Chapter 37
Biyu couldn’t trust his words, or more like she didn’t want to believe them. She pressed her palms over her knees and leaned forward, her unbound hair swishing over her shoulders and trailing over the floor. “Tell me you don’t want me,” she whispered.
His brows furrowed; confusion, she imagined. He’d thought she would simply leave, broken hearted, unable to fathom the weight of his rejection. But she dug her nails into her kneecaps and glared at him.
Nikator opened his mouth to answer—likely to tell her exactly that.
But she beat him to it. “I see the way you look at me,” she whispered.
She didn’t know where she got the strength to speak.
Poor little Biyu, frightened little Biyu, always scared always anxious Biyu—she was gone.
In her place was a different version; a stronger one, forged with the love they shared, with the bond between them.
“I see the way you wish you could touch me again. I know it too well; it’s the same way I crave you.
The same way I love you. So tell me, Nikator.
Tell me you don’t want me. I need you to say it. ”
He propped himself up on his elbow, hissing in pain, eyes flashing. “Princess, stop this,” he snarled.
She didn’t understand the rage that rippled through their bond; it vanished just as quickly. Hidden away in those elusive thoughts of his.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” she repeated, louder.
He clenched his jaw, hesitated. “I don’t want you.”
“Liar,” she snapped. “Tell me.”
Another pause. “I don’t want you.”
She clung to his reluctance, the way rage colored his eyes in a brighter shade of sapphire. Like the brightest part of a raging flame. He didn’t like her probing at him like this.
“You lie just as much as I do.” She raised her chin and peered down at him with what she hoped was a look of disdain; her anger was the only thing keeping the seams of her being from unraveling, tearing open and spilling over him.
Not that he would care. In this moment, he looked like he wanted to shove a knife through her heart.
He wanted to hurt her. Maybe as much as she had hurt him.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, the bandages around his abdomen and shoulder blooming scarlet with the motion, but he didn’t seem to mind. He scowled, darkness twisting his beautiful features.
“I don’t—”
His sentence came to a stuttering stop when she lunged toward him, her face mere inches away from his.
He became deathly still; so unnatural, like a lethal, feral beast ready to sink its teeth into its prey.
For a moment, neither of them moved. He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, shuddering, and then his gaze flew open.
Zeroed in on her mouth. He licked his lips.
“I don’t want you,” he spit out through grinding teeth.
But even as he said that, his hand latched onto her thigh. Soft, slow. He exhaled with a tremor, and then his nails dug into her flesh. Hard.
She gasped, her hands still wrapped over her knees. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I don’t.” A muscle on his jaw feathered and his touch traveled to her hip. He prodded her soft body with a rough hand. Whatever control he had was slipping.
She lifted a trembling hand to his face and slid her fingers over his cheek; he was cold to the touch, and she shivered.
His eyes fluttered shut momentarily, a torn expression flitting over his face.
And for a moment, she wanted to believe that this connection between them was more than just desire.
For her, it was much more. For him? She wasn’t even sure.
He loathed her; she could tell that much.
He loathed the way she made him feel. The way she had broken his heart. The way she had betrayed him.
But he still craved her and a part of her wanted to be with him as long as possible; to take whatever scrap of attention he gave her.
Nikator took her hips in both of his hands, his resolve dissolving as he tightened his hold on her.
His nails jabbed into her flesh; not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath.
Despite being injured, he yanked her body close to his until she was sitting on his lap.
The bandages bloomed with more vermillion, but he didn’t seem to care.
His hands roamed over her sides, her ribs, and then her breasts.
Teasing, touching, rough. One last touch.
One last moment before they would be ripped apart.
She could feel his need. His desire. It flared through the bond, hungry, starving.
“I don’t want you,” he whispered, mouth hovering over hers. His warm breath tickled her skin. “Damn it. I don’t—I can’t want you.”
He fisted a hand in her hair, twisting her head up, and crushed his lips to hers.
It was unlike any of their other kisses; rougher, more needy, more bittersweet.
She kissed him deeply, her mouth parting, her back arching into his touch.
His hands were urgent, desperate, ready to tear off her clothes.
Her body ached to be his. He was so intoxicating, so thrilling. She longed for him—for this.
Their kisses were messy and unrestrained. There was no tenderness to his movements, only hurried grasps, breathless sighs and moans, and his low voice as he murmured, “I can’t have you, princess. Fuck. I can’t—” over and over, his mouth pressed low on her throat.
She wound her arms over his shoulders and he hissed in pain. His eyes flashed to hers and a slow, sharp grin twisted his lips. “You love that, don’t you? Hurting me.”
“Never,” she whispered.
He flipped her until she was laying beneath him. His eyes glowed, blood slickening his bandages. “Lies.”
“I could never—”
He drowned out her next words with another kiss.
One second, he was smothering her with messy kisses and the next he was tearing off her clothes, plunging inside of her, their bodies melding together. Moving to a fast, violent rhythm. Like neither of them could get enough.
More. More. More.
She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to crash over the edge just yet, but he was pushing her over. He didn’t allow their lovemaking to be slow, stalled, and reverent.
She was boneless, senseless, with his touch. Sparks shot up her spine. And she still needed more from him.
She wanted every part of him. Every. Single. Piece.
Her hands curled over his shoulders, injured and not, and she barely registered his groan—of both pain and desire. “Say my name,” she rasped, desperate.
She needed to hear him say Biyu. Not Princess.
Nikator grunted a response in his native tongue.
“Nikator, say it.” Another gasp wrenched from her.
He didn’t want to give in—she could see it all over his face. He didn’t want to indulge her in something so small, yet so meaningful.
“Nik—”
“Biyu,” he finally breathed when it seemed he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He cradled the side of her face with his rough, calloused hand. His thumb brushed over her swollen lips. “You’re so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. You’re too much. Always—you’ve always been so beautiful.”
Sweat plastered her hair onto her neck. Her moans filled the room and before long, they both crashed over the precipice.
They both breathed heavily, labored, and then he fell on top of her, his bandages bleeding, and sweat rolling off his face.
His hand trailed over her heart. A stream of heat followed in the wake of his touch.
They both remained on the floor in a mess of naked, sweaty limbs. His blood had smeared over her chest and his own, and other fluids glistened on her inner thighs. For a moment, he only stared at her.
Silent. Possessive.
Finally, he pulled himself into a sitting position. His dressings were completely soaked through, and it was only now that the fervent haze of desire had lifted that horror settled in. She lurched forward on her knees, hand outstretched toward his wounds.
“Oh, Nikator, I’m so sorry—”
“Where are you keeping the water?”
“Oh. I—” She pointed to the pitcher beside the pile of blankets he had slept in for the past week.
She wrung her hands together while he grabbed the handle and drank from the mouth of it.
A tiny stream trickled down the side of his mouth while he drained the container.
“I’ve been getting the water from the well outside.
I checked to see if there was anything in there—creatures or dead … body parts. It’s clean.”
He set the now-empty pitcher on the floor. He looked even more exhausted than before. “And the jiangshi? Did you check its body?”
She bobbed her head. “When the sun rose, I watched its body turn to dust.”
“Good.”
This stiff, formal, business-like talk wasn’t normal after their passionate coupling; they should have been in each other’s arms still, murmuring sweet nothings in each other’s ears. But he was drawing clear boundaries between them. It hadn’t meant anything.
You are a mistake I’ve made one too many times.
His harsh words echoed in her mind. She took the edge of one of the tattered, mildew-smelling blankets and wrapped it over her bare shoulders.
He watched the action with little interest. His jaw clenched together, expression carved from stone, as he turned to inspect the rest of the house they had been staying in.
“The wards surrounding this village must have failed,” he said glumly. “Or they ran out of magic crystals, or mages … or they were foolish enough to sell the magic crystals supplying the wards.”
Biyu drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on her knees.
Under her father’s reign, only the populated cities had been warded against monstrous creatures and beings.
Usually, the lords had to pay for the supplies—the crystals, the mages to check on them, and the spells themselves.
Only the wealthy cities could afford such protection, but even then, the slums were known to have thinner wards.
Villages like this had no need for protection.
According to Father, at least. “Does the emperor supply wards to small villages like this?”
He eyed her warily. “Of course. Every village receives wards. Usually, the crystals need to be checked monthly and changed. Whoever is in charge of this village likely hasn’t visited it just yet. It’s also possible the village chief sold the crystals, since they fetch a high price.”
“It’s also possible the mages are shirking their duties.”
“Perhaps.” He rubbed his temples. “I need to report this and bury the dead.”
Another bout of silence persisted between them.
The fire continued to lick at the hearth.
Biyu wound the thin blanket tighter around her body.
An emptiness festered within her the more she remained here.
It was jarring to be in his arms and then suddenly thrust into this cold, detached space where neither could look at the other. Where he only spoke in a clipped tone.
She missed when he would kiss her tears away. Clean her up. Whisper sweet things in her ear. Let her snuggle up on his arm and fall asleep. It had soothed the darkest, most hollow, most broken parts of her soul. Had repaired parts of her she hadn’t even realized had been neglected for years.
And now that it was gone, she craved it.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, softer this time. He still wasn’t looking at her. He rummaged through a basket she had collected and filled with medical supplies. He pulled out a wad of bandages and began peeling his bloodied ones off. “Some of the stitches have come undone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need.” He grimaced as the last of the dressings fell on his lap. Now that he was upright and the light was shimmering on him, she could see how messy her stitches were. How uneven they appeared. How unskilled she was.
Biyu crawled over to where her crumpled, discarded dress laid, and snatched it up.
She dressed hurriedly, hating this strange feeling festering within her.
What was it? Rejection? It ran deeper than that.
Guilt? No, she was accustomed to that feeling.
She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it burrowed its ugly fangs into her heart and sucked out all the joy.
She felt pathetic.
She wasn’t supposed to feel like this after intercourse. Usually, she was sated, happy, full of life. Not on the verge of sobbing.
“I need some air.” She rushed toward the exit, not even waiting for his answer. Throwing it open, a gust of cool night air greeted her. She passed through without another word, and slammed the door behind her.