18. Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
I ’ve got her.
I know it by the hitch of her breath, by the subtle flush that rises to her cheeks as she gazes up at me. Her lips are parted, like that wicked mouth is poised to devour any morsel I deign to give her.
Sam thought I needed to be kind to lure Willa in, but he was wrong. I only needed to be exactly who I am—the man who will tear apart whatever and whoever I must in order to succeed. Kindness, heroism, those had only scared Willa off. But power—and the ability to lord it over others— that is her language. The one written in her blood and on her bones.
And now that I understand what makes her tick, what drives her, I’ll never let her go. She’s mine, whether she knows it or not.
Her small tongue darts out of her mouth, pink and wet as she runs it nervously over her lower lip. My death shudders and tightens, the sharp feel of it nearly pulling a scream from my throat. I’m too raw after everything, too tired to hold it as close as I am. But I don’t trust it near her.
It wants too deeply. I refuse to examine whether the want is only of the ribbons, or if my own has twisted up into it; whether it’s want of death, of punishing her for what runs through her blood, or worse—want of her.
It doesn’t matter, regardless. Neither me nor my ribbons can touch her if I want her to survive long enough to be of any use. How she managed to drag me into this wretched cave all the way from the beach without rotting herself in the process, I can only guess. Blessed by the star above, perhaps, or maybe, just pure, stupid luck.
I grant myself one more long moment of proximity—of breathing her in until disgust and arousal mingle so furiously in my stomach, I can hardly breathe.
“Tell me,” she whispers.
And star help me, I feel the sound of that husky voice in my fucking blood. It sings in response; has me bending closer until the strands of her hair tickle my nose, and the warmth of her skin brushes sweetly against my lips. Just a small dip of my head—that’s all it would take for me to tear out her throat; all it would take for me to devour her, to find out if her taste is as dizzying as her scent.
I step away smoothly, ignoring her small exhale of disappointment, and the violent strain of my ribbons. The cave is colder in the absence of her, the night air icy over my wet clothes and clammy skin, but I ignore that, too. I move a few paces away, around the curved cave wall, careful to place the Indomnitus at my back.
If I never see the cursed ship again, it would be too soon. The black hull, the ornately carved stern—it all looks exactly as it did the day I dropped anchor in the harbor with every intention of coming back. The wood curves as it does in my dreams, serpentine and lethal, poised to carry me to the edges of the world. A symbol of the unending freedom I’ll never have again. If everything hadn’t gone to shit, I’d be standing at the prow gazing at some new horizon, instead of rotting away the years trapped in a dying kingdom.
Both my ship and I gathering dust, while trying not to become dust ourselves.
Willa watches me carefully, those clever eyes having no doubt noticed my reticence to face the ship. She follows behind me as I walk to the very back of the cave, the part of the rock ledge shadowed by the Indomnitus.
Before she can ask anything further, about the ship or what she’s learned of my power, I nod to the soaking hem of her dress. “We’ve got at least four more hours before the tide is low enough to leave, and the coldest part of the night approaches.”
Her mouth twists and despite the chill evident on her skin, Willa crosses her arms stubbornly over her chest. “There’s nothing in here for a fire. I looked while you were…” I stare at her flatly, and she cocks a brow. “…resting.”
I let the word linger, though we both know I hadn’t been resting. Seizing relentlessly, drowning in nightmares, is hardly restorative. I hate that she was a witness to my weakness and hate even more that she’s guessed the source of my pain. It’s a secret I’ve viciously protected, one that could raze the entire kingdom if Dawson ever discovers it.
The threat of my power is the only thing that has kept the Strayed in their place for so long. If they knew it wasn’t endless—knew I couldn’t withstand the force it would take to destroy them all—Letum would be lost to their madness.
“We don’t need a fire.” I motion to the wall, the one that had been mostly hidden by the bulk of my ship. Steam rises where the humid air meets the black rock.
“This cave is fed by volcanic activity. It’s what keeps the temperature in here mostly bearable, but it won’t be enough with wet clothes,” I explain as I peel off my gloves finger by finger, and then shed my leather cloak. The fur lining is soaked through, and with how water-logged Willa’s dress is, it’s a wonder we both haven’t frozen to death already.
“A survivalist, are you?” she bites out irritably, but there’s longing in her expression as she sidles closer to the warmth of the wall. “And here I was, thinking kings had no useful skills aside from stroking their own egos.”
I don’t bother to wait for her agreement. My death is always cold, like jagged shards of ice constantly flaying open my skin, slicing through my muscles, but it’s worse after such a great use of it. A cold that burrows into my marrow; that feels like I could be flame, and it still wouldn’t relent. Shivering exacerbates the gnawing ache in my joints, so if Willa prefers to freeze out of some misplaced sense of propriety, I won’t be joining her.
I spread the cloak over the slope of the wall, before peeling my soaking clothes off down to my briefs. I hang them carefully, and then spread myself out on the floor in front of the wall, settling onto the warm rock with a groan.
The heat sinks into my skin, and another wave of exhaustion crashes over me. It’s been so long since I’ve been forced to use so much magic in such a short time, and even longer since I’ve had to recover without Sam to ease the pain. I’ve nearly forgotten how debilitating the after effects are, and how long they take to abate.
I’m almost thankful for the tide, despite it trapping me with the Indomnitus in this cave of horrors and memory. I don’t know that I’d even be able to manage the walk out of here, let alone the one up the beach. And if Dawson has already returned with reinforcements, I wouldn’t survive it, and Willa would be alone.
A wave of hatred rises suddenly in my chest—disgust for the frailness that plagues me, for the consistency of my body’s faults. Always doomed to fail no matter how hard I try. Too weak to fight through the pain, to save what matters.
Only the pattern of Willa’s approaching feet drags me from the vicious cycle of thoughts. The rustle of clothing brings a wicked smile to my face, and when I peek an eye open, it’s to find her hard stare on mine.
She’s hung her soaking cloak but moved no further than that. Her arms are crossed protectively over her chest as she glares down at me, her eyes raking from my face down the extent of my body. Though her expression remains carefully blank, my skin warms beneath her frank assessment. She takes in the tattoos that sprawl from my jawline, across my shoulders and chest, and down the muscles of my abdomen. Her eyes snag on the waistband of my briefs, and vicious pleasure threads through me that she’s more than likely wondering how far down they spiral.
“Are you going to sit, my darling Willa, or has arousal rendered you incapable?”
Her gaze jerks back up, and that same delicious flush I saw the first day we met flares over her cheeks. My eyes darken as I follow it—down her throat, over her delicate collar bones, and to the swell of her breasts. As beautiful and encompassing as the design of my tattoos, an art unique to Willa alone.
“You promised me answers,” she growls, her upper lip curling.
“I promised you nothing of the sort.” Willa’s eyes flare furiously, and I grin, stretching my arms to cradle my head in my palms. “Power is not the same as truth, and you’re going to have to work for both.”
She takes two charged steps toward me, her hand going to the hilt of her sword like she’s considering carving the answers out of me. Her violence only makes me smile wider.
“Ah, ah, Darling. I’d be careful how you threaten me in the presence of my death. You’ve seen what one touch of their silk will do.”
My ribbons shudder along my skin in demonstration, and pain wracks through me. A constant reminder of the cost of such a touch.
But Willa doesn’t step back. She only smirks. “I like your ribbons better than I like you. And after our understanding on the beach, I don’t think they’ll harm me. Even for roughing you up a little.”
“Understanding?” I drawl, even as my death slithers from my grasp.
Willa watches them writhe on the cave floor, inching ever closer to her bare toes. Her smirk turns into a small smile—an intimate one, lips curved like they hold a secret. I furrow my brow, suddenly at a loss for words. I know Willa doesn’t fear death, but who in the fuck stares at it like that ? Like it’s a cuddly pet, or a long-lost friend?
“Yep,” she replies lightly. “They helped me find this cave.”
“Helped you…” I repeat dubiously. “Helped you how ?”
I try to keep the demand from my voice, the desperation that’s suddenly ensnared me as I watch my ribbons crawl over the floor to circle at Willa’s feet. Even without my hold, they don’t touch her skin. They only vibrate playfully, like she’s an altar to worship rather than a life to drain.
Instead of answering my question, Willa throws a hand on her hip and glares at me. “You want answers, Corpsey, you give me some first.”
“I assure you, calling me Niko is perfectly acceptable,” I reply with feigned patience.
She hums noncommittally, her face such an uncharacteristic picture of innocence that I know she won’t be calling me Niko again any time soon. Goosebumps rise to her skin and her teeth clack together, but she ignores them both to cock her head expectantly. Like she’ll freeze to death before she gives into anyone’s will but her own.
I purse my lips in annoyance, and gesture vaguely to the floor. “Warm yourself, Willa. And then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Willa stares at me for a moment longer, clearly deliberating whether or not she can push me any further. I school my face into the cruel boredom of a monarch. As stubborn as she is, I’m more so.
With a huff of irritation, she yanks viciously at the zipper of the dress, before pulling it over her head. I immediately drop my gaze to the ribbons slithering at her feet, but it isn’t quick enough not to notice the supple expanse of her olive skin stretched over toned curves. Nor is it quick enough to escape the sight of those curves hugged by a simple black bra, or the matching underwear cut high on the curve of her ass.
I’m suddenly thankful for the utter exhaustion of my useless body, because if I had even a shred of energy left, it would take far more than a discreet adjustment to hide the affect Willa has on me. I’ve lingered on the edge of existence for so long—not dead, but never truly alive—a half-life. What is it about Willa that jolts through me like electricity, waking things I thought long decayed?
I swallow roughly, dragging myself from the thought.
Willa hangs her dress next to my clothes, before curling up a few feet away. Her lips part as she stretches over the warm rock, and she lets out a little squeak of pleasure that has me yanking my ribbons back to me, if only to use the pain of them to ground me back to earth.
To keep me from replaying that sound in my head over and over.
She rolls her head slowly toward me, a smug smile playing on her lips, her hazel eyes glinting in dark amusement like she knows exactly the effect she has.
“I hope this isn’t the sort of power you meant,” she teases, running her fingers delicately over the smooth skin of her arm. “I don’t need some necrotic king to teach me that.”
Something hot and dark sparks in my chest as my gaze is dragged along with her fingertips, almost unwillingly, as they trail down her stomach, dip over the sharp curve of her hip. Something that feels like fury, but wilder.
When I finally wrestle my eyes away to meet hers, I find them no better than her body. Dark mischief sparkles among the splashes of green and gold, mischief that makes me want to lunge toward her—to pin that flawless skin beneath my fingers and show her exactly how not necrotic parts of me are.
I remind myself futilely that Willa doesn’t understand the danger in baring herself to me—the thin line she straddles between her life and my self-restraint. She is toying with a starved beast, dangling sustenance in front of claws that could tear her apart with hardly a thought.
She doesn’t know what one touch of my skin against hers will do. Doesn’t know it’s been two hundred and seven years since I’ve felt the warmth of any touch at all. Not even so much as a brush of another’s hand or the soft embrace of a friend’s arms. Willa doesn’t understand how the absence has driven me nearly to the brink of insanity, more so than any of the pain. How it has warped me, century by century, into the dark, hungry creature I am.
In my frail state, when pain and exhaustion have nearly overwhelmed me, I shamefully consider it. Taking that lush body beneath mine and devouring every piece I can before she decomposes beneath my fingers. Capturing her last breath with my lips and swallowing it whole, an eternal reminder of her pleasure.
The momentary weakness makes me hate myself—hate this whole, wretched kingdom—with a fury so sudden, so consuming, I feel as though I’ll combust with it.
But even the hatred isn’t enough to stop the ravening hunger.
“Tell me about this power, Niko,” she says, my name in her mouth a fucking sin. “If your heart is death, what is mine?”
Her fingers drift softly over her hips, before draping over the soft curve of her thighs. Her gaze never leaves mine, sparking in challenge, though I’m not entirely sure what she’s challenging me to. Does she want me to touch her? For someone who’s terrified of pain, it seems unlikely. She may not know that my skin is deadly, but she can surely feel it, just like any prey can feel the presence of a predator. That small voice inside that urges you to run, even when you aren’t sure why.
Perhaps she’s testing my restraint; restraint that’s fraying thinner by the second. The longer she looks at me, the hotter my skin grows. My fingers begin to twitch again, but this time, it isn’t the after-effects of my magic—it’s with the urge to touch her. Like if I don’t get her beneath me right now—if I don’t get her taste on my tongue—I’ll claw out of my own fucking skin. My cock aches, as dark heat lashes up my spine, tightening until I’m pulled so taut, one movement is all it would take to snap.
Realization hits me like an icy deluge. My want of her was so abrupt, so sharp, I thought I’d die with it and now I understand why—it wasn’t just mine. It was hers, tethered and tangled with my own until they became indeterminable. Unignorable.
My sharp laugh is wildly untethered, and Willa’s mouth pops open in surprise. Her hand freezes, and her cheeks redden as she glares at me so furiously, I laugh harder.
“What is so funny?” she demands hotly.
“Why, Willa, haven’t you yet guessed?” Her brow furrows in confusion, and another laugh ripples from me. “The things you paint in your mind have a funny way of coming true, do they not?”
Her eyes widen in horror as she realizes I may have seen beneath her playful tease to the aching lust beneath. And not just seen but felt. Thrumming right alongside my own.
“Your power is the very thing you claim to be nonsense,” I explain, now allowing myself the pleasure of running my gaze freely over her bare skin. “Imagination.”