59
The Dark King’s Touch and the Painter’s Dawn
Melody
No wings to be seen today. Instead, he’s wearing a royal outfit that accentuates the very muscular outline of his very defined body, that dark crown I’d once seen in his throne room sitting on his head at an insouciant angle.
His eyes are light gray for a change, though they darken instantly when they take in my hair.
I just lift my brows. “Just say it already and be done with it.”
Riven coughs in a warning to watch my tone, and I roll my eyes, turning to him over my shoulder.
“Subtle. I know I’m not supposed to talk to a king like that, but why don’t you just say it to my face? I’m standing right here.”
Riven stares at me, downright shocked. But having both of them treat me like something that should beg and grovel—it’s just too much. I look back at Caryan. Shadows curl in the corners of the room, a clear indicator of his shitty mood.
“How about I throw you in a cell to make you think about the next time you’re talking to me?” Caryan suggests with a purr that makes my insides crawl.
Wow. How could I be so stupid to think that fucking me with his magic meant he wouldn’t immediately go full asshole on me the next time? A fucking cell. Sheer panic stirs at the word, but I clamp down hard on it.
I’m proud of myself when I keep up my bravado. “Hm, yeah. You could. But you clearly want something from me, and a cell is not going to give you that, right?”
“How about I put a collar around your pretty little neck and walk you up and down the campus until everyone knows that you’re mine,” he snarls back.
I refuse to let the same terror I felt months ago when he made a similar threat to claim me. No. Not ever. Never again. I stomp down on it hard and hold his gaze, although it’s burning a hole in me. My fae instincts scream at me to bow and cower, to be submissive.
Instead, I just shrug. “Maybe. But you want your brother.”
“So where is he?” Caryan challenges.
“I told you I’ve found nothing so far,” I retort truthfully.
“You haven’t been searching hard enough. Need some encouragement? Don’t make me use Aris as leverage to remind you of your duties.”
I ignore the goosebumps spreading all over my skin like a conflagration at his words and keep my shoulders back, my chin high.
“I have. And I am. But it’s not like anything answers when I ask the archives about portals and such,” I snap.
Gods, the shadows in the corners grow thicker and thicker.
“So you might want to try something else.”
“Like what?” he spits, fangs flashing.
I shrug again. “Hells, how would I know? You’re his brother. You’re the immortal. You might want to start by telling me a thing or two about this world. Give me some hints or angles.”
He licks his teeth but says nothing, just regards me with his usual distaste, and I wonder how he can change his moods so quickly.
From wanting to fuck me and pushing his tongue down my throat to looking at me as if I’m a particularly annoying mouse.
Or maybe rather a tiny, ugly, lilac-gleaming rat.
I try not to be affected, but the truth is: it hurts.
“What’s wrong with the queen?” I ask, averting my gaze and looking out the window.
“She’s ill,” Riven says automatically, as if we didn’t just have this conversation. Clearly, he wants me to drop the subject.
“Ill with what? This is Avandal. You have the temple. The healing springs. Meanara. Can’t you cure her?” My eyes return to Caryan’s.
“You can’t cure everything. Even elves have diseases,” he retorts ominously, dark eyes glittering like fresh tar. He looks so otherworldly it makes my skin creep.
“So, what does she have?” I ask, turning to Riven so Caryan won’t see that, sometimes, even his image is enough to scare me.
Riven stands with his hands in his pockets, the fine fabric of his clothing shining in the low light, like deep-blue dragon scales. But his eyes burn in a last warning. “We don’t know.”
“That’s strangely…convenient.” I turn back to Caryan, who looks pretty damn close to biting my head off. Plumes of his magic come out of his mouth like smoke, and I’m not sure, but are his pupils seem to be turning to reptilian slits like Aris’s again .
“Leave us,” he snarls at Riven.
My heart makes a sudden leap, hammering against the cage of my ribs. Riven obeys because he has no other choice. Caryan’s words were laced with a command he can’t disobey.
As soon as the doors have slammed shut behind him, Caryan walks up to me.
I stiffen, trying to get my racing heart under control.
Trying to keep breathing. His scent engulfs me when he steps close, and still, no matter how much I fear him, I also long for him.
I turn all kinds of hot when I think of what we did in his bed the other night.
“You wouldn’t dare lie to me, would you?” he asks quietly, stepping around me, his tone scraping along the underside of my skin like his talons, as I stand completely still.
“Why would I?”
His wings tear free from his shadows and take shape, making him seem even taller.
I flinch when one of them brushes over my naked shoulder, velvety-soft. His eyes rove over me as he rounds on me, snaring on my peaked nipples poking through my thin tank. They return to my lips before they meet my eyes again and heat flushes through me all over. Hells, this fucked-up bond.
He cages me against the mantelpiece, and I feel the fire at my back—the living heat of it, close enough to kiss my skin. He nudges me nearer still, planting his hands on either side of my body, cutting off every path of escape. Then he leans down, until his lips hover mere inches from mine.
The heat and casual cruelty in his gaze hold me there, my heart racing, my pulse betraying me, answering him in ways I don’t want to name.
His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up, and the heat at my back sharpens—too close now, the flames no longer just warmth but a warning. I can’t shift. Can’t step away. There’s nowhere to go with Caryan’s body blocking me in, tall and unyielding, all hard lines and controlled power.
Fear finally claws up my throat, sharp and sudden.
He wouldn’t hurt me…would he?
The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, and traitorous. And right on its heels, another—darker, far more reckless.
Maybe he’s finally going to pay me back.
“Because I don’t deal kindly with liars,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding along my cheek with unbearable care, as though he’s memorizing me. His voice is gentle—and that’s what makes it all the more terrifying.
The skin along my back begins to ache, then burn, heat unfurling there like a promise turned cruel.
And it isn’t the pain that undoes me.
It’s the intimacy of it.
It’s him .
It’s that he is the one inflicting it.
When he hurts me, it doesn’t stop at my skin—it slides straight into that fragile place between us, twisting, fraying, damaging something that was never meant to be used like this.
The bond twists everything he does into something intimate, invasive, making every hurt sink deeper than flesh. That quiet, intimate destruction hurts more than any flame ever could.
And the worst part—he knows it.
I press my hands to his hard chest, needing the contact even as it ruins me, feeling the slow, powerful beat of his heart beneath my palms. His fae heart is steady and unhurried, so utterly at odds with my own, which is racing, betraying me with every frantic thud.
“You’re hurting me,” I say quietly, searching his eyes.
He just watches me.
And just when I’m certain he’ll make me beg—or let the flames scorch the skin on my back—he steps away, granting me freedom.
I release a shuddering breath, unable to meet his gaze for a moment. I don’t need to look to know he’s still watching me.
“Why did you have me brought here?” I ask, rubbing my arms, trying to shake the lingering discomfort of what almost happened. Does he feel it too? Does it please him when he hurts me? Or does it hurt him as well? The questions press against my tongue, desperate to be asked.
Suddenly, I want to know what this is between us.
And damn me—I’m too fucking terrified, too much of a coward, to ask.
“I need you to help me repair the wards,” he says. His voice is deep. Ambiguous. Unreadable.
I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see what might be written across his face. I know what he is. He’s warned me often enough that he’s a monster. Told me he’s a beast in a godly body.
And that’s fine.
As long as he isn’t one with me.
“Okay. When?” I ask.
My heart convulses when he answers, “Now.”
I finally look up—only to find him much closer than I expected. He holds out his hand. And with no real choice at all, I take it.
I expect a portal—him whisking us away in the angelic, terrifying elegance of his magic—but instead, he lifts me into his arms.
I’m instantly overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, his closeness, dizziness stealing my breath—and it’s not the height.
Not yet. The next thing I know, he’s stepping forward and leaping out the window with me, wings unfurling and beating soundlessly as he cradles me against his chest and we rise, higher and higher.
There’s wind, sharp and rushing, but his magic wraps around me, keeping me warm even as we soar over the temple and into the clouds. I reach out instinctively, as if I might catch one in my palm.
It’s nothing like riding on Aris’s back.
Being carried like this—held—is something else entirely.
The way he keeps me close, unyielding and careful all at once, my cheek almost brushing his chest. I can hear his heartbeat again.
Slow. Steady. Grounding. It seeps into me before I can stop it, my own frantic pulse gradually matching his, soothed despite myself.
His wings beat with immense power, yet his body remains calm, controlled, as if the sky itself bends to him.
I don’t look at his face. I don’t trust myself to.
Instead, I look down.