13. Esme
ESME
Two months confined to the master suite.
The gilded cage shrinks with every passing cycle of the sun.
My boundaries are defined by the grand iron-wrought doors, locked from the outside by Commander Jarek, and the sweeping glass archways overlooking the drop to the harbor.
I eat off silver trays. I sleep in the massive, silk-covered bed.
I breathe the same air as the master of Vhoig.
The physical proximity is a slow, suffocating pressure.
Zuirvih’s restored magic hums constantly in the background, a low-level vibration that rattles the crystal decanters and makes the hair on my arms stand up.
His skin is flawless ash-grey, devoid of the necrotic black veins.
He commands his household with terrifying, arrogant precision.
I am the silent shadow at his side, the biological anchor keeping the monster tethered to life.
It is late. The braziers in the corners of the suite burn low, casting long, wavering shapes against the dark marble walls.
I stand before the grand silver-framed mirror resting above the unlit hearth.
The Zagfer servants delivered a new gown this morning—midnight blue silk, woven to match his house colors, clinging to my frame like a second skin.
The fabric exposes my shoulders and the pale, jagged scar bisecting my ribs.
The collar rests heavy against my throat, a blood-red brand marking me as property.
A shadow falls across the glass.
Zuirvih steps out of the gloom. He makes no sound on the thick rugs, his frame gliding into the reflection behind me. He wears a loose linen shirt, the laces untied to expose the smooth, unblemished skin of his chest. His silver braids hang free, catching the dim firelight.
"I require a draft." The words vibrate through the quiet room, a low, demanding purr.
My pulse kicks into a rapid, frantic staccato.
I turn away from the mirror, bracing myself.
Over the past fourteen days, the feeding has become a clinical, terrifying routine.
He slices a shallow line across my wrist, drinks a mouthful to keep the toxin dormant, and heals the cut with a pulse of magic power.
I lift my left arm, offering the pale skin of my wrist.
He does not reach for it.
Moving closer, he breaches the invisible boundary I desperately maintain between us. The air pressure drops. The sharp, volatile tang of cracked lightning and spiced Zhisk radiates from him, a potent, dizzying combination that makes my head spin.
Before I can step back, his hands shoot out.
His long, bare fingers wrap around my wrists.
He does not pull me toward him; he pushes me backward.
My shoulder blades hit the cold, polished marble of the mantelpiece.
He pins both of my wrists against the stone, holding them flat on either side of my head with a grip that promises snapped bones if I struggle.
"What are you doing?" The demand cracks, my voice betraying the sudden, raw panic flaring in my chest.
"I tire of the wrist."
Zuirvih leans into my space, his towering body caging me against the marble. He does not break eye contact. His gaze glows in the dim light, blazing with a feral, possessive heat that sends a shiver racing down my spine.
A low, hypnotic wave of purple magic bleeds from his skin.
It rolls over me, a physical, invisible tide.
The magic does not burn. It sensitizes. The air suddenly feels thick, brushing against the bare skin of my shoulders like a physical touch.
The silk of my gown becomes a friction that makes me gasp, every thread rubbing against nerves that are suddenly, agonizingly awake.
I twist my wrists against the marble, but his grip is unyielding.
"Stop it." I grind my teeth, fighting the treacherous, liquid heat flooding my system.
"I command reality, Esmeralda." He whispers the words against my temple, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. "I command the flesh."
He releases my left wrist, keeping my right arm pinned securely above my head. His free hand drops.
Long, cool fingers slide over the silk pooling at my thigh.
I jolt against the mantelpiece. The touch is a violent shock to my sensitized nerves, sending a rush of blinding heat straight to my core. I shut my eyes, a ragged sound tearing from my throat as he drags his hand upward.
He traces the curve of my hip, his thumb pressing into the muscle.
The silk offers no barrier against the dark, creeping magic sinking into my skin.
He slides his hand higher, finding the jagged, pale scar bisecting my ribs.
He traces the raised tissue with agonizing slowness, reverent and obsessive, mapping the violence of my past with the precise touch of a predator claiming his kill.
"Don't." The plea is breathless, a humiliating surrender torn from a throat that promised never to break.
He ignores me.
Zuirvih tilts his head, nestling his face in the crook of my neck. His lips brush the rapid, frantic pulse fluttering beneath my jaw. He opens his mouth, his fangs scraping lightly against the delicate skin.
I brace for the bite, for the sharp pain of teeth tearing flesh to draw the blood he requires.
The bite never comes.
He drags his teeth across my pulse point, a blunt, scraping pressure that sends a shuddering jolt of electricity down my spine. He licks the skin, tasting the salt and the sweat, but he does not break the surface.
"Look at me."
The command is absolute. I force my eyes open, staring up into the glowing, violent violet of his gaze.
He brings his hand up from my ribs, cupping my neck, his fingers tangling in my dark hair. He tilts my head back against the marble and kisses me.
There is no gentleness in it. His mouth crashes down on mine, a bruising, dominant clash that forces my lips apart. The taste of spiced Zhisk and the crackling, volatile static of his magic floods my senses, an intoxicating drug that shatters the last of my defenses.
My free hand flies up, intending to shove him away, to strike the aristocratic arrogance from his face.
Instead, my fingers fist into the loose linen of his shirt. I pull him closer.
The surrender is a betrayal of my own body.
The chaotic magic heightens every sensation, turning the brutal pressure of his mouth into a desperate, ravenous need.
He groans—a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest. His tongue sweeps my mouth, tasting, claiming, devouring the space between us.
His grip on the back of my neck tightens. I am drowning in the heat of his body, the scent of cracked lightning, the terrifying, possessive weight of a Khuzuth lord staking his physical claim.
Breaking the kiss, he tears his mouth away with a ragged, harsh breath.
Instead of stepping back, his gaze drops. The violet fire in his eyes flares, wild and unhinged, tracking the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
Zuirvih sinks to his knees.
The movement is fluid, a predatory descent that leaves me trapped against the mantelpiece.
My breath hitches, a high, panicked sound, as his hands grip my thighs.
His bare, cool fingers slide up beneath the midnight blue silk.
He bunches the expensive fabric, pulling it up over my hips, exposing my trembling legs to the cool draft of the room.
"Zuirvih—" The protest is strangled, dying in my throat as he parts my knees.
He leans forward, his silver braids spilling over my thighs like cool silk. He presses his face into my heat.
The first stroke of his tongue through the thin lace of my undergarments is a direct jolt to my sensitized nerves.
I arch off the marble mantelpiece, my fingers clawing blindly at the polished stone behind me.
The chaotic purple magic humming in the air spikes, turning the friction of his tongue into a liquid, burning fire.
With a low, guttural growl that vibrates against my inner thighs, he pulls back just enough to look up at me, his bare hands wrapping securely around my thighs. His violet eyes burn with a dark, tyrannical focus.
"Every inch of this skin is mine to claim, Esmeralda," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my damp flesh. "Your pulse, your breath, the way you tremble under my touch—you do not belong to yourself anymore. Do you understand?"
My throat is too dry to answer. Before I can find my voice, his fingers hook into the delicate lace and tear it away.
He does not hesitate. Pressing his mouth to my center, his tongue parts the slick folds.
He licks and suckles with a brutal, relentless hunger, tasting the sweet, hot nectar of my arousal.
His fangs scrape lightly against the sensitive peak, just enough to send a terrifying, electric shockwave of pleasure straight to my spine.
I scream, the sound muffled against the back of my hand as I tilt my head back against the cold marble.
My hips buck helplessly, chasing his mouth, completely betrayed by the dark magic singing through my veins.
The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, bordering on agonizing under the influence of his sensitizing spell.
Zuirvih pauses for a fraction of a second, his grip on my hips tightening until it bruises. He forces me to meet his glowing, unholy gaze.
"Do not close your eyes," he commands, his voice dripping with authority. "Watch the monster consume you. Tell me who you are breaking for."
"Zuirvih..." I gasp, my voice a broken whisper.
"My name," he purrs, his tongue giving a slow, deliberate lick over the swollen peak. "Say it again. Acknowledge your master."
The humiliation of my surrender burns, but my body has already chosen its master. "Zuirvih... please."
A dark, satisfied smile touches his wet lips. "Good girl," he whispers against my skin, before pressing his mouth back to my center with a devastating focus. He grips my hips, holding me securely against his mouth, drinking my cries as his tongue drives me over the edge.
I shatter.
A violent, shuddering climax rips through my body, my muscles seizing as the release crashes over me in waves. My legs shake, unable to hold my weight, kept upright only by the mantelpiece and the unyielding bracket of his hands.
He drinks the pleasure from my skin until the worst of the trembling subsides.
Slowly, Zuirvih rises back to his full height. He hooks his long fingers under my chin, forcing my head back against the marble mantelpiece to look into his face.
"Look at what I do to you," he whispers, his breath hot against my bruised lips.
"A mere whisper of magic, and you are entirely undone.
You can pretend to hate me, little rat, but your body knows exactly where it belongs.
It belongs to me. Every shudder, every drop of this sweetness is my property. "
I slump against the marble mantelpiece, my chest heaving, my lips bruised and swollen. My legs tremble, barely supporting my weight. The raw, aching arousal pooling in my core is a humiliating, devastating reality.
Zuirvih stares down at me. His chest rises and falls in rapid hitches. The flawless mask of the Deceiver is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a dark, consuming hunger. A single drop of my moisture glistens on his lower lip.
I look at the hand braced against the marble near my head.
His long, silver-ringed fingers are shaking.
A violent, visible tremor he cannot hide.