Chapter Six #2
I launch my teeth, aiming for the flesh of his neck. He reels back, but keeps his grip firm, and my bite snaps at air. He’s rendered me immobile—I can’t even kick at his crotch with the way his hips press into mine.
“You pompous, asinine creature,” I hiss the words.
As he continues to grin, I writhe against him, quickly finding the damp grass capable of soaking and chilling my sleeves. His grip remains ironclad, regardless of my struggling, cursing, and squirming.
The bulk of him is too heavy to shove away, not without an innate to help. And all of my struggling quickly takes a different turn. The weight of him grows distracting and my mind wanders—all too easy to do with the lack of space between us and his addictive scent.
Whether he means it or not, my heated anger becomes a heated craving.
Damn fae is no better than an incubi.
He lowers his face to mine, despite the prevalent risk of being bitten.
“An hour, little death,” he whispers, his lips brushing against mine as he nudges his hips into me.
Liquid darts of desire sear through my veins.
“Give me an hour every day. We’ll train and you’ll learn how to escape holds like this,” he says, his voice low as he smiles.
This game of cat and mouse is not one I’m new to.
It’s a necessary pursuit to survive in the hells.
Peering at him through my lashes, I drag my gaze from his lips and meet his stare, nearly drowning in his amber eyes.
“Are you sure sparring is how you want to spend an hour with me?” I purr. “I can think of far better ways to spend the time.”
With the smallest tilt of my chin, his lips meet mine, and I yield myself to him, offering him the temptation of taste. And with little reservation, Ryc answers the silent request.
His grip on my wrist tightens as my tongue sweeps against his in a gentle coax. I arch myself into him with a throaty moan, playing the part all too well.
Yet before I lose myself completely in him—I bite.
Hard.
The sharp tang of blood fills my mouth as he rears back, his howling laughter filling the lawn. He releases one of my wrists, his hand flying to his lower lip, and I take full advantage—landing a square strike against his ribs.
His laughter breaks, making room for a grunt as I shove him aside and pull myself to my feet. I straighten my now soaked cloak as he rolls onto his back, propping himself onto his elbows, revealing the shit-eating grin on his face.
“Are you sure you don’t want to continue?” he asks, arching a teasing brow. “There are a few other holds we can incorporate into how you want to spend the hour.”
I can’t help but laugh.
The damn fae’s confidence is near absurd.
“Earn it, my light,” I counter in a slow, succubine drawl as I turn, mostly to hide the smile on my face.
I begin, for a second time, toward the castle, ignoring his chasing laughter. With a swivel of his foot, his toe catches mine and I stumble, flail, and fall—landing hard on my hands and knees.
In an instant, my rage returns.
“You taunt death, nyraphim,” I snarl over my shoulder.
But the devilish grin I’m met with threatens to chip away at my anger.
“Perhaps,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with the challenge. “No less than I deserve. Such is the fate of one ensnared by a siren.”
Tendrils of his amusement and delight burrow into my chest through our bond and wrap around my heart, cementing the scowl upon my face.
I’m going to smother this fae with a pillow while he sleeps.
“There she is,” he says, swinging his toe again. He taps the side of my boot in a playful manner. “There’s the demanding creature I met centuries ago. I wondered when the fabled demonic pride would make an appearance and what shape yours would take.”
He continues to swing his foot as I hold his taunting stare with a withering one of my own, tapping my boot in a steady rhythm. Within seconds it becomes clear it’s waltz-like in structure.
And I seethe.
Is that what this is? A fucking dance?
“I’m surprised you’ve kept it hidden for this long,” he quips, pulling himself upright. He wipes his hands against the thighs of his pants. “You’ve managed to convince the entire castle your demonic lineage is a lie.”
Good.
With a dry scoff, I turn myself over, and drop myself into a seated position in the cold, damp grass. I need the cold to counter the heat coursing through me. Of course, it helps little.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I ask, throwing my arms over my pitched knees, as I slowly sink into the idea of sparring with Ryc.
I don’t know why I bothered to ask.
The answer’s plastered on his smirking face.
“Nope.” He bites at his lower lip, stifling both a grin and his laughter.
With the flash of his fangs and the desire lingering in my veins, it’s hard not to imagine the feel of his teeth against my skin.
Bastard.
I heave a resigned sigh. “I will not spar with Cyran.”
He bursts into golden laughter, shaking his head.
“You’re right. You absolutely will not,” he says, lifting a hand to wipe at the last bit of silver clinging to his lip.
Whatever damage I’d done, there are no signs of it upon him now. He heals quickly, even for fae. He draws his hand back to look before meeting my stare.
“If this,” he shows me the smeared silver on his fingers, “is your means of defense, I forbid it. Regardless of its… effectiveness.”
Darkened delight quickly usurps my irritation.
“Green looks good on you, nyraphim,” I tease, arching a brow.
He chuckles. “Nay, you’re free to seduce whomever you like, little death. But Cyran would resign were you to pull a stunt like this with him.” His smile grows sanguine. “And I need Cyran.”
My thrilled delight sputters out.
Not the response I hoped for.
“One hour, every day.” He holds my stare, unflinching.
And it’s the kind of stare meant to melt through all my carefully constructed walls.
I smother the rising groan in my throat.
It’s damn near sinister the way he can slither past everything I am and curl himself around my most vulnerable self.
Ryc is this shining light, exposing the darkened parts of me I’ve kept locked away to survive.
He bares them and somehow bears no judgment.
I’ll never understand it.
“Fine.” I drawl the word, my tone laden with reluctance. “One hour, Ryc.”
He flashes me a dizzying smile and the sparkling shimmer of victory—his victory—resonates in my chest.
This godsdamned fae…
Already I’m regretting my agreement.
A clap of thunder echoes through the skies and resonates in my chest as Ryc pulls himself to a stand. He offers me his hand, and I’m reminded of a bloodied battlefield centuries ago.
“One hour, rain or shine, little death,” he says with a triumphant grin.
Of course he would know to be explicit in his terms.