Chapter 6
SILAS
The hum of vitality and energy surges through my veins, bolstering me, solidifying my body, my soul into this realm as Mercy's hands work.
Over and under, she weaves the threads into the tapestry of my resurrection, tying the strings of fate together once more, over and under, as the still beating heart of Benjamin Hawthorne thumps a slow, sluggish rhythm from its exalted place on the Ash wood altar.
His body lies broken and discarded at Mercy's feet, a dark pool of thick, red blood seeping into the soil beneath him.
Over and under, she pushes, until his lifeforce is mine.
The thumps slowly, the movements erratic as the muscle ripped from Benjamin's chest falters.
Above us, the red ring of the moon glows brighter still and her eyes find it just as the heart calcifies.
Mercy sighs in relief, her offering accepted but I am exhilarated. Rooted and tethered.
My muscles feel good, body strong with vitality.
Everything about this vessel was hewn from love, designed and built with her hands.
She steps back from the altar as power settles into my skin, triumphant, breathless and glowing.
In her wide eyes, I see my reflection, and I do not recognize the creature gazing down at her.
I rub my hand over the side of the leathery flesh on the side of my face, and in her gaze, I still see the glow of flames, dulled to a simmer as they dance in the carved out eyes and nose and twisted mouth.
"Dammit," I whisper before I can catch the words, not wanting to hurt her.
She has done so much to bring us back to this place, but without my body, whole and complete, I remain uncertain I will be allowed to remain past this moon.
The gratefulness and adoration I feel for this woman wars with the disappointment beating against the fiery insides of my mind.
"I know," she soothes, pasting on an encouraging smile, "All is well.
You just need to feed, Silas. More power will speed the transformation, so you can Cast on your own," she remains stoically optimistic even as the flames flicker and burn.
There are six paces between us, and it feels scores too far, a chasm between her body and mine.
"Are you sure?" I ask, unsettled. I know that she has no more answers than I, but I need her to lie to me for the moment. Something we both know she will not do. Her shoulders pull back, head lifting as she closes the distance between us, arches to look into the pits I have for eyes.
"No," she hesitates, swallowing. "But you are here. With me. You are body and bone and alive, and whatever way the Gods have allowed that to come to pass, I am grateful to it."
"I feel the same, but also..." my voice trails in a pout.
It's unbecoming, but I cannot help the bitter taste it leaves on my tongue, knowing I was bested not by a skilled practitioner, but by.
..dumb luck. Mayhaps this is my punishment for my lack of diligence.
"What if this is the best it gets, even with the ritual completed?
" I hate that contrarian weight of my words, hate more that she will take them as a slight to her.
"Then, it is, and it makes no difference."
I raise an eyebrow, or I think I do, it is particularly difficult to tell without muscles in my face. "You claim to still want me if I have a gourd for a face?"
She shrugs. "It is not so bad. Some might say an improvement," she winks, lifting her shoulders in a playful tease that lands without barbs, and I smile despite myself.
Mercy presses against me, hands ghosting over my body, roaming and touching, seeking the warmth of me.
I groan, the heat of my flesh mingling with the warmth of her.
"And my mouth? Have you no use for that any longer?
" I ask, the fire of me rising to meet hers.
So close, her head arches back to take me in as I tower over her, the angle exposing the long column of her throat, the slender curve of her neck.
She dissects me, disarms with eyes that peel me apart from the inside out.
Her hands rest over my chest, and I watch with caught breath as she lowers her eyes to the expanse of skin my heart beats behind.
Closer, her breaths warm and teasing against my heated flesh.
"No..." She presses her lips to my sternum, so soft and inviting.
My toes curl against the stalks underfoot, "but I can kiss you.
" Mumbling her words against my flesh, she trails those lips down my sternum, dragging the tip of her pretty pink tongue over the rippling ridges and flexing muscles of my torso.
Her fingers grip the edges of my ruined shirt neck, shredding the linen, exposing more of me to her in offering.
I cup the side of her head as she pushes me back and back, feet nearly tripping over the mangled boot of Benjamin Hawthorn where he lays.
She has the strength of ages, the raw, untethered magic of her Cast humming in her body as she nips and bites and licks over my nipples.
My hips smack into the Ash wood, hands bracing against the altar as hers slip down my body, sensations bursting in the wake of her hands over my flesh.
My chin drops to my chest as Mercy lowers to her knees, sinking between my spread legs.
The rough edges of the altar bites into my grip, drawing blood as her tongue slides lower, as my breeches are opened once more, and I am pleased that my cock at least, is fully returned.
She maintains my eye as she lowers herself, lips parted, breath scorching against my hardened length.
My breath catches, releases, anticipation burning a hole through me as she teases her lips with barely there softness.
I grip the wood harder, praying to the Gods for patience that never comes as she plays with me, works me up.
A growl rumbles from deep within as her fists wrap my length at the base, the grip tight, perfect, divine as she pulls in one long, heady stroke from root to tip.
My control frays, and I tangle my fingers in her auburn locks, fisting the strands at the nape of her neck.
"Open for me," I rasp, and as she did before, she offers me her submission, her body turning languid under my care.
She obeys, lowers, holds my gaze as she pulls back the skin of my head, licks over the dripping tip, leaking only for her.
She hums, a pleasant, surprised sound as she slurps around my head, lapping up my arousal, curling my toes.
She tugs back, just enough to pop off my cock, tongue licking around her lips in a wide arc.
"That's nice," she praises, "you taste like autumn. Like clove and cinnamon, and allspice, and nutmeg." She strokes me with both hands, clearly pleased with this new revelation. My hand tightens, tugging gently from the root, guiding that fucking mouth back to me.
"Well, then, Witchling, earn your dessert, that is a good girl," Her eyes blaze at the praise and I feed her my cock inch by inch, deeper in slow thrusts, pushing until her throat constricts in protest. If I had eyes to roll, they would be seeing the dark walls of this pumpkin head, but I cannot seem to look away from Mercy.
On her knees, she lets me guide her movements, and I adjust my grip to tilt her up her chin, allowing unobstructed access to the hollow of her throat.
Blue eyes water as she holds me deep, cheeks sunken, tongue swirling beneath my shaft.
Her air becomes scarce, but her nails dig into the skin of my thighs, urging me impossibly on. Eager.
Offering her body to my pleasure.
If I am her vessel of violence, her body, her soul, is the gentle embrace of home for me.
She blinks up through watering eyes, the celestial bodies twinkling in her gaze, and in them I am as lost as I ever was.
I pull free of her lips, allowing air to return to precious lungs and she coughs, dives back in and she works over me, struggling to fit more.
A growl of frustration rouses from her, sweet and endearing, and I chuckle, watching her, giving her every faucet of my attentions.
She braces against my thighs and pulls, sinking my length past a tight ring of muscle in her throat that sends fire through my loins.
"Gods, fuck incredible, you look so powerful on your knees.
You kneel for me, but I will break this realm for you, Witchling," I grunt, holding her tight as I rut into her mouth.
She is radiant, full of her power, full of my cock as she stares up at me through lowered lashes—I hang on to my sanity by a thread as she drinks me down, determination glowing in her eyes.
She swallows, rippling the muscles of her neck.
My bracing hand finds the front of her throat, and I feel myself through flesh so lovely and tender, her movements hypnotic.
My toes curl tighter still as lightning shoots from the base of my spine, straight to the flesh she has cupped in a bruising grip.
"Show me," I pant. My body shudders, lower abdomen rippling as I come, hard and fast. Lightheaded, I wrench back, dislodging my cock from the depths of her throat but one pull from my grip has her mouth opening. I cover her fingers with mine, pump and squeeze in harsh strokes along my thick shaft, panting as glowing white ropes of my essence splash against her pink tongue, catch in drips on her lips. Together, we stroke me to completion, wringing my body dry of every drop. Mercy’s eyes blaze, a victor, claiming her prize as my cock rests on her lower lip, still leaking.
"I love you," I pant, and the muscles in her cheeks work to keep her mouth open for me, even as she smiles. My cum pools on her tongue, waiting.
Gods.
"Swallow it, every drop now, you earned it," The words staccato on bated breath, but I watch over the rise and fall as Mercy closes her mouth, throat working on a moan.
She swallows, smiles up at me demurely. It should be enough, seeing her this way, but I am nothing if not primal when it comes to my Bonded.
I angle the tip of my cock down, smearing what is left of the dribble over her lips, painting her, reclaiming what we lost. The tip of tongue darts out, slipping over her lips to lick up every drop and I cup her face, staring down adoringly at the Witchling who owns me.
"You taste so sweet," she murmurs, nuzzling against my palm.
"And you feel like mine."
"Forever." The vow mingles on our shared breaths, a promise. Prophecy spoken in blood and souls. Above us, the crows caw out, the shrill screeches a warning.
The moon will not stay risen forever, and there are many souls to reap this night.