In the Dark
TEORIN
He knocked on her door.
No answer. As usual.
He entered anyway.
She was curled in the bed in a white nightgown, her hair spread across the pillow.
He moved his chair closer and sat. His head was pounding.
A day of eliminating creatures had taken its toll and he would need blood first thing in the morning.
He had spent his whole life avoiding it and had learned quickly here in Morrath that the avoidance had been costing him more than he understood.
He had been feeding regularly and the difference was undeniable.
Stronger. Clearer. As though something that had been pressing against the inside of his skull for years had finally lifted.
He watched her breathe.
When she was sleeping it felt, unreasonably, like she was his. He knew that was not true. He knew she would be angry if she woke and found him here. Even the anger pleased him somehow. It meant she was still herself. Still fighting. Still refusing to let this place break her.
She stirred. He held his breath.
She stirred again. Her face turned toward him in the pillow. There was something strange about her tonight he could not quite place.
The room smelled strongly of her. Stronger than usual. He wondered if she had just taken a bath.
He closed his eyes, just briefly, and thought of what it must be like to watch such a sight.
A low hum began in his head. It started in his right ear, almost like the buzzing of a fly. By the time it moved to his left, it had become louder.
He did not mind. He just wanted to keep looking at her.
When she slowly opened her eyes he could not tell if it was her.
Or perhaps it was. He could no longer think straight. His hands trembled as she sat up, the strap of her nightgown falling down her shoulder.
"Teorin," she whispered.
Her smell consumed the room.
"Would you do anything for me?"
He did not answer. The part of him that had hardened over years of being not enough, illegitimate, bastard, not good enough for any of it, that part could not be this vulnerable. Not even now.
"Why are you asking me this?" His voice came out hoarse.
"Because you have always lied to me. But there is one truth I need to know."
"What is that?"
"Do you love me?"
She stood carefully, that golden hair falling to her waist. She trembled, slightly unsteady.
Shit. She must still be weak. In trying to secure the castle, he had forgotten. Before he could make sense of it, she leaned forward and fell into his lap.
That smell. Fuck.
"Asharin—"
"Shh." A low hum came from her throat. He felt like he was floating.
"My life outside Morrath is gone," she whispered. "Colsar promised to protect me and time after time he has failed."
"He has failed," Teorin repeated.
"But you—"
"I have been there. Whenever you are about to die, I have been there, Asharin—"
Before he could finish her lips were on his. He did not know if this was real or perhaps a dream but it felt too good to stop. She reached for his pants and pulled them down and the reasonable part of him surfaced just long enough to say "You may regret this."
She cradled his face in her hands. "The magic here in Morrath makes what happens in the dark hard to remember.
Axar has said it happens to some humans.
" A pause. "But right now what I need is you. It has always been you. And maybe this version of me is braver than the daytime version.” She paused.
“But perhaps if you are patient the two will reconcile. "
He could be patient. In truth, he would take any part of her she was willing to give. It was pathetic, and he knew it, but it was true.
“So what do I do in the daytime? Pretend this does not exist?" He exhaled. "You are not the type of woman I would hide in the dark, Asharin. And whatever this is I know it does not change the fact that you do not trust me and I understand why."
"What are you asking me, Teorin?"
He drew in a breath as she reached down between his legs and began stroking.
"I want you in a way I cannot explain. But if we do this. If you give yourself to me this way, Asharin—"
"What?" she breathed.
"I will never let you go. And I will kill anyone that thinks they can take you from me."
More humming in his ear. He still felt like he was floating, her smell everywhere, her hand moving.
"Kiss me," she said.
She tasted exactly as he had imagined she would.
"You have been the only light I have ever known in this darkness," he said against her mouth. "I do not know that you understand how dark it is."
She kept stroking. The hum continued. He kissed her again.
"Teorin. If I am your light. If I am your everything. If I am what you want. Are you willing to prove it? To show me you are better than your brothers."
"Yes," he breathed. Her smell was overwhelming. He wanted her in a way he could not explain.
"Asharin—"
"Fuck," he roared as he came in her hand, gripping her shoulder.
He hoped he hadn’t left a bruise.
She slowly lifted her hand and smiled softly. "Let me prove myself, Teorin Rathmor."
She brought her hand to her mouth and began to lick with a low sound in her throat. Something in his chest came undone. She wanted him. This whole time she had wanted him. She wanted him enough for this.
She smiled quietly. "I need sleep." A pause. "Can we sleep in your chambers tonight?"
The question surprised him and pleased him in equal measure. He stood and pulled up his pants. Then he lifted his cloak from the chair and put it around her shoulders.
"Come," he said quietly.
She looked at him. Something still felt strange. He could not name what.
"Tonight will you hold me, Teorin?"
Everything in him melted.
He did not care what was real. It no longer mattered. If this was fake, he could live like this forever.
"Yes." He held out his hand.
They walked to his chambers together.
He woke exhausted, his head pounding.
A few times in the night he had opened his eyes to find her head against his chest. It had given him a feeling he was not sure he had a name for. Something close to joy, which was not a word he had much occasion to use.
When he opened his eyes this morning the bed was empty.
He sat up and rubbed his face. She had likely gone back to her rooms. Did not want the staff whispering. He understood that. Him sleeping in her room was one thing. But this was a realm full of creatures — they would smell the intimacy, the arousal. Many of them were likely Axar's spies.
Fucking Axar.
He stood. “Shyall.”
"Yes, Majesty?" The voice came from outside the door. Shyall was one of the few creatures he found reliable.
"I should like blood at breakfast. Fresh, directly from the source."
"Understood."
"And have the princess join me." Something in his chest felt strange at that. He wondered if she would come. What it would be like to sit across from her at a table in the daylight.
"What would she like to eat, Majesty?"
He stopped.
He did not know. He had spent months consumed by her and had never once asked about her favorite foods.
He knew she liked strange fruit. He knew that much.
But what kind? He could not remember. Those days in the forest those months ago she had talked incessantly about what she liked and did not like.
He had found his thoughts often drifting as he imagined what it would be like to listen to her talk about things he did not care about all the time.
Even then he imagined it would be…blissful.
At any rate, he did not know if Morrath had any fruit at all. It certainly did not seem like it.
He frowned. Perhaps she liked simple fruit? They had access to Vaelor ships so there must be some sort of trade that happens, even if they do not grow it themselves—
“Majesty?”
Fuck. So fruits were clearly not a reliable option. What would she want to eat? Why had he never thought to ask her?
He bet Colsar would know.
Fuck him.
He remembered the night he had found her in the woods. She had hunted. She had been hungry.
Meat. She clearly liked meat. Something in his chest eased.
"Breakfast meat," he said.
"It will be done, Majesty."
He turned to the mirror and picked up the comb. Normally he tied his dark burgundy hair back without thought. Occasionally in front of his men he made sure he looked immaculate. But typically he did not care.
Colsar always looked immaculate.
He frowned at his reflection. Colsar used to look immaculate.
But since leaving Veynar the man had turned into someone he barely recognized.
In Shalvar his hair had been loose at his shoulders, almost unkempt, a copper strand there that annoyed Teorin because he suspected it always hung in his face.
He also suspected that Asharin liked the stupid strand. She probably liked his hair long, too.
He tried to remember and it came to him.
Indeed, the night Asharin was poisoned Colsar was well groomed then too.
But still not with his hair precisely slicked back the way he used to have it.
He had looked well groomed in the way one would look if they were eating a nice dinner with someone they still wished to impress.
Asharin probably liked that version as much as she liked the stupid strand version. The confident one who let hair hang in his face and wore jackets with nothing underneath.
He stared at himself. His hair was straight, long and burgundy. Relatively harmless, but perhaps it was boring.
He brought one of the strands to his nose and inhaled. It still smelled like her.
“What do I do with it?" He asked himself silently in the mirror.
Perhaps he should let it hang loose today instead of tying it back.
Maybe she would notice the change. When she did, he would pretend not to care, of course. He tried to think ahead of what bored answer he could give her.
The room spun briefly. It was strange, he had felt so strong last night after dinner. Now he suddenly felt much weaker.
Admittedly, he hadn’t had release in weeks before last night.
If he was being honest with himself, it had been much longer than that. Nothing appealed to him. Worse yet, he knew that even in a world where he ended up inside her, he would never be able to truly let her see all of it.
No. He was a monster. He liked his women to scream in pain and bite him back until they let him win.
Nox had been good for that. She was just as monstrous as he was. Depending on the mood Nox would bring weak humans to their bed at times. He would fuck them, because he liked to hear them moan in pain.
She always found the humans, then found a way to get jealous. They rarely lived through the session, which proved inconvenient at times.
If he came hard enough to exhaust himself, he would wake up to a dead body at the foot of the bed.
Fine. But if things had been particularly intense, sometimes he would wake up to the familiar groan of an undead.
They would argue immediately. “Clean up your fucking mess, Teorin,” she would snap.
“The rules were simple. I feed from the soul, then you drink the blood.”
“I do not like leftovers. Or sharing.”
“But if you drank the blood after I fed, there would be no walking corpse in the bedroom at this hour.”
She would roll her eyes, undoubtedly. “It is not my fault you cannot clean up your own mess. Kill it before I fuck it in front of you.”
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Majesty, breakfast is ready.”
He looked in the mirror. Asharin probably wouldn’t notice his hair.
He frowned. Perhaps she had not stayed until morning because she found something about his anatomy unsatisfactory.
Doubtful. His anatomy was better than Colsar’s, of that he was mostly certain.
Mostly.
He tied his hair back with string and buttoned his shirt.
It was time for breakfast.