Chapter 21 Nightmares
Nightmares
The Moon card represents the blurred line between reality and illusion—like moonlight reflected on water, where a single stone can make the mirrored image waver. Our perception may be a deception.
THEY SHOVE ME into Amaya’s room. Morgan moves back against the wall and the Devil Arcana begins to weave his magic around the space, until they’ve disappeared.
The bedroom is as spare as it seemed the first time I visited, a few weeks ago for a study session.
There are little pops of pink accessories, but for the most part it’s a black metal-framed bed, a desk, and a wardrobe.
Footsteps sound from the hallway and the next thing I know Draven’s passing by the room. I don’t make a sound, praying he’ll keep walking. But as if he’s magnetized to me, he backtracks, pawing the door open. He leans against it, eyeing me up.
“Does this mean we’re turning in early, love?”
The way his body is curled into the opening, mask forgotten, the length of him leaning so lazily against it has my body molten, linked to every primal movement of his. The moonlight highlights his tight waist, those broad shoulders, the hollows of his cheekbones.
“Draven …” Gods, this would be so hot if I wasn’t terrified. I can’t do this. Not to him. His grin spreads like flame doused in oil as he drinks me in.
“I love the way you say my name.” He leans forward, as though I have him on a fucking string, but he manages to resist fully walking in. Morgan was right. I am the key to getting Draven. And I hate that in this moment. I want to scream at him to run, guilt eating me alive.
Okay, okay, think. Fucking think, Rune.
He’s hot. He wants me. But he’s also smart. Wickedly, deliciously cunning.
I can figure out how to tell him about the danger without saying a word.
I force a calm over my body, meeting his eye as I step back toward the bed.
He pushes off the doorjamb, hands in his pockets as he crosses the distance to me. I’m reminded just how tall he is, my tilted chin barely reaching his collarbone.
Whatever happens in this room, he needs to walk out of it alive.
He tucks a white curl behind my pointed ears, his forehead touching mine, thumb caressing my neck. My heart liquefies in my chest, seeping between my ribs as his tone turns tender.
“We don’t have to be anything but what we are here, Rune. I don’t want to take anything you aren’t willing to give.”
“There’s nothing to give. I’m already yours.” My words have him checking his vow-inked tattoo. But it was the truth.
Draven’s mouth edges into a hungry smile, and his power causes the door to snick shut.
I step out of my boots and kick them against the wall, hopefully right into Morgan’s tiny crotch, but I can’t see them hit anything.
If they did, the Devil Arcana must cover it and the sound.
But it draws Draven’s attention to the other open door.
Good. He’ll have to splice through the illusion to shut it.
Come on. To my disappointment, his shadows curl around the handle, closing it softly without resistance. The Devil Arcana must be good, better than I thought, though there’s still a hint of wrong lighting and oddly shaped shadows.
I sit on the bed, leaving a space for Draven to join me.
He does, leaning back, his wings lazily spread, nothing rushed about the way he moves. Not like the sick impersonation Morgan portrayed, shoving and pushing and—
“Rune, you seem nervous.” Draven’s wing curls around me, so feather-soft, the gentlest nudge. “You know … we don’t have to—”
“Quiet,” I demand, and press my lips to his. No one can know our plans. No one can know this thing between us isn’t fully real. At least that it isn’t yet.
His eyes close but I keep mine open, checking all the corners before focusing back on his face. His brows stop tensing together, relax, and look nearly blissful. And for just a moment, I let myself enjoy him.
I press my tongue into him more deeply, and he lets me set the pace, responding with relish. He tastes good. I move to his neck, climbing into his lap.
“Rune,” he moans. His hands travel my thighs; he groans in the back of his throat as he continues caressing bare skin.
It peaks me, and I ball his shirt into my fists. I grasp Draven’s hands and he lets me, our fingers interlocking as I press them down against the bed.
I’ve wanted him since the moment I laid eyes on him, and I’ve fought it every second since. All I can think to do is buy us more time, until I can figure out what to try next. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying him, but I hate that there’s an audience for this.
Draven growls, “I’ve been thinking about this every moment since the claim.”
“Only since then?” My heart stills.
“Honestly? Since you were on your knees before me at the Selection.” One of his hands escapes my grasp, gripping between thigh and backside. I know his thumb will be tracing in wet if it moves any closer.
The temptation to give in overwhelms me as he pleads, “Let me taste you.”
“You are,” I tell him, sucking those lips against mine, his kiss better than any sex that came before him.
His thumb does move against me at that, firmly splitting me until he reaches my apex, and I gasp against him. Why does this have to be happening now?
“You know what I mean.” The violet in his eyes turns magenta, linked with primal desire.
I regretfully pull his hand away, shoving it into the pillow again.
I want to beg him to run, despite the hypnotic movements of his hands, the rhythmic lift of his hips, but that High Priestess Arcana can send the order to strike at any moment.
I have no choice. And knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. I release the kiss, filling my mind’s eye with all the faces of my friends who will be slaughtered should I mess this up.
I push against his chest, and he gets the message, crawling back toward the headboard.
I need to get his hands tied, but my cards are linked to Morgan now, which means he controls them until they’re reset. Morgan’s grubby hands leaving stains on everything.
“Me first.” I lock my hands against his hard enough he doesn’t fight it.
“By all means … ruin me, Rune,” Draven begs, bedroom eyes watching me.
I mouth his neck and then whisper in his ear, “Do you trust me?”
His eyes open a bit more, doubt swirling in their depths. He grins. “Gods, no.”
“Then let me prove myself,” I say, eyes lifting to the spot Morgan and his traitors lay in wait.
Draven’s gaze follows curiously, and I add more loudly, “Feel my desires for yourself.” I can’t drop my shields, but he said earlier he could sense what I was feeling.
Hoping to hells that’s true, I let every ounce of fear blaze through me like a tidal wave through a flood bank. Too much to be withheld.
His hands stop roving, gripping my waist harder, eyes darting between mine as though he doesn’t understand what he’s reading off me.
I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “Tie yourself to the headboard.” Keeping my hands bracketed around his own, my gaze flicks to where Morgan and his cowards hide again.
I feel him trying to get past my mental wards, but I won’t let him in, I can’t.
A steely suspicion lingers in the dark indigo of his eyes, but we’re out of time. This needs to happen before they realize.
I summon the Magician and press my magic into the curtain ties behind the headboard, changing them subtly, just the color of the rope in case Morgan can sense my power being used.
I need him to think I’m the one about to bind Draven to this headboard and so I wrap them around Draven’s wrists, however loosely.
A second later I’m shifting my body to cover Draven’s tattoo flashing, his cards on his hip glowing faintly as his magic blazes across the bonds, binding his hands.
I stay straddled above him, pushing myself back.
“That’s a good princeling, let’s make sure these bonds are tight, after all … the devil’s in the details.”
His brow rises, and I hope to hells he understands what I’m implying. My gaze flicks meaningfully toward their hiding spots again but his attention stays locked on to me.
I call over my shoulder, “You can come out now, you cravens.”
They reveal themselves one at a time, slipping out of the illusion soundlessly, wolves moving in on a helpless kill. Draven’s eyes widen, shifting to yellow as he looks from me to them, and I know his trust in me is irrevocably compromised.
I lured him inside, knew they were there the whole time, and said nothing. Guilt gnaws at my bones. I can’t meet the fire burning in his gaze, a red glow forming that I hope to never witness again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but then one of them forces me off his lap, the heat in me dissipating. I’m shoved roughly against the wall, out of everyone’s way, and they circle him, trapped on that bed.
“He’s secure?” Morgan’s every syllable holds suspicion.
Draven’s eyes lock on to him, turning red, ignoring the rest.
“No one’s going anywhere.” I demand, “You’ll release the others?”
“Yes,” Morgan says, distracted by his catch.
“What are you going to do with Draven?” I growl.
“Quiet her,” Morgan orders.
One of the unnaturally strong Strength Arcana grabs me and puts a hand over my mouth, and I go silent.
The tattoo on my inner forearm burns like fire as my trust with Draven draws taut.
My shields open a fraction, my eyes closing as I remove a brick from the wall, sending a fist through the concrete to find Draven on the other side.
Even in my mind he seems muted.
They’re leftovers of the uprising, calling themselves the Ascension.
They’re using my friends as hostages. They said they’d kill them if I didn’t do this, or if I opened my shields to warn you.
I wait for a reaction, for something snarky, or scathing, but he’s silent.
Begging, I say, Please, Draven. I’m so fucking sorry.