Chapter 47
LYKOR
Lykor’s breath hadn’t returned to him.
He lay flat on his back, strength leeched from his limbs, the ceiling turning slowly overhead. Jassyn stood between his thighs with one palm spread over his chest, crimson light gathered around his fingers, that quiet mouth still curved at the edge like he hadn’t just…
“I meant we don’t have to stop.”
Lykor had endured twenty years in a mad king’s prison. He’d stood outnumbered while battlefields collapsed around him and kept enough sense to kill whatever came next.
But this was where his mind chose to die.
His body answered for him.
Of course it did. Traitorous flesh, every time. His cock gave a faint, humiliating twitch against his stomach, attempting resurrection before he’d even assembled a single coherent thought.
Lykor stared past Jassyn at the ceiling, at fractures he could’ve drawn from memory after hours spent counting them while Jassyn slept. Better the fissures in the stone than Jassyn’s closed eyes and the question of whether they’d ever open again.
But now those eyes watched him with an attention that left him nowhere to hide, making his pulse hammer hard enough to bruise.
Lykor reached for words to say. Something rough or dismissive, some serrated remark he could shove between them before Jassyn found another part of him left undefended.
Want had never survived long enough to become a problem.
There’d always been his people to keep alive, some threat that mattered more than anything he might’ve claimed for himself.
And somehow this was what finally defeated him, lying naked under Jassyn’s hands and already aching for whatever came next.
What he managed was, “That’s not how mending works.”
Jassyn’s mouth curved further. “Then you have a lot to learn.”
Lykor’s stomach lurched. Jassyn regarded him, just as composed as he’d been when unclasping every buckle and untying every lace, kneeling between Lykor’s thighs and looking up with his mouth around—
Lykor strangled the thought before his body could respond any further.
Too late.
But his mind finally caught up with the rest of him. Jassyn meant to heal him just enough to ruin him again.
“If the wraith learn mending can be used like this,” he muttered, “I’ll never get the ranks back into formation.”
Jassyn huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ve heard enough about wraith stamina from Fenn to last a lifetime.” His thumb moved in a slow circle over Lykor’s chest, each pass unhurried. “But since you’re only half wraith, I can make up the difference.”
Lykor bristled, indignation burning hot beneath his skin. His body supplied its own rebuttal, blood gathering low, stubborn and eager, his cock stirring against his stomach. Half wraith or not, he was recovering perfectly well.
The crimson light twined around Jassyn’s fingers and waited.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d give Lykor room to refuse and relish every second it took him to ask instead.
“Fine,” Lykor growled. Like he ever intended to deny him. “Mend me.”
Essence sank into his chest before the last word left his mouth.
Magic tunneled through him, finding every strain he’d dismissed. The tight pull across his shoulders eased first, then the ache buried along his ribs, relief spreading until his next inhale opened his chest without resistance.
Insulting, really, how quickly his body folded for amber eyes and weaponized hands. Clearly, Jassyn had taken mend me as permission to repair every discomfort Lykor had been ignoring.
Jassyn’s fingers drifted lower.
Lykor tensed as crimson light slipped down the shallow grooves of his stomach, warmth spilling over his hips before streaming along his length. It delved deeper between his thighs, easing the spent ache there until a fresh pressure built.
Heat flared low, blood gathering with enough force to make Lykor’s jaw lock. He thickened under the weave, every change laid bare to Jassyn’s infuriatingly patient scrutiny.
Then Jassyn’s fingers skimmed the side of his length. Essence had crossed Lykor’s shoulders, ribs, and half his scorching body without requiring so much as a fingertip. Apparently, his cock alone required direct contact.
Lykor’s hips jerked toward those fingers, and a sound broke from his throat he intended to deny until every star burned out.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he hissed.
“Doing what?” Jassyn’s brows rose. “I’m healing you.”
“Right.” Lykor’s talons punctured the sheets. Better to shred the bedding than Jassyn’s skin. “Keep healing me like that, and this will be over before it starts.”
“I wasn’t going to mend you all the way.” Essence dimmed as Jassyn settled a palm at Lykor’s hip. “You’ll have to work for the rest.”
Lykor gritted his teeth. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Jassyn’s pupils narrowed to draconic slits for less than a heartbeat before he blinked them round again.
Lykor caught it anyway.
The councils saw Jassyn’s composure, heard his measured voice, watched cool logic carve catastrophes down to something everyone could survive. Lykor got this. The male who’d knelt on a woven rug and taken him into his mouth, whose dragon-bright eyes now betrayed the strain in his control.
Lykor shoved himself farther back on the bed and hauled Jassyn down with him.
Jassyn braced a hand beside his head, the other closing around his shoulder.
Lykor caught his mouth with more force than accuracy, teeth knocking before the kiss found purchase.
Jassyn pressed closer, one knee driving into the mattress between Lykor’s thighs.
Lykor dragged his palm up Jassyn’s back and caught on linen.
Linen.
Concealing the unmistakable shape of Jassyn’s arousal.
Dark satisfaction pulled at one corner of Lykor’s mouth. Jassyn hadn’t escaped his own torment unscathed, and had been wound just as tight.
But he was still dressed. Still civilized while Lykor sprawled naked under him with his thighs spread and his body already conspiring for another surrender.
Unacceptable.
Lykor snatched the hem of Jassyn’s tunic and hauled it upward. His knuckles scraped over warm skin, over ribs and the taut line of Jassyn’s side. Jassyn shuddered into the kiss, hips pressing down in a rough grind before he broke away long enough to let the fabric clear his head.
Lykor chased his mouth at once.
He caught Jassyn’s lower lip between his teeth and bit until Jassyn’s breath hitched. Jassyn slid his hand into Lykor’s hair, fingers tightening at his scalp.
Lykor caught Jassyn’s waistband with his talons. Jassyn lifted into the pull, and the clothing slipped from his hips in one rough sweep, baring the long line of his legs before tangling at his ankles. Lykor kicked everything to the floor.
There.
Better.
Starlight skimmed Jassyn’s sun-browned skin, traced the lean planes of his body, and silvered the scar across his cheekbone.
Lykor’s violence, written across the only person he’d sunder realms to keep alive.
His claw rose before he could stop it, his thumb brushing the scar’s ridge, talons curling carefully away from Jassyn’s jaw. Jassyn didn’t flinch, turning his cheek into Lykor’s palm.
Lykor’s chest clenched around a hurt he couldn’t strike. He drew Jassyn back down into a slower kiss, tenderness threading through it in a way that would’ve frightened him weeks ago.
Then skin met skin, and the shock emptied Lykor’s lungs. Heat flooded every place their bodies touched—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—until scarcely any air remained between them.
Illumination glowed from the piercings studded along Jassyn’s arousal, bright and cold against the dark.
Lykor knew what the jewelry meant, hating the hands who’d forced it there. His grip tightened at Jassyn’s waist, anchoring himself against a violence that had nowhere to go.
Jassyn made no move to hide himself. He pushed closer instead, his cock heavy against Lykor’s thigh, wanting him with a certainty Lykor would never make sense of.
Lykor’s hand dropped between them and closed around Jassyn’s length. He stroked him once, learning the shape and weight of him against his palm. Jassyn made a rough sound above him, and it stripped the last coherent thought from Lykor’s skull.
He wanted to hear it again.
We don’t have to stop.
Jassyn’s words returned, quiet as a door left open.
Dawn would drag them back to the Aetherveil, to a king tightening his noose around whatever future remained. Lykor had already given survival most of his life. If tomorrow killed him, tonight he would choose something for himself.
Lykor let Jassyn’s length go and slid his palms to Jassyn’s waist, drawing him fully between his spread thighs.
Jassyn went still above him.
“I want…” Lykor started.
The rest lodged behind his teeth. His jaw worked around it while he stared past Jassyn’s shoulder, because looking straight at him had become indefensible.
“Do we need… Is there something for…”
The words disintegrated as quickly as he produced them. His fingers flexed against Jassyn’s hips. Speech had failed him, but the rest of him was proving considerably less subtle, legs spread around Jassyn as he lifted into him.
Their cocks slid together.
Cold metal dragged along Lykor’s shaft, each ring and stud warming with the slow glide. A curse tore from Lykor’s throat. Jassyn went taut above him, then moved again, slower, tracing the piercings over that same aching stretch of flesh. Lykor rose to meet him.
He could endure torture. He could stare down dragons. But apparently he couldn’t string a sentence together about getting fucked.
Jassyn read him anyway.
He lowered himself until their chests touched, his voice quiet enough to make the question worse. “Are you asking me to—”
“Yes,” Lykor snarled before Jassyn could finish. Hearing it said aloud might actually kill him.
Then, because the first word hadn’t been enough, and his cowardice had limits after all, he forced out the rest, repeating Jassyn’s words from earlier.
“I want you.”
Jassyn’s expression softened, and Lykor looked away before it could do any further damage.