Chapter 13 Dreven
Dreven
“She is as stubborn as a goddess,” I mutter to her retreating back.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Voren says.
I turn my gaze from her proud, retreating form to Voren. “I think her defiance is the only thing keeping her alive. It is a trait bred into her line.”
My focus returns to Nyssa, a small, stubborn figure against the vast, grey misery of the landscape. She falters, her hand pressing harder against her ribs, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back. That pride will be her undoing.
“She’s a liability,” Voren murmurs, his tone deceptively casual. “Her refusal to accept reality will get us all killed.”
“She is not a liability,” I correct him, my voice colder than the wind. “She is the weapon. And she is bleeding. The scent will draw others.”
The other two fall silent. They know I am right. That stitched-together horror was just the beginning. A probe. The real predator is still out there, and it has tasted the air around the slayer. It knows she is here.
I let the shadows claim me, the world dissolving into shades of grey. I will not let her die from a moment of foolish pride. She is mine to protect, whether she wants it or not. I will follow her home, a silent guardian to ensure no other scavenger comes to finish the job.
That thing was a harbinger. She’s the only one who can face what’s coming. If she dies from a broken rib and a fit of pique, we’re all royally fucked. My gaze hardens as Nyssa stumbles, catching herself against a stone wall before pushing on.
It’s too much of an annoyance, more than anything else at this point. Watching her flail around like a fledgling is making me mad with her. I materialise at her side, and she jumps, blade ready to slice and dice.
“Do you have a death wish?” she grumbles.
“Rich, coming from you,” I say, taking her arm. “Hold on, this might make you ill.”
I take her with me into the shadows, hearing her yelp as I practically abduct her from the hillside.
When we materialise outside her home, she is a weird shade of pale green, and her eyes are wide.
She stumbles, and then with all the elegance of a demon slayer, she turns on her heel and vomits into the lavender bush next to the front door.
She straightens up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve with disgust and fixes me with a glare that could curdle milk. “Never do that again.”
“Get inside,” I say, my voice flat. It is an order, not a request. I take a step towards her, intending to guide her through the door. She flinches away from my touch, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her blade.
“I can manage.”
“Clearly,” I counter. “Your stubbornness is a liability, slayer. It will get you killed. Now, are you going to unlock the door, or shall I remove it?”
A battle raging in those amber-hazel eyes. Pride versus pragmatism. Pain versus defiance. Finally, with a curse, she fumbles in her pocket for her keys. The jangle of metal is the sound of her surrender, and it is more satisfying than it has any right to be.
She shoves the key into the lock and twists, pushing the door open with a grunt of pain.
I follow her inside, the scent of her home enveloping me.
It is a place of order, in contrast to the chaos now bleeding into her world.
Everything is meticulous, from the neatly stacked books on a shelf to the polished stone floor.
She makes it halfway to the kitchen before she stops, her breath hissing between her teeth as she presses a hand to her side. The bravado is crumbling, eroded by pain she can no longer conceal.
“Sit,” I command, my voice echoing slightly in the small, quiet space.
Her head whips around. “I’m not one of your minions, god.”
“No,” I agree, moving towards her. “You are far more fragile. You are injured. You will let me help you, or I will hold you down and do it anyway. The choice is yours.”
Her jaw clenches, that defiant fire blazing in her eyes. But the fight drains out of her as another wave of pain hits. With a choked sound of frustration, she limps to the small kitchen table and sinks into a chair, defeated. It is not a victory I enjoy, but it is a necessary one.
She pulls off her coat and her toes off her filthy shoes. She hands me her coat with a wicked smile. “It needs a wash. There is also the hoodie in the living room, and you might as well throw those trainers in for good measure.”
I blink at her and then at her shoes.
Her smirk widens. “Does the god know how to use a washing machine?”
My gaze flickers from the muddy trainers to her challenging smirk. A lesser being might be goaded. I am not. I dump the coat on the floor near the sink, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Move to the living room, slayer. You need to lie down.”
“I’m good.”
“Go.” The one word, said with all the authority of the God of Shadows, is enough to get her to move. Eventually. Begrudgingly. But she moves. It’s a fucking start.
I follow her to the sofa where she stretches out, looking a much better colour now that she is horizontal.
Kneeling next to her, I reach for the hem of her top. Her hand clamps down on mine.
“I don’t think so.”
“How else am I meant to assess the damage?”
“X-ray vision?” she chirps.
“No,” I say, not biting at her sarcasm. It will infuriate her more if I ignore her wit.
Her gaze bores into mine, and I increase the intensity of my stare. Her mouth relaxes, her eyes soften, and she becomes pliable in my hands as I use compulsion on her. “That’s better, slayer,” I murmur. “Relax. Let me help you.”
She nods and closes her eyes. It’s not how I wanted to do this, but she leaves me with little choice.
She is a giant pain in the arse. I lift her top, and this time she doesn’t stop me.
I push it over her tits, ignoring how gorgeous they are and how much I want to shove my dick in between them.
I could. I could take her now, and she wouldn’t object.
But I won’t.
I prefer a challenge when it comes to conquests. When it comes to saving the only thing that can save us all, I need to get shit done.
I run my fingers lightly over her ribs. She hisses. “Here?” I murmur and press harder.
She grunts and nods.
I splay my hand over the worst of her bruised skin and allow the heat of my healing power to flow into her. She absorbs it with a gasp, her eyes flying open as she feels the pain vanish.
“See?” I say, not looking at her. “I can help.”
“You’re such a dick,” she grumbles. “Release me from whatever compulsion you put me under.”
“It’s already gone, slayer,” I murmur and adjust the angle of my hand.
Her skin is warm beneath my palm. The energy flows from me into her, a current of shadow and restoration, knitting bone and mending torn muscle.
She watches my face, her expression full of suspicion and grudging relief.
The compulsion is gone, but the memory of her helplessness lingers in the tense line of her jaw.
“How are you doing that?” she asks, her voice low, devoid of its usual bite.
“Gods have their uses,” I reply, my gaze fixed on the fading bruises.
They fade from purple to yellow to nothing, leaving her skin smooth again.
I feel her getting stronger under my hand, her life force buzzing like electricity.
Something in me recognises it, responds to it.
I haven’t felt this way in centuries. Slowly, I move down her body to heal the wound on her leg.
It closes instantly, and she breathes out.
She sits up slowly, cautiously. Her eyes narrow. “You could have done that on the hill.”
“And denied you the pleasure of calling me a dick in the comfort of your own home?” I rise to my feet, pulling her top back down for her with an impersonal tug. “Perish the thought.”
She grimaces.
“Besides, do you really want all that weakness to be on show?”
“Okay, fair point,” she mutters. “But now you know.”
“I knew anyway. Are you going to stop being so stubborn now?”
She pushes herself fully upright on the sofa, swinging her legs to the floor. The defiance is back in her eyes, brighter than before, fuelled by her restored strength. “It’s not stubbornness. It’s called doing my job.”
“Your job is to die needlessly? To throw yourself at threats you don’t understand and hope for the best?”
“My job is to protect this village,” she retorts, her voice sharp. “I’ve been doing it just fine without a trio of condescending gods showing up to critique my methods.”
“Fine?” The word is a low rumble in my chest. I take a step closer, crowding her space, forcing her to look up at me from the sofa. “You were moments from being torn apart by a creature your Order’s precious books have never even imagined. That is not fine. That is a prelude to an obituary.”
Her chin lifts, a familiar, infuriating gesture of defiance. “I would have found a way.”
“You would have died,” I state, the words cold and absolute.
I lean down, bracing a hand on the back of the sofa beside her head, trapping her.
“You think this is about your village? About demons in graveyards? This is about a war that has been brewing for centuries, a war that has finally found its battlefield in your backyard, and you, slayer, are the only thing standing between this realm and utter annihilation.”
I see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, warring with the ingrained pride. It is a start.
“I am telling you it is a war we cannot afford to lose. Your methods are obsolete. Your pride is a weakness. Adapt, or you will doom us all.”
She doesn’t say anything, but places her hand on my chest to move me out of her space. I don’t move an inch.
My lips are millimetres from hers. I could capture her in a bruising kiss that would wipe clean any memory she has of another man’s lips on hers.
Her hand tightens into a fist, bunching into my shirt tightly.
To my surprise, she drags me closer. “So, what is it you want from me, Dreven?” she murmurs against my lips.
I peel her hand from my shirt, but I don’t let go, crushing it until she flinches in a measure of her strength and her pain barrier.
She is tougher than she looks. A regular mortal would be nursing a broken hand by now, in tears.
In a moment of utter insanity that crashes through my control, I place her hand over my stiffening cock.
Her breath catches, and she licks her lips. She tries to pull her hand away, but I keep a grip on it, pressing it down, increasing the pressure as I grow rock-hard.
“You want a fuck?” she murmurs. “Is that it?”
Moving my hand, bringing hers with it, I make her rub me through the fabric of my pants. I’m still testing her in a way. I want to see what it will take to make her use her more-than-human strength to push me away.
The trouble is, I think she is testing me as well. She squeezes my cock with a seductive smile. It sends a jolt of pure, undiluted want through me. My control, a fortress of ice built over centuries, cracks.
Her eyes are locked on mine, challenging, a predator sizing up a larger one. She is not afraid. She is curious.
I release her hand. The choice is now hers. To pull away, or to press her advantage.
Her breath is shallow as she makes her choice. She flicks open the button and lowers the zipper. My cock springs free, and she lowers her gaze to take in the sheer size of me. Her hand wraps around it, and she tugs gently as she rubs her thumb over the tip.
It’s been so fucking long since anyone touched me this way, since I allowed anyone to touch me at all, I nearly unload all over her hand. Her eyes flash when she sees mine darken with lust.
She licks her lips again and increases the pressure of her hand-job, sliding her fingers over the ridges of my cock, exploring me with an intensity that makes me twitch in her hand.
A groan escapes my lips, low and guttural, a sound I haven’t made in centuries.
Her amber eyes glitter with triumph. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, dismantling my composure with every slick slide of her hand.
This is her power. This raw, defiant sensuality that she wields with the same deadly perfection she would her blade.
My control shatters. Just as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak, my hand shoots out, clamping around her wrist. I stop her movement, my fingers digging into her skin.
“Is this your plan?” I rasp, my voice rough with a lust so profound it scares me. “To see if you can undo a god with a flick of your wrist?”
Her lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. She doesn’t try to pull away. “Is it working?”
The audacity of her steals the air from my lungs. “Yes,” I admit, just to see what she will do.
She doesn’t disappoint me. She releases me and sits back with a slow smile.
“That’s a dangerous game to play with someone who can compel you to fuck me with that pretty little mouth,” I murmur.
She freezes for a split second as I remind her exactly who she is messing with. “Try it,” she says. “It’ll be the best blowie you’ve ever fucking had.”
My hand snaps out and cups the back of her head, pushing her towards my cock. Her lips touch the tip of my dick, her eyes going wide as she realises she pushed me too far.
But then, without any force from me, she opens her mouth and takes me in. She would rather submit of her own free will then be forced into anything.
Noted.
Her mouth is a searing brand of heat and friction.
My thoughts splinter. For the first time in centuries, I am reduced to pure sensation.
This isn’t the reluctant submission of a compelled mortal; this is a declaration of war fought with a wet tongue and defiant eyes.
She is methodical, skilled, turning an act of surrender into one of dominance.
She is trying to break me, to unravel me with her mouth, and she is succeeding.
I wrap her ponytail around my fist and pull roughly, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her eyes, wide and dark with her arousal, still hold that infuriating spark of defiance. She knows exactly what she is doing to me.
“Is this a test, Nyssa?” I rasp, the words torn from my throat as I thrust my hips forward, burying myself to the back of her throat.
She gags, but she doesn’t stop. She takes it, all of it. This is no longer about healing her or asserting my authority. This is a raw, desperate claim. I am dangerously close to losing all control. I’m going to come in her mouth, and I don’t think she will be pleased about it.