25. A Weak Bag of Bones
Chapter 25
A Weak Bag of Bones
CHARMING
“ H it the door with your face.” My father’s voice is cold and merciless as he commands it.
The insidious grip of his thrall takes hold, my body no longer my own. With rising horror, I watch helplessly as my face slams into the unyielding wood, pain exploding through my skull.
“Stop that,” he barks, and my body jerks to a halt. Part of me still always hopes it will be over quickly, but he’s far from done showing me his displeasure.
Not that I wasn’t expecting this. This is a monthly, sometimes weekly known tactic of correction he’s used on me since I was a boy. He’s punished me for far less, and publicly shackling myself to a human bride is by far one of my worst trespasses.
“Punch the wall.”
I grit my teeth, straining against the invisible bonds of my father's will. But it's useless. I'm a prisoner in my own flesh, a marionette dancing to his twisted tune. The helplessness is almost worse than the pain, a sickening reminder of how utterly powerless I am. Unable to stop it, my knuckles crack into stone. Bones break, sending screaming pain through my body and brain. Blood covers my knuckles and drips onto the ground, and the swelling in my face is starting to make it difficult to see.
“You are worthless,” he hisses. “You are weak.”
Rage and humiliation war inside me, a toxic cocktail that burns like acid in my veins. I want to scream, to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the agony he's inflicting on me. But I can't. I can only endure, my hatred festering in my hidden depths.
By the time he’s done, I can barely see out of one eye and my hands are as useful as two bags filled with broken shards of bone.
He pulls out a blue handkerchief from a pocket and dabs the droplets of my blood that landed on his hand. “You had one job. Marry. Strengthen our rule. Instead, you chose a lowly human to drag our name through the mud. You careless, insipid boy. You think of no one but yourself and play your stupid games. The next time you feel compelled to chase novelty, I want you to remember this. How when you follow your whims, you only hurt yourself.”
Then he drops the handkerchief to the ground and leaves me there shaking with pain, rage, and the regret I didn’t kill him.
The only thing that kept me from lunging at him with murderous intent—other than the fact I’m so beaten I’ve the strength of a kitten and he’d thrall me again almost instantly—is that I managed to make him believe I’m incompetent.
Soon, he will find out how very very wrong he is.
I begin the long journey to get blood, staggering like a drunk man.
Resentment simmers until it heats into anger.
Anger festers until it becomes rage.
And I know that’s exactly what pulsates under my skin as I catch my blurry reflection in the mirror, taking stock of the damage in the castle corridor.
Rage.
Vivid mottled bruises swell across half my face. My knuckles are split and swollen, dripping blood along the floor.
Does the rage spring from a young boy who still wants his father’s love, or if not that, his approval?
No. It’s born from the fact my father does not even bother to lift a finger to inflict pain.
“Holy fae fucking hell.”
The world around me is mostly dark, so I turn to see Cinder from the narrow slit of my good eye. She stands there, a gothic vision of royal enchantment and zero fucks. The only shift in her normally expressionless face is the downward tilt of perfect lips and a slight furrow in her brow.
Okay there may be one fuck lurking in her somewhere.
The court has been keeping us both ridiculously busy with tedious meetings and fittings, so I’m surprised to run into her alone. Two women emerge from the room where she was.
Ah there it is. The entourage attempting to shape up her etiquette for polite society and dance lessons. Interest and curiosity spark in their eyes. I need to get out of here, fast.
I try to smile. My lips instantly crack, filling my mouth with my blood. It tastes rancid.
“Really got to be careful not to sleep with married women,” I say, playing off the wounds again.
Another couple of people emerge from the room. Ambassadors from the Common World. A half-elf and a human who both openly gape with shock.
“I mean it was a while ago. Of course I am only ever faithful to my bride,” I rush to say. “Unfortunately, there is no statute of limitations on punishment for sleeping with another’s partner.” I do my best to throw a cheeky smile their way to put them at ease, but blood rushes faster into my mouth as my lip cracks open further.
Something crosses Cinder's features, but I'm not sure what. Disgust? Disbelief? Suspicion? No matter what it is, my battered brain won’t be able to discern anything until I heal.
“See you tonight,” I force out the words from the less bleeding half of my mouth with a curt bow before beating a hasty retreat.
Only when I’ve turned a corner do I resume my slower, limping gait until I reach my destination.
One side of the castle’s kitchens is lined with cold boxes that store blood while the far side has several wood stoves for heating it. It’s still early when I enter the massive stone room. Later, familiars will be pouring and preparing a mass amount of blood and champagne to serve at yet another engagement ball.
It takes a painfully long amount of time to pour myself a chalice of blood and set it on the massive granite island that could easily fit forty people at its edge. A ridiculous design choice seeing how little preparation is needed for our food. The emptiness of the unnecessarily large kitchen echoes inside me. It’s reassuring I can find places where no one will watch me, and I can just be.
My palms press against the edge of the countertop, causing my already injured hands to explode in a white-hot burst of pain. I grit my teeth and stare down at the chalice, forcing myself to feel the full extent of the agony tearing through my body and soul. Every nerve is on fire, sending bolts of electricity into my brain, screaming at me to release the pressure. But I can't. Not yet.
Focusing on the pain helps me compartmentalize what I’m about to drink.
I hate it.
I hate erasing all the marks he leaves. I hate the fact I need the blood to recover. Even the thought of the thick, viscous liquid makes me queasy.
To others, feeding is a pleasure.
To me, it is medicine for the afflictions I’m forced to act out on myself.
Worse yet, I hate knowing that this is how my people reduce the value of humans. To many, Cinder is just a blood bag. Just a chalice filled with something delicious but easily discarded after use. I don’t know whose blood this is. If they gave it willingly. What their name is. This lack of detail always makes me uneasy.
The tendons in my forearms flex as I gird myself. Then I clumsily attempt to wrap my broken digits around the cup. When I find I can’t successfully do so without sloshing most of the blood out, I’m forced to bend my knees and stoop to drink from the side as I tip it gingerly into my mouth.
Fuck. Ow. Shit.
Unsuccessful again, I set the cup back down.
I really need to start smuggling in big cups with straws from the Common World. A straw would be fae fucking life-changing right now.
A pair of thin, pale hands picks up the cup and I recoil on instinct.
My surprise turns into shock when I realize it's Cinder, who has somehow managed to follow me undetected.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, she may have used her glass slippers to transport here. Little minx.
Cinder offers the blood up to me. The coppery scent fills my nostrils, mixing with her unique scent.
I purse my lips, not about to let her feed me.
“I can do it myself,” I grumble, trying to take the chalice from her, but my fingers are too broken, too weak to grasp it properly.
Cinder narrows her eyes, pulling it away from my mangled digits. “Stop being a stubborn ass and let me help you. “
Her words are harsh, but her touch is gentle as she brings the cup to my mouth.
I'm given a heavy dose of the purple death until I part my lips. Cinder tips the chalice ever so slightly so I can drink. Even in small sips, the blood slides down my throat, thick and heavy, coating my tongue with its metallic taste.
I hate it, hate the way it rushes to my core and spreads out, stitching my broken body together every time.
My senses sharpen until they are filled with Cinder. The heat of her body so close to mine, the sound of her heartbeat drumming in my ears, the sight of her slender fingers wrapped around the chalice.
The aroma of her blood grows stronger, a tempting blend of metallic and sweet. Its rhythmic beat whispers to me from just below the surface of her alabaster skin. My fangs ache with desire as I fight to control my thirst.
I try to step away, but she thrusts the chalice towards me again. The blood in the cup has cooled, the scent weakening, making her scent of charred vanilla and skin all the more prominent.
I allow her to push the cup to my lips again. At that moment, I am consumed by a wild and desperate craving, my body betraying me as I imagine sinking my teeth into her wrist, her pulse fluttering beneath my tongue as I greedily drink.
The self-loathing burns deep within me. I am no different from the rest of my kind, no matter how much I pretend otherwise.
Blood dribbles from my mouth and the edge of the cup. Wet droplets hit my shirt and the countertop in bright, offensive crimson drips.
I know, with a bone-deep certainty, that Cinder’s blood would be the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. That if I were to sink my fangs into the delicate curve of her neck I would be lost forever, drowning in the essence of her.
The thought makes my body react with a fierce, primal hunger. Fangs elongate in my mouth and the room comes into sharp focus as my pupils expand with insatiable need. The blood from the chalice is like burnt plastic on my tongue compared to what I know would be the honeyed sweetness that flows just beneath her skin. And it’s mere inches from me.
My cock thickens in my slacks as the ache builds in my fangs and my balls. An amazing feat considering the healing has barely begun in my body.
Cinder. I just want all of Cinder.
I need her.
In a flash, I have her pressed against the countertop. The chalice clatters to the floor, forgotten. My lips hover a hairsbreadth from her throat, her quickening heartbeat calling to me. A low, guttural growl escapes me as I inhale her scent, my fingers digging into her hips with bruising force.
I'm losing myself in her, drowning in the overwhelming need to consume her utterly. I am more monster than man, a slave to my darkest desires.
Cinder's breath hitches, her pulse racing beneath my fingertips. I revel in the heat of her skin, the way her body trembles. It's intoxicating, the power I have over her in this moment.
I lean in closer, my lips brushing her throat. She shivers, a soft gasp escaping her.
“Don't,” she whispers, her voice a breathless plea.
Something from deep inside me has been unleashed and it will not be satisfied until it has tasted her essence.
“I can make it good for you,” I rush to say. And I could. I know she’s afraid, but if I’m pumping deep inside her hot little cunt while I sink my teeth into her skin, I know I can make her come so hard she’ll see stars. “It’ll be good. It’ll be good for both of us.” My voice is raspy to my ears. I’m giving her the promises of an inexperienced boy who is so desperate, he’s on the verge of blowing his load.
My fangs graze her skin, a promise of the pleasure to come.
Cinder stiffens, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Please, Kai,” she breathes. She’s shaking under me. Violently.
My bride is begging me not to do the thing I promised not to do, the thing she’s afraid of most.
I want her with a desperation that borders on madness. But beneath the desire, there's a flicker of fear, a terrifying awareness of how close I am to losing myself completely.
I'm teetering on the edge of a razor, balanced between desire and destruction. One wrong move, and I'll slice us both to ribbons.
But oh, what a sweet fucking fall it would be.