8. Elim
The gods were cruel.
Here I was in deep soil and all I could think of was how I’d like to be planted even deeper inside of Melisandre. Yes, the bond had something to do with it, but that explained the sense of urgency, not the raw, hot attraction that blazed when I was close to her once more.
I groaned softly at the sight of her shapely ass, swaying gently on those odd, elevated shoes that echoed with little clicks. I stubbornly reminded myself that the fate of my kingdom and crown was balanced on a knife’s edge, to say nothing of my little niece’s safety. The shard-of-night was a comforting weight against my chest: at least as long as I held it, Gretvir would be unable to assume the throne. He also couldn’t kill Glade, if he or my cousins managed to find her. As Perikar’s daughter, she was the next in line by succession, and without the shard-of-night to legitimize the union, our people would recognize my uncle’s bald intentions.
I was certain my absence had been noticed by now, and I wondered what foul tales they’d been spinning to explain it. Perhaps they were busy suggesting I was responsible for my niece’s simultaneous disappearance; it would fit the tone of their despicable political machinations. We slowed as Melisandre had a quiet word with a more modestly-dressed woman in the hallway, who tilted her head at a closed door with a small silver plaque in the center.
Frustration of several sorts dragged a soft growl out of my throat as the other woman left out of the door I’d first entered. The hallway filled with a scent sweeter than jasmine flowers as Melisandre stiffened.
My voice came rough with warring doses of anger over my fate and lust for my intended. “My Queen, is anything amiss?”
She turned, her eyes slightly glazed, and I realized the scent came from her. Specifically, from the barely-covered valley between generous thighs that I ached to wrap around me now. “Oh, I, um. No. No, everything’s fine, Mr. Shadowcur. You just sounded…stressed. And our “decision-maker,” as you called him, is unfortunately going to be a few minutes. The police needed to take another statement. Do you maybe want to sit down?” She gestured shyly at a lone burgundy chair that matched the ones where I’d sat in the dancing room.
I didn’t recognize some of the words she’d used, but from context it sounded like whatever human realm noble I was being brought to was dealing with business. I sympathized; even before Gretvir’s treachery, I often exhausted myself handling much of the same. With Perikar given back to the seven soils, I’d had to take on the responsibility of both thrones until Glade was of proper age. That burden was a large part of why Gretvir had been able to slaughter my guards and oust me from the physical throne room with such ease.
I sank into the chair, taking a deep, appreciative breath of my intended’s scent as I cupped the back of my own neck, working the muscles there. She watched me with a curious expression as more of the loud music began somewhere, followed by a feminine shriek of excitement and answering male cheers. Muffled through the smooth grey stone of the wall, it wasn’t quite as overwhelming, though my body happily responded to the memory of Melisandre dancing to a similar beat. “It is Shadowcourt, not Shadowcur, my Queen, though I much prefer Elim…in most matters.”
I once again reached out to cup her hip and draw her closer, finding it harder and harder to refrain from touching my bride, even if she wasn’t fae. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped into my reach, letting me trace a thumb over the thin straps and stiff ribbon of lace on her hip that allowed the warmth of her skin to seep through. “I-I’ll remember that…Elim. Do you-” She glanced over her shoulder, a tiny kiss of blush rising to her cheeks as her heart beat fast enough for my sensitive ears to register. “-want me to help you relax?”
I leaned into the chair’s plush back, searching her seedling-green eyes for meaning. “I don’t want any drink or food, if that’s your meaning, Melisandre. Your company sustains me.”
“Oh! I—no. I meant do you, you know, want a dance? I mean, I don’t want to be presumptuous and I don’t expect special treatment or anything like that, it’s just you kissed me outside, and…”
She’d been making small, nervous gestures with her hands as she spoke, and I found it thoroughly charming. I laughed, leaning forward to capture them like little birds, bringing them to my lips for a kiss. She stopped speaking and broke into a slightly embarrassed smile as I nodded and murmured against her fingers. “Yes, Melisandre. Dance for me, my Queen. I would welcome such an honor.”
I drew in a surprised breath as she straddled my lap; I’d expected she would simply dance closer to me, not in contact. I’d already been fully erect, and the way she pressed her core against me through my thin silks pulled an appreciative grunt from my lips. I laced my arms around her, forgetting the pretense of dancing, and hungrily claimed her mouth again.
Mine.
She gasped in surprise, wriggling in my lap to break the kiss but not to leave my lap, seeming oddly embarrassed at our excellent chemistry. It puzzled me, because I was elated we got along so well, but she seemed to struggle with the same good news. “Call me Mel, please. Elim, listen, I need you to know I don’t do this, I mean I haven’t done this with other men here or anything, it’s just that you’re just so-”
I pulled her closer, my hands cupping her ass and my talons thickening against her lacy confection of a garment, barely restraining myself from freeing her entirely. “Good. I don’t want you to do this with any others. I intend to ruin the mere memory of other men, betrothed, once we’re joined. Before we’re joined, if you’d like. Whenever you’d like, really, as often as needed.” I pressed my lips into the curve of her neck, dragging the points of my fangs softly over her skin, eliciting a breathless sigh of pleasure from the exquisite creature squirming in my lap.
“Oh fuck…” Every time my fangs tapped against her skin, her hips moved of her own accord, grinding wantonly to seek more friction, her fingers clutching little handfuls of my tunic as she whimpered the obscenities I was quickly learning. Ahh, my lovely Queen enjoys Unseelie fangs, does she? That alone redoubled my lust; usually our kind was mercilessly mocked by the Bright Court for our “monstrous” features. Whatever realm I landed in evidently felt differently about those same features: very differently.
Mel clutched me as I offered rolling thrusts against her core, making myself a tool for her pleasure, a source of friction as my tongue and fangs played along her sensitive pulse. She buried her face against my shoulder as her movements became more desperate and rhythmic, those beautiful undulations of her hips working with more purpose now.
“Please…oh god, please Elim…just a little more, I’m so close, god I’m so close…” Her whisper, hot and barely audible against the tapered tip of my ear, was the sweetest music I’d ever heard. The bond sung with the request, our connection pulsing like her blood, and I dutifully took her hips and worked her the way she pleaded so sweetly for until she clutched at me and tossed her head back with a soft keen of my name.
It was over the backwards bend of Mel’s body, her core still pressing against me through thin layers of cloth, that I watched the door she’d indicated earlier swing open. I gathered her up to my chest again, burying a protective hand in the back of her hair, caught off-guard by our compromising—though thankfully still clothed—position.
I blinked away the haze of bond-lust and found myself trading shocked expressions with a man I hadn’t seen in countless years, ageless but for his oddly round-edged ears.
My betrothed had led me to none other than Victor Brightcourt, first heir and the presumed battle-fallen son of the Seelie.