18. Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Emmaline glanced back toward the club, the flashing fae-lights casting shifting patterns against the darkened glass.
She wanted to find Ursula. And Margo.
She wasn’t sure why she was looking for them. Maybe she wanted them to stop her. Maybe she wanted them to see that she had been right all along, that Caelith had chosen her. Before she could make sense of it, though, a warm hand settled at the small of her back, guiding her forward.
She barely registered the movement as she stepped into his waiting glider, and the door shut behind them.
Caelith sat close. So close. His fingers wove through her hair, brushing it back, exposing the length of her throat. Then—a kiss. His lips pressed against her pulse point, his breath hot against her skin.
Someone else had kissed her neck like that, but the memory was slippery, drifting away before she could grasp it.
She exhaled slowly, lids heavy, her limbs loose and pliant as her hands found him. His chest, broad and solid beneath his fine tunic, was hers to touch.
Tonight, she would finally have him. The thought sent a new kind of heat licking through her veins. She pressed against him, arms winding around his neck as she climbed into his lap. Caelith let out a pleased sound, hands settling on her hips, guiding her into the cradle of his body.
She wanted to feel him. All of him. Her fingers trembled as she pulled open his shirt, baring smooth, golden skin. The fae-light from the carriage lanterns cast a low glow across the ridges of muscle, tempting her lips forward. Beneath her, his body responded, hard and eager.
“Goddess,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “You’re an eager thing, aren’t you?”
She tilted her hips forward, chasing the feel of him, then frowned as something hazy creeped at the edges of her mind.
She wanted this. Didn’t she?
“You want me?” she asked, voice slurred at the edges.
“I need you, petal.”
Then there was only blackness.
She blinked. Her head swayed, vision swarming with shadows, and then she felt Caelith’s hands low, fumbling, undoing the seams of his pants.
Another blink—and darkness, again.
She was on her back.
The carriage swayed, bouncing beneath her, the weight of him above her, pressing down, trapping her. Her body—wrong, sluggish—didn’t respond the way she expected, the pleasure laced with something dull. Her mind clawed for clarity, for focus, but everything was fractured. Too slow. Too thick.
She tried to turn her head, tried to make sense of what was happening, but then—
“Shhhhh.” A hand closed around her throat.
“Take her inside. You know where to put her.” A distant voice slipped between the cracks of her growing awareness.
She knew that voice. It was Caelith.
She tried to stir, but her body wouldn’t listen. It was too heavy, too distant, floating somewhere separate from her mind.
“I want one more go at her.” His words barely reached her, their meaning drifting through the fog in slow, tangled threads, slipping out of reach before she could grasp them.
Her lashes fluttered, and she caught a glimpse of Caelith outside the carriage window, tucking his shirt into his trousers with languid ease.
“Yes, my Lord.” Another figure moved into view.
A short, round man in House Greymane livery bowed before turning toward the carriage.
The door opened with a creak, and cold air kissed her overheated skin. A hand—rough, impersonal—closed around her wrist.
She barely felt it. Nor did she resist when he lifted her arm, let it dangle for a moment, then fall.
“You sure you want another go? I could just drop her somewhere in the city,” the man called over his shoulder. “She seems done for the night.”
“No, I want to fuck her here.”
There was an ache between her legs, thick, sticky wrongness seeping into her.
She blinked, and there was a flash of movement.
A vial gleamed between Caelith’s fingers as he pulled it from his pocket with a pleased smile. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll liven her back up.”
The man chuckled. “It’s your dick, my Lord.” Rough arms slid beneath her, lifting. The world tilted, and pain cracked through her skull as her head struck the carriage door.
“You’re going to enjoy this.”
Then—a drop. Something warm and viscous landed on her bare chest, sliding over her skin in a slow, treacherous path.
A tremor rippled through her, and another drop fell, then another. A hand followed, fingers spreading the strange, oil-slick substance over her skin, gliding across her collarbone, down between her breasts.
“Ahhh.” A strangled sound broke from her throat as her heartbeat quickened, and searing bliss shot through her, radiating from the spots where the liquid touched. Her muscles clenched, her head falling against the pillow as she gasped.
Goddess. This didn’t feel right. And yet—
Ecstasy licked through her, overwhelming, consuming, a wave of need unlike anything she had ever known. Her body arched of its own accord, seeking him, wanting him, despite the dim, frantic whisper in the back of her mind that told her something was wrong.
Caelith? That wasn’t right. Was it?
The rough edges of his palm skimmed lower, parting her thighs, fingers greasy with the same oil that had set her nerves alight.
He dragged it over the throbbing wetness between her legs, drawing a choked cry from her lips, the pleasure so intense it felt like pain, like she might shatter beneath it.
No—this wasn’t normal. Was it? Her body wouldn’t react this way unless—unless he was her mate? Great Goddess, it felt so good it hurt.
A fingertip grazed the sensitive curve of her breast, the barest brush of contact, yet it sent a pulsing jolt straight through her. Her nipples tightened, desperate for more, for anything that would satisfy the burning demand clawing through her.
He shifted, lowering himself over her, his weight pushing her deeper into the luxurious bedding beneath them.
She could feel him, hard and waiting, teasing at her entrance.
Her thoughts blurred. The air around her warped, sensations melting together, drowning her, and somewhere, deep beneath the haze, something inside her screamed—
Her limbs were leaden as if she were pulling herself up from the depths of a dark, endless pool. The throbbing in her skull was relentless, a dull, rhythmic pounding behind her eyes.
She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead, trying to make sense of where she was.
The sheets beneath her were impossibly soft, liquid silk pooling around her while plush, oversized pillows cradled her head.
What in rot and ruin happened last night? She tried to pull the pieces together. Where am I?
A gentle breeze, fragrant with a hint of exotic flowers and earth, skimmed her face, teasing the strands of hair stuck to her clammy forehead. She rolled to her side and felt the harsh ache between her legs.
Oh, no. Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her mind to grasp at the tattered edges of memory, pulling at frayed threads, trying to stitch them back together.
She’d gone to the Blood Moon Club, hoping to meet Deyric, but he hadn’t come.
Instead… she opened her eyes, taking in the opulent room, the rich tapestries, the dark wood carved with flowing sigils, and the unmistakable decadence of House Greymane woven into every corner.
Caelith. The pieces slammed into place.
They’d… they’d… her breath caught, her fingers fisting into the sheets as her pulse tripped over itself.
But how? And why? Just days ago, he had barely known she existed. Now she was—
She yanked the creamy sheets up over her chest, her other hand sweeping blindly across the bed, searching for—
Where were her clothes? Her fingers found nothing but empty space as a fresh wave of panic surged through her.
She had wanted to leave with him, hadn’t she? She’d wanted this, hadn’t she?
A shudder rolled through her, heat unfurling from deep inside as the aftershocks of bliss still coursed through her limbs, leaving her shaking. Her skin felt raw like every nerve was still reaching for something more.
“Goddess.” Her knees buckled, and she barely caught herself, hands flying to the carved bedframe, gripping it tight to keep from collapsing.
And then—
The memories. Moments of sensation. Of him. The weight of his body pressing her down, the honey of his voice pouring into her ear, the slow, torturous glide of his hands over her.
A sharp pulse of pleasure shot through her at the thought. She moaned. Of course, she’d wanted it. How could she not? He was her mate. Wasn’t he?
No. No, this wasn’t right. Her mind fought to pull free, but her body—her body still craved more, still stung with the remnants of whatever he had done to her.
Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising, bile burning at the back of her throat.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing hard, trying to keep it down.
So what if she’d drunk too much last night? That wasn’t Caelith’s fault. She had put herself in that situation, and he had only taken care of her. He had made her feel things no one else had ever come close to making her feel.
Deyric made you feel like that. Better, and without the greasy aftertaste. A traitorous thought.
“Fuck him.” She gripped the sheets as she bent over the bed, reaching for her skirt where it lay crumpled on the floor.
“Deyric didn’t come last night, did he?” she muttered to herself, fingers closing around the soft blue fabric. “And he only wanted one thing from you anyway.” She swallowed hard, yanking the skirt up over her hips, fighting against the sting in her eyes.
Caelith’s voice echoed through her mind—cool, certain, absolute. He was bragging about how you begged to be fucked.
“Deyric never wanted you. Not really.” A violent tremor racked through her, and she choked on the words as she pulled the fabric tighter around her waist. Why did it hurt so much to think it?
But before she could come up with an answer, a knock at the door sent her scrambling back against the headboard, arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold herself together.