Chapter Twenty-Three - The North Tower #3
She spoke of her mother. She did not like to speak of her.
She held a myriad of complicated feelings for the woman and had never really known how to express them.
Her mother had fallen apart at Edmund’s death.
Despite the sons and daughters who had still needed her, she had vanished.
But that was not the woman she had remembered from before.
Her mother had been a bastion of strength.
Her father may have been able to convince her of much, but when she held firm, she was unmovable.
And yet…when they had lost them, it was as if she had lost a part of herself.
Tears filled Rosamund’s eyes as she spoke of her and unprompted he reached out to take her gloved hand. He did not even hesitate; there was no reluctance, he held it firmly in his own.
“Another thing we share,” he said as he looked down at their hands.
At some point they had moved to the large black armchairs by the fire. The warmth radiating from it cancelling out the usual chill she felt from him. His hand felt warm beneath hers.
“What happened to her?” asked Rosamund and felt his hand hold hers a little more tightly.
Don’t shut me out. Let me in.
“She…died,” he said as he continued to look at their hands, “it was the Templars.”
With a turning in her stomach she remembered the witch burning at Lavinia’s home. Was that what had happened to Dorian’s mother? Did they drag her through a trial and throw her on the pyre?
“How…how did your father take it?” she asked and knew it was the wrong thing to say.
All night, it was the one person he had not spoken of. The King. His father. As if speaking of him was forbidden in some way. She wanted to apologise. To retract her question, but before she could, he spoke, “there are some things the king cannot intervene in.”
There was more to it. She could sense it. His response had been carefully crafted but she could feel something under the surface. She tried a different route instead. At his words, a realisation had come to her, and the butterflies began to flap their wings more ferociously.
“You were never going to turn me over to the Templars,” she said quietly, he snapped his eyes up to look at her, “when you found out about my power, our ‘mutually assured destruction’. You were never going to do it. Were you?”
“No,” he said softly, and then smiled at her, “it would appear that you hold all the cards Lady Valehart.”
He could have turned her in at any moment.
But he did not. He would not. She imagined that little boy, the Templars dragging his mother away.
The only person that had ever shown him true kindness, love without expectation or reciprocation.
Who had held him despite his power. She thought of him growing older, alone and isolated, pushing everyone around him away, building his defences.
Thrown into the same pit of vipers she had, and building his mask, his lie.
The Prince of Death. How lonely he has must have been.
No wonder he had begun to believe the lies.
Had believed himself the monster he pretended to be. To live unloved, untouched.
She could not let him feel that way any longer.
She did not want to feel that way anymore.
Rosamund rose from the armchair, and place a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back.
He did not resist and leaned back against the armchair.
She tilted his chin up so that he had no choice but to look at her.
He had loomed over her for months. It had terrified her.
It had excited her. And it had made her feel safe.
Now she felt a different rush as she towered over him, moving closer, pushing his legs together with her knees.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair as she moved closer, pulling the skirt of her dress up so that she could straddle him.
He took a sharp intake of breath as she lowered herself into his lap, her hands resting on his shoulders.
She felt the cool skin beneath the thick black shirt that he wore, through the gloves that she wore.
“I can stop,” she said quietly as her hands trailed a line across his neck up to his cheek, running over his bare skin.
He closed his eyes, “please, don’t. Don’t stop.”
She smiled and continued to trail her fingers gently along his jawline, while the other hand reached up behind his head to run through his hair.
As her other hand gently grasped his hair and tilted his head to the side, she leaned in close, her lips inches away from his bare neck.
She could smell the wood smoke from the fire on him, mixed with sandalwood.
Her fingers ran down from his jaw, down his neck, along a scar that ran from his collarbone, along his chest. Her own pulse rose to match his, the heat between them growing despite his natural coldness.
She wanted him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted…
She felt him tense beneath her; she gently tightened her grip on his hair and tilted his head to look at her.
“Is this, okay?” she asked when he opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he said breathlessly as he looked up at her, his hands still clinging to the armchair.
“Take the gloves off,” she whispered in his ear as she leaned in close again, “touch me.”
Again he tensed. She released his hair but kept her hand on the back of his neck, the other resting on his chest.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said breathlessly.
“You won’t,” she said as she pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the rate of his heartbeat.
Still he hesitated.
“Dorian, you won’t hurt me,” she said, holding his gaze.
He nodded and slowly peeled off his gloves, dropping them to the ground.
Then, carefully, he reached out to place his hands on her waist. His grip was light, barely holding on, but she smiled to feel his touch.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the cool feel of his hands against her.
She felt his thumb begin to press against her hip in small circles.
She resumed her own exploration of his hair and chest as his hands travelled over the beaded fabric upwards along her sides.
Before his fingers could reach her own chest, he moved his hands around to her back, running them along the rose embroidered lace.
She arched her back, pressing herself closer to him as she enjoyed the sensation.
His fingers brushed past her long hair, even now he tried to avoid direct contact. She wanted him to run his fingers through her hair. She, who despised anyone touching her hair, she wanted him to hold on but knew that he would resist. Knew that it would be too far.
But she needed more.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” she whispered in his ear as his hands once more rested on her hips, “may I?”
She waited for the refusal. She waited for him to push her away. It did not come.
Let me in.
“Yes.”
She pressed her lips to his. Lightly at first, barely touching, soft.
Like before she felt the cold tingling sensation of his skin, the creeping death.
But this time she was ready for it, summoning her own power she pushed back, channelling her life magic into the kiss.
She felt the rush of her energy intertwining with his, a mix of the cold burn and the warm rush of her own power.
She pulled away gently, allowing for only the briefest of kisses. She opened her eyes; it took him a little longer. He looked at her in disbelief, still a touch of concern to his expression, “are you…okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said with a widening grin, “more than fine,” again she grasped his chin, “you cannot hurt me.”
He smiled up at her.
“That almost sounds like a chal-.”
She cut him off, leaning in for a deeper kiss.
Crushing her lips against his she grasped hold of his hair with one hand and his shirt with the other.
She felt his hands tighten around her hip, firmer than before.
Her tongue brushed against his lips, begging them to part so that she could taste more of him.
His lips parted and she moaned against him as she deepened the kiss, her hips grinding against him, begging for purchase.
His hands moved across her body, stronger than before, along her back, along her sides, groaning when his thumbs barely grazed the side of her breast. She would press against his hand, seeking more, and he would move that hand away, along her back, denying her with a grin against her lips.
She could feel a hunger growing. It was not enough.
She wanted more. From what she felt beneath her, so did he.
She was growing tired though, the energy of keeping up her power, the focus required. She wanted to lose herself to his touch, to his taste, but when she did, she felt the cold creeping death return. It was harder to maintain by the second.
Not such a bad way to die…
He must have sensed her fatigue as he gently broke off their kiss, though his hands remained on her hips. Separated from him she felt breathless, only now realising how her chest had been rising and falling.
“We should stop.”
“I’m fine,” she said, even leaning forward to engage him in another kiss but with a laugh he moved his head to the side to avoid her.
She pouted as he said, “if you kiss me like that again I won’t be able to stop myself.”
She grinned in a lascivious manner, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”
He giggled and again dodged as she moved to lean in again, “maybe so, but…I don’t want to rush this.”
She sighed, “you’re probably right.”
She smiled, a rush of warmth coursing through her as he looked up at her. There was still a part of her that ached for more of him, but there was a greater part that felt a sudden rush of love for the man before her.
Love?
Rosamund rose to her feet, as she did so she felt suddenly dizzy, faint. She felt her knees buckle underneath her. Dorian was there in a flash, holding her upright.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling suddenly tired, “I guess that took more out of me than I thought.”