Chapter 8
She is here. This is not how it was supposed to happen. But she is here, and she cannot escape me. Not now. Not without magic.
I watch from the roof as she is herded through the gates. While the other Leafborne look terrified, she shines like a beacon of defiance.
She may not know it, may not feel it, but she is the personification of power. Her hair, her wings, the way she carries herself. As if she will not be beaten. It is both captivating and infuriating because it seems she has no idea who I am or what I am capable of. Which means I will be forced to show her.
Striding over to the fireplace, I mutter an incantation that will fan the flames. They surge, glow bright white, then soften back to orange and continue to flicker in the grate.
There is a knock on the door. I know it is Briony even before she says, “My lord? You called for me?”
“Enter.”
Leaning against the mantle with my forearm, I purposefully do not look at the maid. I have known her too long, and she knows me too well. Her family were sold to mine six centuries ago. And while her father and brothers had to be extinguished, she has always been loyal to a fault.
I trust her.
And that is an unnerving sensation.
“We have guests arriving,” I say darkly. “One of them – a female Leafborne – is to be given her own chambers. She is...” I hesitate, unsure how to phrase my intentions, “special to me, Briony.”
Now, I do turn around.
Briony is standing by the door, small wings tightly folded against her back, dark eyes watching me.
“Do you understand?”
She nods, swallowing forcefully. “I believe so, my lord.”
“I am entrusting her to you. You’re to serve her. See she’s fed and clothed. She can travel freely throughout the castle but she cannot leave.” I walk slowly towards the petite Shadowkind. “You will ensure she understands that attempting to leave is futile?”
Briony casts her eyes down to her forearms. While hers are bare and untarnished, there are many here who bear the marks of escape attempts. I allow them one chance – one opportunity to explore just how hopeless their situation is – before I dish out a final, fatal punishment.
“I will make sure she understands, my lord.” Briony hesitates. She worries her fingers together and glances towards the table where my whisky sits. “And you, my lord? Will you be eating this evening?”
I turn away from her, growling deep in the back of my throat. “I will not.”
“May I speak freely, my lord?” Briony’s voice trembles.
“You may not.” I pick up a glass, pour some whisky, and gesture to the door. “What you may do is leave me. Henrik knows which rooms I have assigned my guest. Have him give you the key.”
There is a pause, which always follows after I mention Henrik’s name in Briony’s presence. But I do not interrogate it. Although I forbid the Shadowkind from fornicating under my roof, it is the one area in which I tend to show leniency; they need something to keep their spirits from breaking.
“Very good, my lord.” Briony exits quietly, and I wait until her footsteps have disappeared down the hall before sighing loudly.
Although my chambers are located in a secluded part of the castle, even they are beginning to feel too much. Dimly lit by flickering lanterns, there are rich tapestries on the walls – inherited from my parents – and a perpetual scent of old books in the air. They used to bring me comfort. I used to revel in my solitude, catching snatches of it between banquets and meetings with the Sunborne courtiers.
But ever since I found out about her, I have come to hate them more and more.
She infects my thoughts. Visions of her torment my mind day and night.
And there is no escape.
Except . . .
I stride over to the door and throw the bolts across it. Then I close my eyes and mutter the incantation that will bring the past into the present.
“Mael’kor vistrae, ekan’thar nost’rae. Shar’il minae, thaes’kor nost’rae ...”
The air begins to shimmer, then it parts like a scissor cut in a piece of fabric, a large black hole forming in front of my eyes. Bracing myself, I step through it. Into the memory.
It is dark here too, but I wait, knowing there will soon be a flicker of heat in the corner of the room.
Sure enough, there it is. Fire blooms in the grate, and the rest of the room materialises slowly. A cabin. Small, wooden, leaves snaking in through gaps in the roof and dropping in tendril-like vines down the walls.
On the floor, in front of the fire, a sheepskin rug. Pale. Soft.
The door behind me clatters open. I move to one side, even though I know they cannot see me because, although this is real, it is not now.
“Kayan...” Her voice ripples through the air, teasing it into whispers that land on my skin and torture me. She is in front of the fire, wearing a burgundy dress that skims her hips and accentuates her waist.
Her hair is tied up, and my lips part hungrily with the knowledge it will soon be hanging down around her porcelain shoulders.
The boy appears. Over a century old but still every bit a boy in his demeanour. Floppy hair, eager grin. He pulls her towards him and kisses her deeply. She melts into the kiss, and sighs deeply.
Then, there it is, his hand going up to the back of her neck, tugging her hair loose, and watching it cascade down her back. He pauses, staring at her as though she is the most precious thing he has ever encountered, a gem or a jewel he wants desperately to caress but is scared of breaking.
Studying them, it is clear she is the one with the power. She bites her lower lip with a sinfully playful smile, then reaches back and unlaces her dress.
Kayan stands back and watches her. The outline of his cock is visible behind the fabric of his pants, but he doesn’t touch it. He just watches her.
Slowly, she peels her dress down over her shoulders. She is wearing no underwear, and when she steps out of the dress and casts it aside, her body is gloriously, completely, exposed.
Firelight kisses the curve of her hips. She cups her breasts for him, then slips one hand down to part her lips. Her eyes widen as she begins to play with herself. Still, he watches.
His wings flutter slowly, curling in the air. She kneels in front of him, and opens her mouth. Stunned, the fool simply stands there, until she teases him with a twerk of her eyebrows and gestures for him to remove his pants.
When he thrusts his cock into her mouth, it is done with tenderness, and I can tell she could take it harder. Wants it harder.
She tries to encourage it, bracing her hands on his hips and pulling him deeper into her, but he stops, leans down, and kisses her instead.
Frustration bubbles inside me. He is treating her like a delicate flower, a precious and fragile creature. But she wants more than that. She needs more than that.
Slowly, he lies down beside her. He kisses her forehead and smooths the hair from her face, and although this may not be what she needs in order to propel her to the heights of pleasure she deserves, she seems suddenly and completely content.
He fucks her gently, lovingly. His tongue roams her body. His hands skim her perfect skin. But she is the fire. She is the one who nibbles the edges of his wings, grabs his wrists and holds them above his head while she plunges down onto him, takes him to the edge of pleasure, then stops.
As they approach their climax, I brace myself.
Not for her pleasure, but for his pain.
He is on top of her. Her legs are wrapped around him, one hand on her clit, one on his chest. Right above his heart. She stares into his eyes. Her lips part with a high-pitched moan. He moans too. They are moving in unison, playing to each other’s rhythm. She tilts her head back, digs her fingernails into his chest. Moans louder.
He thumps the rug with his fist, next to her head. His body tenses. Her hand quickens, making harder and faster circles that pull deep coils of arousal from her core.
Her body shakes. Her wings glow. An orgasm washes over her, trickling through her body. He cries out, and she moans in response because she thinks it’s a cry of release. When she realises it’s not, she tries to push him off her, but a bright white light surges from beneath her palm, fusing her skin to his.
She tries to scramble away, free herself, free him, but she can’t.
A blue light bursts from his body, emanating from every pore, consuming the oxygen around them until they’re both struggling to breathe. His wings glow brighter too. Bluer and bluer until there is another, final, burst of light.
He collapses forward.
She lies beneath him, panting, trembling. She pulls her arm free, the contact broken, and pushes him away. He rolls onto his back.
His eyes are grey. She calls his name but he doesn’t answer. She tries to help him up and, finally, gets him to stand. But he still isn’t speaking. She grabs a blanket, wraps it around him, then pulls on her dress without fastening it.
“We’re going to get you some help,” she whispers. “Maura will know what to do.”
Kayan does not reply.
As they stumble past me, I retreat into the shadows.
Before the door closes, I catch a glimpse of their wings. His, limp and pale. Almost translucent. And hers... still vibrant, and purple, and strong. But now tinged with the slightest hint of blue.
The blue shimmers, undulates beneath the surface, filling the gaps between her veins. Then it disappears.
And so does she.