Chapter 33 #3
My heart pumps emotion through my veins like blood.
I nearly feel drunk on it. On the goodness of this moment.
On the recognition of its fragility. There is always something so tender and reverent about fragile things.
It makes a person appreciative—desperate to preserve and protect that which is breakable.
“Tell me something I can hold onto once this dream is over.”
Draven allows me to see the surprise in his eyes. “What kind of something would you like me to tell you?”
“I don’t know if I really care,” I murmur. “Tell me anything. About how you’ve been. About how everyone’s been. Tell me your favorite color or tell me what it would be like to wake up in your arms tomorrow. Just tell me…something.”
His eyes soften. “Your wish is my command.”
Draven leads me into a dip, where he then leans over me and grazes his lips up the full length of my neck.
His breath is a warm caress against my skin, and the overwhelming feeling of being touched like that after so long makes the air hitch in my chest. He cradles my neck as he guides me upright, his eyes never leaving mine.
There is something new and bright burning behind them now.
Draven lowers his mouth to the tip of my ear, brushing against my skin with a feather-light touch that sends my body hair rising.
“If I was privileged enough to wake up with you in my arms, I would lazily trace every inch of your skin as if discovering it for the first time. I would press my lips against your mouth, where I would devour you wholly and without apology. Then I would glide my tongue down your neck, until I reached your breasts, where I would pay homage to their divinity. And as I worshipped your skin, I would slip two fingers inside of you, and I would touch you with more reverence than even a god could dream of receiving. And only when my name is quivering on your lips, when the taste of me on your tongue has made you drunk, only then would I slip myself inside of you, thrusting until you made my back bleed.”
A hearth roars to life beneath my skin, flushing what feels like every inch of my body with a pink stain. Draven smiles a crooked, loaded sort of smile at the sight of it.
“I would take my time,” he continues against my ear, his desire leaking into every word, making my knees weak and heartbeat erratic.
“Not wasting a single second with you, savoring every stroke, every kiss, every moan of pleasure I force from your lips.” He tilts his chin toward me, making his lips brush against the skin of my cheek.
“I would make your body shatter into a million pieces from pleasure, and then I would spend an eternity admiring every beautiful fragment as I stitched you back together.”
He pulls his lips back, finally allowing me to see his eyes again. And the heat waiting for me in his gaze has me sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, and—
“Captain Dalmar,” a stern voice calls out from beside us.
The final chords of the extended song harmonize in a concluding swell, then end. The violinists exit the dancefloor, taking my fantasy and desire-laden dreams with them.
Draven doesn’t look at the man, instead holding my stare. There is something in his gaze—something frantic, almost. Apologetic. But different from the apology resting in his eyes before. He looks as though he is calculating something—attempting to find a way out.
But a way out of what, exactly, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with me? With this man?
“Captain Dalmar,” the man says again irritably, his low baritone seeming to swallow the room now that the music has paused.
I nearly flinch at the commanding sound, but Draven doesn’t bat an eye. Instead, he simply studies me for a few seconds longer, as if trying to memorize every pore on my face. Until he releases a clipped sigh, removes his hands from my body, and steps away from me, turning to face the voice.
I’m not sure if my skin has ever before felt as cold and abandoned as it does the moment Draven drags himself away from me.
“Lord Larking,” he says in a mild tone, all the warmth in his gaze fleeting away.
“Your father requests your presence.” The man doesn’t bother an attempt at sounding cordial, leaving his irritation fully unmasked.
He slices a look at me. “You should go on and fetch a drink, Lady. Captain Dalmar here won’t be coming back for quite some time, and once he does, I’m afraid his attention will be otherwise occupied. ”
Okay… whatever the hell that means.
And did he just say Lord Larking? As in Captain Larking’s father? Meaning… Arden?
Why the hell is he fetching Draven for his father?
Something else strikes me. The realization that Draven is being pulled away. I don’t know how much longer Casimir’s meeting will be—if I have the time to meet with Draven again when his father is finished with him. If I’m honest with myself, I probably already know the truth.
I don’t.
A frantic desperation grips me.
“My Lord,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. “I’m afraid I must kindly protest the idea of—”
“You get no such say, Lady. I don’t know your House, but I know it won’t outrank House Dalmar. The Supreme Commander has requested his son for an announcement, and so his son must answer.”
Announcement?
I turn to Draven, questions brimming in my eyes.
He sees them resting there, and that look of apology intensifies in his own gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, reaching a hand out and then dropping it, as if meaning to stroke my cheek but thinking better of it.
“Don’t move from this spot, okay? And don’t remove your mask.
I will return to you and explain everything as soon as I can.
” His lips thin as he continues watching me.
“Fuck, Lyra—I am so sorry. I thought I was going to have more time to explain.”
The accompanying thought rings loudly in my head: so did I.
Still, what is he talking about? What does he need to explain to me? And why does he look so broken—so filled with contrition?
Before I can ask any of those questions, though, that gods-forsaken man again speaks. “Captain Dalmar,” he pushes. “We must be going now.”
Draven grits his teeth, jerking his chin to the man. “Do not speak to me as if you hold some authority over me, Lord Larking. I know I needn’t remind you that you don’t.”
The man inclines his head. “My apologies, Captain Dalmar. I merely wish to not upset your father.”
My eyes shift between them.
A low growl rattles in Draven’s throat before he turns his attention back onto me. His features soften. “Wait for me here,” he says again, quiet enough so only I will hear. “It’s important, okay? No matter if you hate me. No matter how much you won’t understand—promise me you’ll wait.”
I can’t promise you that. I might not have time.
Still, how does he think I could ever hate him? Why does he think I’ll hate him? What am I missing?
As I stare back at him—still glimpsing echoes of the agony that broke his voice—I surprise myself when I instead answer, “I promise.”
Draven nods, content. He turns on his heels and follows Lord Larking in the opposite direction of me, his fingers subtly sweeping across my back before flexing and curling into a rigid fist at his side.
I watch him leave, wondering why I feel like we’ve just said goodbye to each other. I watch as he disappears behind the crowd. As he goes, I also wonder why my heart hurts.
Why it feels oddly… broken.