skinned prat with a respectable, white-collar job and an excellent credit score.
The only thing he’d gotten wrong was the color of her husband’s skin. Love was just a word.
“I need to get out of this house,” she’d whispered, furious with the tears that spilled over her lashes. “I need to make friends somewhere.”
“That’s the whole point of the club, Silva.
” His voice hadn't warmed. “Friends. A social circle, volunteer opportunities. You’re not meant to be sitting in the house all day doing gods knows what. You don’t need a part-time job for that.
You can have lunch every day, play tennis, go to the spa, whatever you want! ”
“I don’t want to do any of that!” Her voice had a ring of hysteria, the endless months of isolation catching up with her at last. Self-imposed isolation from everyone she loved and the community she knew, the memory of true happiness, and an increasingly unhinged online social circle of fae conspiracy fanatics.
“Then you need to start trying a little harder,” he said bluntly.
There was no wounded kitten look that would save her.
Silva knew she was beat. Sometimes, a good hustle meant knowing when to cut one’s losses, when to walk away while one still could.
“You’re not trying at all, Silva. You’re not trying to make friends.
You’re not getting involved. You are the one who wanted to move.
You want something to do? Then you should be meeting with the fertility counselors at the health center, not following around after a bunch of humans, putting books away like the help.
And if you don’t care about how that makes you look, then fine.
But you are not going to make me look bad.
As if my bridal barter was lacking. You don’t care?
I do. Absolutely not, and that’s the end of the discussion.
And speaking of things you’re meant to be doing; I thought you were supposed to be finding a cook. ”
She’d gasped in offense. It was true, the vegetable curry she’d attempted that night hadn’t turned out quite the way she’d hoped, and the previous night’s cauliflower steaks had been a bit well-done, but she liked learning to cook .
. . At least, she had once. When she’d had strong hands guiding her, never getting impatient or frustrated, always choking down her efforts with a shake of his head and a kiss to the tip of her nose, ensuring she didn’t burn anything down.
She’d flounced from the table, spent the rest of the evening crying self-indulgent tears, keeping her back to Tannar when he finally came to bed.
And now you just took a bite out of his shoulder like he’s a raw steak.
She would stay here for the rest of the night, she vowed, pushing unsteadily to her feet.
A hot shower was what she needed. She was cold and nauseated, and she wanted to get warm.
Get warm and wash away the stickiness on her thighs, the evidence of an existence she didn’t want, a reminder that things had gone terribly wrong and she had no idea how to fix any of it.
She’d stay in this bathroom forever, if need be. It was preferable to what was on the other side of the door, and the mess that had become of her life.