13. Renard #4
“Shall I have her show you what she thinks of you, honorable knight?” she says softly, trailing her lips down the skin of my neck.
“How ferociously she desires you? How she dreams of your hard cock filling her over and over again? Shall I have her take from you what she really wants? What she deserves?”
“No! If they are her desires, let her speak them to me herself. She does not deserve this violation of her desires—of her privacy. Tell me your name, spirit, that I may banish you from her and allow her her rest,” I growl.
Another deep chuckle. Vireth’s tongue darts out to lick my neck and her fingers slowly stroke my cock.
“Do you think to protect her from herself? From her own desires? From yours, human?”
“If I must,” I whimper, forcing my hips still, despite the instinct to thrust into her hand—to chase a climax I’m desperate for. “I will not take what isn’t freely given—be it mind, body, or heart.”
“What about her life?”
The question chills some of the ardor in my veins.
“Her life?” I echo. Arden’s words ring through my mind. Kill the Blight Mother. Break the curse.
“Mm, you think I do not know? That I do not see? I’ll leave you with these words, honorable knight. Think on the prophecy. I would caution you against the path you set forth on. Spilled blood does not undo what you think it does—and you cannot kill me in any way that matters.”
With those words, she bites down on the tendon between my neck and shoulder. Fear climbs through my body, siphoning the last of my strength. The Blight Mother. Here—now—controlling Vireth. I’m about to cry out when the pressure eases, and Vireth collapses on top of me.
When she lifts her head, her eyes no longer glow and her posture is loose with sleep.
“Renard?” her voice is rough is sleep, and she looks at me in confusion. When she takes in the position of her body, she startles, yanking her hand from my breeches and tumbling off me, nearly falling to the floor.
Sexual frustration, fear, and shame war with my senses, but none are as strong as the urge to soothe her panic.
“Be at ease,” I say roughly, moving to get out of bed. “Nothing catastrophic happened. Do you have any memory of what you said just now?”
She shakes her head, pulling the blankets up around her chin as if she can ward off what happened.
“Go back to sleep,” I say, shoving my feet into my boots. “We can discuss everything in the morning.”
“Where are you going?” Her voice is small. “Why was I on top of you? What were we doing? What were you doing? Why do I taste blood—oh gods, did I bite you?”
I sigh. “I was paid a visit by the Blight Mother.”
Even in the darkness of the room, I can see her eyes widen.
“Tell me what happened,” she demands.
“I swear I shall tell you all that transpired in the morning. Please, just go back to sleep. I need to be alone—I need to think. All will be well, just… get some rest.”
She lies down with reluctance, but I am near to crawling out of my skin with the emotions riding me, and cannot discuss this just yet.
I head down the stairs and out the door, taking deep breaths of the cold night air.
I go check on Magnar, resting peacefully in the warm stables, and venture around the back of the inn to a quiet spot overlooking the forest at the bottom of the Passage of Teeth.
Feeling the acute humiliation swirling in my overheated blood, I unlace my breeches and grip my painfully hard erection.
Even with the fear of the Blight Mother, even beneath the horror of her violation of Vireth’s body and her private thoughts, even with the shame of my true purpose and my reluctance to be honest with Vireth…
even with it all, I cannot deny myself the slaking of this base need.
I am a but a weak man and a failed knight.
In my mind I return to the sensations from moments before—her lips and tongue against my skin, her fangs piercing my flesh, her hand stroking me, demanding my pleasure like the gods demand sacrifice.
Precum beads the tip of my cock as my desire hammers at me, fiercer than anything I’ve known.
A freezing wind whips up around me but it does nothing to ease the heat, and I would swear it carries her scent—the scent of damp soil, petrichor, and faint traces of rosemary soap.
Even the breeze sounds like her moans of pleasure, forever branded in my memory from the precious few touches I’ve been allowed.
My hand works faster, matching the pace of my racing heart when I fantasize about the wet warmth between her legs, what flavor her cunt might be, what shade her nipples might be, the look on her face when she finds her pleasure.
Through it all, her voice moaning lascivious encouragement—demanding, offering, begging.
In what feels like both an eternity and also no time at all, pleasure shoots down my spine and I find my release, spending into a pile of melting snow at my feet.
Some of my tension looses on an exhale, and I become aware of the phantom sensation of being watched. A cursory glance down the nearest alleyways yields nothing, until I lift my gaze higher and see a pair of oxblood eyes staring down at me from the second-story window.
Oh, hells.