9. Her Terms #5
Her head was lifted suddenly, held against Malec's chest. His forehead pressed to hers, and his voice broke through, low and guttural, ancient words pouring from his lips.
The same words he had spoken the first time.
Beautiful, incomprehensible, old as stone.
Words she had not learned, but recognized in her bones.
The common denominator. That was the one thing that he had done that had to have some sort of affect on why the transfusion worked this whole time.
Whatever ancient magic woven into those words they must have made it possible for her to receive his blood unfiltered and raw.
Allora tried to process the new information, but her body trembled harder. The room tilted as the drug took hold. Then she felt it—the pull, the slow descent into a vast, endless dark. Down, down, down, into the dark.
Her lashes fell, and consciousness slipped away. But those ancient words somehow still echoed in her mind.
Allora floated in darkness. The space around her was neither cold nor hot, simply suspended, weightless.
She saw nothing but felt everything. The air, if there was air, pressed against her skin like velvet, and though her eyes strained, vision eluded her.
Only sensation remained, as if sight had been stripped away and replaced with pure feeling.
Was she dead? Finally free?
A faint glow bloomed beneath her, soft and blue, like light seeping through water.
It drew her down, growing brighter with each passing moment until she saw it clearly: a landing, a floor of moss and tiny white flowers.
White birch trees ringed the space, their trunks pale as bone.
She drifted down until her feet touched the soft ground.
The place was too quiet. No birdsongs, not even the rush of water. Only stillness and the whisper of a faint breeze moved through the trees.
"You are back?"
The voice was inquisitive, curious without warmth.
Allora turned abruptly. From behind a birch, the child appeared.
Its body was small, skin unfinished, its face still incomplete but more developed than the last time she'd seen it.
It had hair now, silver and fine and curly.
Its nose was forming, small and just a bump.
Still no mouth or eyebrows. But those enormous black eyes, staring without blinking, held wisdom and knowledge behind them.
The sight didn't scare her. Instead, it felt familiar, too much like recognition.
She stood, still weightless, and floated toward it. "What is this place? Am I dead or dreaming?"
The child moved forward, skipping in a strange, jerking rhythm, as though mimicking a human child's play without fully knowing how. "Dreamscape," it replied.
It took her hand, its small fingers surprisingly firm, and led her to a nest made of moss and blossoms. The bed was soft as cotton. "Rest and gain energy. I cannot keep giving you mine, or I will not be able to be born." Its voice was clear, articulate, far too wise for the fragile body it wore.
Allora blinked at it, then scoffed under her breath. Great. I'm drugged. Tripping out. Fantastic. She lowered herself into the nest anyway, her body sinking into the softness. Above her the sky was ink black and starred, unmoving, frozen. Here, nothing shifted or changed.
Her chest loosened. She let herself breathe, and for a moment she even felt the weight of her panic slide away.
Then her eyes flew open.
The first time she'd been here, she hadn't been drugged. She remembered it vividly. The same forest. The same child. Her gaze cut to it. The creature was busying itself with the ground, plucking odd bits of moss and tiny mushrooms as though foraging.
"So what is a dreamscape and who the hell are you?" she demanded, sitting up.
The child did not look at her. Its voice was calm, almost dismissive. "You do not need to know. Not now. To know would confuse you."
Allora let out a barbed laugh. "That is such a bullshit response."
Finally, it turned its head. Those bottomless eyes fixed on her. "The only understanding you require is this: you may come here whenever you wish. I will pull you in. In my dreamscape, where time does not move as yours does."
She threw her hands up in a wild gesture as she thought to herself. So what, you'll just show up whenever you want, drag me into your creepy forest, and not answer my questions? Why bother with this thing at all, then?
The child tilted its head, and for a moment, she felt her thoughts stop belonging to her. It had heard them. Known them.
"I will pull you here," it said, "when you are in danger. Whether you wish it or not."
Allora froze, her stomach dropping. Great. It can read my fucking mind.
The child's eyes widened. The lower edges curved upward, creasing as if it were smiling without a mouth. "Yes. I can."
Then, as though bored, it turned back to its foraging, leaving her sitting in the nest, stunned, unnerved, and utterly over it.
When Allora woke, the world felt soft and slow, as though wrapped in fog.
Her body ached, sore from the seizures, but the pain was dulled by whatever they'd given her.
She felt... strange. Not quite well, not quite sick, caught somewhere between.
Energy hummed beneath her flesh, her limbs heavier but steadier.
She was warm instead of icy and shaking like before.
For the first time in days, she could breathe without effort.
Her chest expanded fully, her lungs clear.
The crushing migraine was gone and the nausea had vanished.
Even the bone-deep exhaustion that had dragged at her for weeks had lifted.
She felt rested. Whole. The relief was so overwhelming it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Then she felt it: a wall of heat pressed against her back. His arm heavy at her waist. His body caging her in the way only he could.
The warmth drained from her chest. Reality crashed down like a stone.
For a brief, dangerous moment, it had felt good. Secure, cherished and loved but she knew that was a lie, it wasn't love. It had never been love. Affection dressed up in chains, her prison gilded by his touch. He was no lover, he was her warden.
Her eyes snapped open, and the fury ignited.
Malec lay beside her, sound asleep, his arm clamped around her like a shackle.
His other arm bent under his head, his chest rising and falling in deep, unguarded breaths.
He had drugged her. Bound her in sleep. Violated her autonomy while she was helpless.
And now he dared to lie there as if nothing had happened.
Good. He better be asleep. Because if he was awake, she would have rearranged his asshole.
She still chose violence pettiness. She kicked the bedsheets violently, shoving his hand off her body.
The jolt woke him at once. His lashes lifted, his washed amber eyes hazy with drowsiness.
"Mm... my dove," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "How are you?—"
"How dare you!" she spat, whipping toward him. Her voice cracked like a whip. "How dare you ask me that after what you did to me and did god knows what to me while I was out?"
She gestured pointedly with her hand, ready to carve the air with her fury, then froze. Her palm was bandaged, linen spotted through with fresh blood.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She looked back at him. Malec was halfway to rising from the bed, but he stilled at her reaction. His eyes locked on hers, clean-cut yet unreadable, weighing every trace of her expression. Slowly, deliberately, he stayed seated, his chest rising with control.
"Allora, love," he said softly, carefully. "Do not look at me that way. You know you needed my blood and you refused. I?—"
She cut him off with a snarl. "I don't want to hear it."
She was done.
Done with his excuses, his rational justifications, the obsessive suffocating need to control every aspect of her existence. He had stolen her life, kept her from her world, and now he was rewriting her body without her permission. She was done being his project—his goddamn pet.
She spun from the bed, snatching up the stupid velvet cloak, the blue one with gold star constellations and Awyan astrology signs all over it, and flung it around her shoulders.
The fabric dragged at her body like chains.
She crouched at the door and shoved her feet into the worn boots she'd stolen from a stablehand weeks ago, the leather cracked and the soles thinning but sturdy enough for escape.
She'd hidden them, waited for the moment she might need to run.
Malec's eyes tracked the movement immediately. His chest tightened, breath catching as if the air itself betrayed him. Boots. Not slippers. She had planned this. Prepared for it.
For a moment, the sight hurt more than the blood he had spilled for her. She had been thinking of leaving all along.
"Allora..." His voice rasped low, warning and wounded at once.
But she didn't look back. The cloak swept behind her as she stormed out, the sound of her boots striking the stone echoing like drumbeats in his skull.
Downstairs, Surian rose from a chair in the foyer, a book in her lap forgotten.
"Allora, are you feeling better?" she asked gently, pale blue eyes narrowing with concern.
But Allora didn't slow, didn't look at her.
Surian was no ally. None of them were. Every one of them bowed to Malec's will, reinforced his control, circled her like guards around a prison yard. Why waste words?
Her hand slammed against the front door latch. She shoved with her whole weight?—
And stopped dead.
A huge hand pressed the door back into its frame, sealing it shut. Allora's chest rose, quick and fast. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
He stood there, sand-washed gleaming down at her, fear raw and burning beneath his glower. His voice rumbled low, shaking with barely controlled emotion.
"And tell me, in what universe did you believe you could walk out that door without me?"