Chapter 11 Lord Imas
LORD IMAS
Iam a creature of structure. Of hierarchy. Of control.
But as I press Leora into the velvet mattress, pinning her wrists above her head with a single hand, I am none of those things. I am a starving animal that has finally caught the thing it has been chasing in the dark.
She gasps, her chest heaving against mine, her nipples hardening against the bare skin of my chest. Her skin is flushed, damp with the sweat of fear and the heat of the storm raging between us.
I look down at her, drinking in the sight of her surrender.
Her Purna eyes are wide, the blackness swirling, swallowing the sapphire, reflecting my own desperate, ravaged face back at me.
"Mine," I snarl, the word tearing from my throat like a curse.
I do not wait for permission. The air in and around the room is heavy with the scent of arousal, a thick, intoxicating musk.
I reach down, my hand trembling not with weakness, but with the force of my restraint snapping.
I tear the silk of her gown, the sound of rending fabric sharp and violent in the quiet room.
It shreds easily, revealing the pale, fragile expanse of her body.
I want her bare. I want no barriers between my skin and the source of the silence.
She whimpers—a high, keen sound that vibrates straight into my marrow. She flinches as the cool air hits her skin, but she does not struggle. Instead, she shifts beneath me, her legs parting, her thighs wrapping around my waist, instinctively seeking more friction, more contact.
“Imas…” she moans my name, over and over.
The invitation destroys me.
I position myself between her legs. The heat radiating from her is searing against the unnatural cold of my own flesh. I am hard, painfully so, my need a jagged ache that demands to be soothed.
I press the tip of myself against her entrance.
The contact is a shock of absolute voltage.
"Gods," I hiss through gritted teeth, my head falling back.
It feels like grabbing a lightning rod in a gale.
A jolt of pure, white-hot energy arcs from her body into mine, searing through the numbness that has plagued me for days.
It is not the jagged, painful electricity of Chaos magic.
It is smooth. It is heavy. It flows like molten gold, filling the cracks in my soul, cauterizing the wounds left by The Serpent’s silence.
Leora cries out, her hips arching off the mattress to meet me. "Imas..."
The sound of my name on her lips, spoken not as a title but as a plea, shatters my last defense.
I push into her.
Slowly at first, letting the tightness of her body stretch to accommodate me. She is small, so incredibly tight, and the sensation of stretching her, of filling her completely, is blinding.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a ragged growl.
Her black eyes lock onto mine. Tears leak from the corners, tracking silver paths into her hair.
I drive forward, sinking deep, burying myself to the hilt.
We both gasp, a unified, broken sound.
The sensation is blinding. It is not just flesh meeting flesh; it is mind meeting mind. The barrier I have tried to maintain—the iron wall of my Khuzuth pride—disintegrates instantly. I can feel the velvet heat of her sheath gripping me, pulsing around me, but I can also feel her.
I feel the shock wave of her pleasure, a bright, blinding starburst in the center of my mind. I feel her awe. I feel the terrifying, overwhelming sense of fullness that she feels.
I withdraw and thrust again, harder this time.
"Please," she moans, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows. "It’s too much..."
"Take it," I snarl, snapping my hips, driving into her with the punishing force of a master claiming a slave. "Take all of it."
I want to dominate her. I want to make her cry out. I want to wring the chaos out of her to fill my own empty reserves. I set a brutal rhythm, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room.
But she fights back.
Not with claws or teeth. She fights with feeling.
Every time I thrust, she pushes a wave of sensation back into me. She floods my nervous system with a torrent of emotions that are not mine. I expect fear. I want fear.
Instead, I feel... worship.
It rushes into me with every stroke. I feel her hands tangling in my hair, pulling my head down. I feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. And through the Purna bond, I feel what she feels: she does not see a monster. She sees a unique being. She sees a man she wants to save.
It is overwhelming. It is too much.
"Stop it," I gasp, my voice wrecked, sweat dripping from my brow onto her face. "Stop... feeling."
"I can't," she whispers against my ear, her breath hot and ragged. She lifts her hips, meeting my thrusts, grinding against me. "I can't help it."
She tightens around me, a convulsion that nearly sends me over the edge.
The pleasure builds, spiraling higher, darker. It is not the cold, distant satisfaction I am used to. It is visceral. It creates a pressure behind my eyes, a ringing in my ears that drowns out the memory of The Serpent. It feels like drowning in warm water.
I need to anchor myself. I need to remember what I am.
I am a predator. I am a Lord of Lliandor.
I shift my grip, my hand tightening around her wrists until I feel the delicate grind of bone. I lower my head to the junction of her neck and shoulder. The scent of her—salt, sex, and that maddening empathy—fills my lungs.
I open my mouth. I bite down.
I expect the sharp, grounding tang of copper. I expect the savory spike of her pain to wash over me, a familiar comfort that will restore the order of the world.
My teeth sink into her soft skin. She screams, a shattered, high-pitched cry, and her body spasms around me, clamping down hard.
But I do not taste blood.
I taste light.
It explodes on my tongue, a flavor that has no name. It is sweet, cloying, and infinitely rich. It rushes down my throat, burning like the finest Paquir wine, but a thousand times more potent.
It is empathy. It is compassion. It is the raw, unfiltered essence of a soul that refuses to hate me even as I hurt her.
It poisons me. It cures me.
My vision whites out. The darkness that usually coils in my gut—the shadows of The Serpent, the rot of my own cruelty—shrivels away from the light. I can feel the dark magic receding, hissing as it evaporates, leaving me scoured clean.
"Leora," I roar, the sound torn from the bottom of my lungs.
I release her wrists and slide my hands under her hips, gripping her bruised flesh, lifting her to meet me. I drive into her one last time, seeking the center of the light, seeking the oblivion she offers.
"Yes," she sobs, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Yes, Imas!"
I come with a violence that shakes the frame of the bed. It feels like dying. It feels like being born. The pleasure is so intense it borders on agony, a bright, singing note that holds for an eternity, suspending me in a space where there is no god, no caste, no pain.
There is only her.
I collapse on top of her, my heart beating a frantic, bruising rhythm against her ribs. My breath saws through my lungs, raw and ragged.
For a long time, there is the sound of our breathing and the rain weeping against the glass. The air moving in the room feels charged, electric, the aftermath of a storm.
Slowly, the world knits itself back together. The gray light of the room returns. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air.
I lie there, my face buried in her hair, feeling the steady, thumping beat of her heart against my chest.
And I realize what I have done.
I didn't take her. I didn't break her.
I surrendered.
The realization is a bucket of ice water.
I scramble backward, rolling away from her as if she is burning. I land on the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. I stagger, bracing my hand against the bedpost, my chest heaving.
I stare at her.
She lies amidst the ruined sheets, her skin flushed, her lips swollen, the mark of my teeth stark and red against her pale neck. Her limbs are sprawled in the abandon of total exhaustion. Her eyes are slowly turning back to blue, the Purna blackness receding like a tide.
She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.
I look down at my hands. They are trembling. The obsidian ring is silent. The Serpent is gone. And in His place, there is a warm, terrifying glow of satisfaction that really has nothing to do with power and everything to do with connection.
I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the connection more than the control.
I wanted her to hold me more than I wanted to own her.
Horror, cold and absolute, rises in my gorge. I have not just failed my god. I have failed myself. I have let the enemy in, and I have let her rewrite the very architecture of my soul. I am compromised. I am weak.
"Get out," I whisper, my voice shaking.
She blinks, confused, propping herself up on her elbows. She reaches for me, her hand trembling. "My Lord?"
I flinch from her touch.
"Get out!" I scream, grabbing the shredded remains of her gown and throwing them at her. "Get out of my sight before I kill you!"