67. Lazarus
The chamber is a tomb of silence, broken only by the rhythmic drip of something unseen in the shadows.
The air is thick, oppressive. A cocktail of blood, sweat, and incense that coils around me like a serpent.
It’s intoxicating, primal, and it stirs something dark and feral within me.
My footsteps are deliberate, each one echoing like a drumbeat against the stone floor as I approach the other side of the room.
And there she is.
Leandra.
Bound naked to the crucifix, her body suspended by thick ropes that dig mercilessly into her flesh.
Her arms are stretched taut, her legs dangling, limp and vulnerable.
Her head hangs forward, her brightly coloured braids cascading over her face like a veil.
Blood streaks her legs, dried in rivulets that pool beneath her on the cold stone floor.
She looks broken.
But she’s not.
I know she’s not.
She’s too strong for that.
I drop to my knees before her, the stone biting into my skin, but I barely register the pain. My eyes devour her, tracing every curve, every line of her body. The soft swell of her hips, the delicate curve of her thighs, the rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath.
She’s breathtaking, even in this state.
My hands tremble as I reach out, gripping her thighs with a possessiveness that borders on madness. Her skin is warm, alive, despite the chill of the chamber. I lean in, my breath hot against her core and a low, guttural sound escapes me.
“Fuck,” I growl, my voice raw, unhinged. “You smell divine.”
I press my lips to her, tasting her, and a shudder rips through me. She’s sweet, intoxicating, and I groan against her, my hands tightening on her thighs. My tongue flicks against her clit, teasing, taunting, and I feel her body twitch in response.
She’s waking up.
Good.
I want her to feel this. I want her to remember this.
Her gasp is soft, almost a whimper, and I glance up to see her head lifting slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She looks down at me, confusion and pain etched into her features.
“La, Lazarus…” she whispers, her voice hoarse, broken.
“Shh,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her as I speak. “You’ve done so well, Leandra. You deserve this.”
Her body tenses, and she tries to pull away but my hands clamp down harder, holding her in place.
“Why…” she rasps, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Why didn’t you stop them? Why did you let them do this to me?”
I chuckle darkly, my breath hot against her skin. “You know this is the Brethren way,” I say, my voice low, dripping with menace. “This ritual ensures you’re mine, that you’re accepted by the Guardians. It’s necessary.”
“Necessary?” she spits, her voice rising, raw with fury. “Necessary? I don’t want to be your wife! I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I hate you!”
I smile, a twisted, predatory grin, my hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips. “You don’t mean that,” I say, my voice a dark, sultry purr. “I know you want me as much as I want you.”
She hisses, her body writhing against the ropes, but I don’t give her a chance to argue. I dive back in, my tongue lapping at her with a ferocity that borders on violence. She gasps, her body arching against the crucifix despite herself, and I feel her thighs trembling against my shoulders.
I slip a finger inside her, curling it just right and she moans, her head falling back against the wood.
“That’s it,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her as I speak. “Let go, Leandra. Let me take care of you.”
Her body responds to me, her hips rocking against my mouth. I can feel how much she’s enjoying this, how much she wants this. I add a second finger, stretching her, filling her, and she cries out, her voice echoing through the chamber.
“Lazarus…” she gasps, her voice breaking.
“Come for me,” I growl, my tongue flicking against her clit as my fingers move inside her. “Come for me, Leandra.”
“I, I fucking hate…”
She can’t even finish the sentence. She loses it, her body arching violently as she screams, jerking, riding my tongue as she comes undone.
I don’t stop, I don’t ease up. My tongue and fingers work her through her orgasm, drawing it out until she’s a trembling, writhing mess, until her breath comes in ragged gasps and I wonder if I’ve truly broken her.
When she finally stills I pull back, looking up at her. Her face is flushed, her chest heaving, and those perfect perky breasts look so inviting it takes everything I have not to reach up and slap them.
She glares back down at me, her eyes filled with a delicious mix of anger and desire. Fuck, I love her when she’s angry.
“Cut me down,” she demands, her voice trembling.
I shake my head, my hands sliding down her thighs to grip her hips. “I can’t do that,” I say, my voice calm, cold.
“What good are you then?” she snaps, her voice rising.
I chuckle, leaning in to press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Relax,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her skin. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“How soon?” she asks, her voice desperate.
“One more day.”
“One day?” she screams. “Are you fucking joking?”
I plant another kiss on her thigh, only this one is not so tender. Instead I let my teeth nip at her skin, biting hard enough to draw blood.
“It is necessary.”
“Necessary for who, you sick fuck?”
“To become my wife.”
“I don’t want to be your fucking wife,” she snarls, repeating that same line, that same defiance.
“You don’t have any choice,” I reply, my voice cold, final. “Tomorrow we will complete the ritual. Right now, you just need to hang in there…”
“I’ve been hanging for…”
“One day,” I cut across her, my voice sharp, commanding.
Her eyes widen, and I can see the thoughts racing through her mind, the gears turning as she tries to rationalize all of this.
“I….”
“Stop talking,” I command, my voice low, dark. “Just relax. Let me tongue fuck you for a bit, and I promise you, I’ll make you forget all of this.”
She groans, her body sagging against the ropes. “I can’t. I’m in too much pain,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need water.”
I let out a low breath and stand so that I’m face to face with her, and she looks at me, her eyes pleading. “I can’t give you water,” I say, my voice firm.
But I grab her face as I say it, pinching her lips, puckering them enough for me to be able to fully spit into her mouth. “Drink that,” I command, my voice low and dark.
She gags, her body jerking against the ropes, but I don’t give her a chance to protest. I drop back to my knees, my hands gripping her thighs as I dive back in, my tongue lapping at her.
She moans, her body responding to me despite her anger, and I feel her getting closer again. My fingers slip inside her, curling just right and she cries out, her body arching against the crucifix.
“Come for me again,” I growl, my tongue flicking against her clit over and over. “Come for me, Leandra.”
She does, her body convulsing against the ropes as she screams my name. I don’t stop, my tongue and fingers working her through her orgasm, drawing it out until she’s trembling, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
When she finally stills I pull back, looking up at her. Her face is flushed, her chest heaving and she glares down at me, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and desire.
“You’re mine,” I say, my voice low, possessive, dripping with dark promise. “And I’ll never let you go.”
She doesn’t respond, her body sagging against the ropes and I smile, knowing I’ve claimed her in both the eyes of the Brethren and in every other way that matters.
She’s mine.
And nothing will ever change that.