Chapter 20 #2
I was so caught off guard, I froze, going limp underneath his palm, his words.
But I trusted him. The camaraderie, the respect we’d built over so many evenings together demanded I trust him.
I trusted the being who moved across the abyss and came home to teach me things I could never dream of knowing about the world.
I knew he would never truly hurt me, that everything he’d ever done was only to push me forward.
And deeper in my heart, in a place I could not bear to fashion into words, I knew I must trust him, for he was my path back to Rochelle and forward into freedom.
So, I gripped the blanket and closed my eyes.
For what felt like hours, I lay like that.
Clutching the blanket. My legs and bottom bare in the wind.
I felt Death’s remote silence. Heard the high whine of bugs that rose in the late afternoon.
Bees landed in the sweet pastries. I dared not move.
My flesh felt reddened and raw from the sun and wind. But still, he did not touch me.
“Your afternoon is going to waste,” he finally said. “It’s a shame. Don’t you want to move? Don’t you want another pastry?”
A part of me wanted to laugh at that, for it was such a naked attempt at temptation.
He could not truly think I did not know how to play this game; I was not a virgin or novice to either sex or magic.
In some ways it felt like we were building a spell together, the focus, the attention, the tension that rose with the hum of the bees.
I pressed my lips tight and dared not answer.
Easing my breath out my nose, I disciplined myself again to stay motionless. He would see.
He only waited, another moment. “Are you ready? You may answer me.”
“Yes, my lord,” I answered, making sure not to flinch, not to tense, not to do anything but breathe.
The crop snapped across the flesh of my arse, sharp and shocking. I managed to keep the hiss of pleasure from its bite behind my teeth. He dragged the tip of the crop down the curve to the inside of my thigh.
Then I made a mistake. I couldn’t help myself—not with his stern expression in my mind’s eye, making me weep to be touched—I arched. Just a little. The crop snapped against my skin, smarting.
“I didn’t tell you to move, ma petite chou,” he said, his words as sharp as ever.
But I felt like I was melting from joy. He had me here, splayed out before him, watching me, holding me on the edge of pleasure and pain. I was his. His pet. His creature. His pupil. I would have done anything he asked of me. Anything at all.
“I can see you quivering. You must not be swept away by your pleasure. You cannot let yourself be carried away by feeling—this is what makes your magic so unwieldy.” As he spoke, the flat of the crop slid slowly up my legs.
“You must learn control. You will hurt me with that lack of control, did you know that? You would leave me like all the rest in your life, and sometimes I think maybe in your heart you are cruel enough to want that. We are building something together, even now. Something powerful, something that I had given up hoping for. And you hold it all in your hands.”
As he said those words, so heady themselves, the flat of his crop dipped between my thighs and began to whisper along the seam of my slit.
It was almost ticklish it was so light and cool, and I wanted nothing more than to clench my teeth and grind into the pleasure.
I wanted him to splay me wide and thrust into me.
But I listened to him and, with all my might, held still.
The crop parted the soft folds of my body, pushing against the swollen, slick flesh, and he did not reprimand me for lifting my hips just enough to give him room.
“I’m going to make it so difficult for you. As difficult as I can. But you must never let go of your control.” As he spoke, he slid the crop into me.
It was his words that made me want to cry out more than the stroke of the crop, but together they were everything I’d never let myself dream of on those nights I went back to my room, mind and body both humming from the pleasure of an evening beside him.
We were doing something together—me and him—and it felt powerful and important.
I had never expected to do anything with my life, let alone something incredible.
He pulled the crop out of me and slid the flat, dripping wet, over the bud at the top.
I held my breath and did not so much as tense.
If he had let me cry out, let me flinch, let me pull or push, I’d have lost control.
But I listened to the low tones of his instruction to steady myself and managed to keep a grip on my pleasure.
He pushed me, further and further, into the desert of my control, I felt the brush of magic all around me, building, building inside of me alongside the withheld pleasure, like a dam holding back water.
Perchta had taught me to put my magic into an action, a working—either an herb or a poultice or a spell.
But here, with Death, it built without a point, without a working.
I was afraid I would drown in it. I was lost now.
I could see the abyss behind my eyes, the swirl of hot stardust and the shadows of gods.
But through it all, I did not betray my control.
Finally, he withdrew the crop. “Excellent,” he whispered, and even that threatened to undo me. “One last thing. Hold still.”
I didn’t dare move. My pulse was so thick and shallow it almost seemed like it might be slowing.
I expected the sharp bite of the crop. But when it came, it was so slick, so sharp, I didn’t feel it at first. Only a heartbeat later did the feeling descend—like a burning thread dragged across the backs of my thighs.
My breath caught. I did not know what was happening. The feeling that went through my body alone—I could not make any sense of it, whether it was pleasure or whether it was pain or whether I was being torn apart.
“Do not scream,” he warned. “Do not let go of your control.”
There was no need to warn me, I felt locked into my body and could not move even if I had wanted to jump up and run. Run, my sister mouthed through the silver mirror—a sudden intrusion of doubt and fear that I did not want. I squeezed my eyes shut tight.
He hovered over me, out of sight, but I could hear the soft rustle of his movement.
Fire erupted over on the backs of my thighs and the wind caught something hot and liquid dripping off my skin.
I was desperate to know what was going on.
I wanted to scream, but I managed to keep it swallowed down.
All the magic I’d felt building around me swept out of me now, through the fire on my legs.
Finally, he sat on the ground beside me, sagging with relief I had never seen him wear before. “You may move.”
Gingerly, I rolled onto my side.
He sat beside me, wiping a carving knife clean with the edge of the blanket.
A dark smear was left on the cloth and I recognized that it was my own blood in a strange, distant sort of way.
The truth was, I didn’t know how to feel and so I felt nothing. I needed to see what came next, how he might feel or react to me, in order to understand how I felt or what I should do. So, I laid there perfectly still, watching. Waiting to discover how I should feel.
He cut a clean square off the blanket and those black eyes found mine, tender and beseeching. “May I?” he asked, motioning toward my legs.
I looked over my shoulder. My thighs were shaking, but I didn’t feel them, hadn’t even noticed. I nodded.
Then he did something I had never seen. He opened his mouth and bit the tip of his fingers, pulling his hand out of his gloves.
His pale, careful hands gently, so gently, cleaned off the blood. His other hand opened wide on my thighs, warm and heavy, once again steadying me. He took his time, carefully applying the cloth until the bleeding slowed and the sting died from flame into banked coals.
My trembling slowed. I felt more destroyed by the gentleness of his hands than by the cut of his knife.
If this was how he loved, I was strong enough to receive it.
He cared, had not stopped caring, and now I understood his cruelty was part of how he cared.
After all, how did a man ordained as a weapon show his care without cutting?
I told myself I should have known—he had warned me, after all.
He finished and then selected a pastry. I sat up and ate the small bites he pulled off for me, sipped the wine he poured. The wind worked loose tears that had collected in the corners of my eyes, dragging them across my temples and into my hair. I sniffed and hoped he did not notice.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Do you …” His voice caught and I managed to look at him. His eyes were considering the meadow, the deepening blue of evening and the soft orange clouds drifting across the mountains. “Do you regret it now?”
Despite myself, I laughed, a little horrified when it came out as both a laugh and a sob. “No,” I said. “Not a moment of it.” And I didn’t. I knew that much. I vehemently took a bite of the pastry and chewed, even though it tasted like dust in my mouth.
To be Death’s companion, to save the ones I loved, to walk in the abyss, to see the shadow of other worlds and other gods—all would require me to become stronger than I felt.
I expected the pain and discomfort and strangeness of it.
I expected not to understand. On some level the utter confusion reassured me.
He told me I needed to surrender, and I was desperate to surrender all my pain, all my darkness, all my loneliness, into his care.
I would gladly make him be responsible for those things. Even this.
“Then come home with me, and I will usher you into another world.” He stood and replaced his gloves, then extended his hand.