Feeding
CHAPTER FIVE
Alow hum wrenched me out of the clutches of sleep. As reason invaded, so did the aches. My body felt like . . . I had been slumbering on the floor.
I wiggled my toes for sensation to return. The same sound that roused me from sleep echoed again. Was someone in pain? I pushed upright, and the grunt from above veiled the clink of a chain link against the collar.
I clenched the edge of the bunched-up fur strewn across the Warlord’s bed as I peeked over the mattress. Orange dawning light spilled into the chamber.
A woman lay in the Warlord’s embrace, her back to me as she arched. She was dressed in an azure gown with different panels making up the skirt, and as she writhed on the mattress, the panels of her skirt fell open to expose her legs an indecent amount. She kept moaning as she clasped his arm.
I had a clear view of his face nestled against her throat. His arm banded around her waist, fingers curled into her side while his mouth was flush to her skin.
My mouth parted in a sharp exhale, and his eyes flew open, pinning me with the intensity of his gaze.
I blinked rapidly, but she remained in his arms. I wasn’t hallucinating. His eyebrows furrowed until they formed a divot between them. I could tell each time he drew blood because she stiffened and arched.
Her cries elevated with intensity. Just as suddenly, she cut off, her mouth parted with a final whimper, her legs moved with sudden jerks, and she went limp against him.
Had he killed her?
He drank once more from her, then ran his tongue across her throat as he pulled away.
Sapphire blood continued to drip from the two puncture wounds.
Even his feeders were of high birth. I couldn’t take my gaze away from his as he stretched his legs out, body arching in a stretch that took up much of the bed.
The woman in azure lay on her side, not facing me. She still has not moved.
“You killed her,” I accused, pulling myself up the rest of the way.
She propped herself up on her hands.
“Cease nagging,” she groused.
I gaped, stunned by her annoyance, but she’d lost interest in me, turning back to the Warlord. She lightly touched his arm.
“Would you like me to service you, my lord?” she murmured, her voice husky.
He tucked his arms behind his head. “You are dismissed, feeder,” he murmured, his voice drowsy.
She sluggishly rolled off the bed on the opposite side from me, and as she straightened, she staggered. It took her a few breaths to regain her balance. Meanwhile, I watched, holding so still my limbs were stiff.
I waited without twitching an inch. He had yet to move or address me.
She left, leaving behind silence and the weight of my terror.
I wanted to do nothing more than huddle on the bed, but if I intended to learn how things worked at the Warlord’s Citadel, how he worked, I needed to be active.
The Warlord hadn’t moved. His breathing retained a steady flow, chest moving up and down. His robe had parted, pooling against his sides and leaving him lying across the bedding, nude.
I ripped my gaze away from the turgid length extended against his abdomen.
The little I knew of the prophecy, of the king, of Nocturn, surfaced in my thoughts. All of it had been gleaned from overheard ballroom conversations, or from sitting in on Miriam’s tutoring lessons.
Where the Sigils are etched, the bondmates shall be known.
On Nocturn, one soul shall pass, one shall yield.
The Vessel bears what the Warlord claims.
I wished I had paid more attention to learning about it, but the Kingdom of Sycarious had not been somewhere I ever believed I would find myself.
There were a few truths I could not ignore when considering how to proceed.
Any fight I attempted would not succeed. He was much too strong, quick, and powerful. I would have to find a way to escape without causing a scene. As long as I could flee toward the Barren, I could cross the deadly land to another one of the realms.
Nocturn arrived every century, and the prophecy stated it was the single time a soul-transfer could take place.
If I managed to survive past that date, His Highness would have no use for me.
“Come here.” His voice broke through my thoughts, telling me he’d been aware of me studying him the entire time.
My gaze trailed over his maleness, and I ripped it away. I rounded the front of the iron bedframe, my chains clinking noisily.
“Closer.”
I did as he bade until I stood beside his stretched form, attempting not to stare at his body. He watched me from under his eyelashes, the sooty rim so thick it seemed like coal painted them.
“Your pulse is still racing.”
He sat up, braced on his hands, and it brought him closer to my face. I tried not to look down and failed. His length had grown.
He reached out so fast that my heart stuttered. He captured my hand, cupping the back of it and brought my palm to his . . . his . . .
Soft silk throbbed under my palm.
Those men who had groped at me had not roused this sweep of shock and curiosity. Then again, those men were not as ethereal as the king. I could not deny the man was radiant. I supposed I was not as impervious to beauty as I always thought.
A flood of heat spread across my face.
He tightened his grip over my hand, and I clamped onto the length until I could feel the throb of his pulse under it. I whipped my head up and clashed with his eerie gaze. He was so still.
My heart refused to slow the rapid beat. I swayed, light-headed.
“Th-this isn’t—I—”
His smile turned cruel.
“Don’t snivel. I have no need for your unpracticed touch on my cock.” His words lashed against me and I flinched.
He released the back of my hand, yet I continued gripping the length. I could not force my fingers to uncurl.
The hot length under my palm pulsated.
His expression shuttered, and it was what I needed to snap myself back to the present. I yanked back as if the member burned me.
“Out of my sight,” he ordered, flicking his hand at me and sprawling onto his back, arm curling behind his head.
Take a hold of yourself.
I gritted my teeth, smothering down the fear urging me to huddle onto the floor. I had to detach my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
“If I please you,” I began in a strained voice. “Will I be rewarded?”
The Warlord propped himself up on his elbows. Cocking his head, he scanned my face. His eyebrows twitched upward. He found me humorous.
“What would you ask for?”
“I want to see my wraithling,” I blurted. “Piper. Where is she being kep—”
A chilling expression crossed his features.
“Wraithling? Why would you have—” He cut himself off, then swiped his tongue across his lower lip. “The Vessel to my bondmate isn’t a redblood.” He spat it like it was a curse.
His eyes narrowed, and my pulse stopped. He was frighteningly still. He did not know I was a redblood.
My heart fell to my feet at the utter distaste curling his lips.
I backed away from the bed as far as I could, the chain rattling with my retreat. He approached with measured strides. I hunched my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller. I backed away to the extent the chain allowed, but still, he neared. To look up at him, I had to crane my neck.
My pulse thundered madly in my ears, the thrum close to deafening. He reached for my arm with a flash of speed too fast for my eye, and he extended my arm up as high as it could stretch.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I breathed, and even those few words were difficult to push out.
His thumb dug into my skin a bit below my wrist. I tugged, immediately shying from the discomfort. But he didn’t release me, and he kept pressing. The dull throb was becoming too much.
He angled his thumb down more, and I felt the pop of my skin. I gasped, tears flooding my eyes at the same speed blood surfaced.
A droplet of blood trickled down my arm to my elbow, the crimson color stark against my bronze skin.
His eyes widened, and where the gold and red of his irises met, the color pulsed. He squeezed my arm. With a quick jerk, he broke the chain and wrapped it around his fist.