There was such an emptiness inside her. It was this emptiness that drove her to great lengths, just to feel something, anything. But there was one feeling that had been consuming her more and more as of late. She was addicted to this feeling. The sweet feeling of him.
Mortimer, Meggie, and Dustfinger were all staying in her great aunt's mansion while she was away in Greece, searching for new and exciting books to add to her collection. Mo was spending all his time cooped up in his study, trying to piece together the books that were destroyed in the raid. Dustfinger stayed outside mostly with Guinn, roaming around or practicing his fighting moves.
That left Meggie alone, trapped with her own thoughts and mountains of books that held no comfort to the void in her heart. She was falling, and she couldn't stop herself.
The only way she had ever found to catch herself before she hit rock bottom was in pain. Though, pain in a sense was rock bottom. But it was sweeter than numbness.
And when she was in pain, he always found her.
It all started one afternoon. The rain had been falling heavily for hours, and the sun was hiding behind thick grey clouds. It was the perfect ambiance for Meggie's dark mood.
She couldn't explain was she felt so dismal. The day just seemed so low and hopeless, like her life had already passed her by and there was nothing left to look forward to. She sat on the window seat of the library, looking out at the lush wet garden. The only sound was the heavy raindrops plinking on the glass and the quiet brush of steel against skin as she fingered a cold letter opener. The metal glimmered like a new friend, welcoming her, encouraging her. She gently pressed the sharp edge against her pale wrist and slid it through her skin. Red bubbled around the small blade and leaked lazily down her arm. She watched it stoically, memorizing the warm sting she felt.
The blood had barely reached the crook of her arm when she noticed a disturbance in the air. She looked up and locked eyes with Dustfinger. He stood looming in the doorway to the library, staring daggers at her. His hair dripped from the rain, his coat was soaked, and his hands were clenched at his sides. Meggie's heart froze.
"What do you think you're doing?" His voice was low and flat, almost deadly.
She stared wide eyed at him, lips parted. "I…" was all she could think to say. She hadn't seen him in days, yet here he was, as if he sensed her pain.
Without another word, he crossed the room, his boots making a soft thud on the old rug. Dropping his backpack on the floor, he knelt next to the window seat and snatched her arm in his grasp. He placed his lips on her fresh wound and slowly began to clean the blood from her skin with his tongue.
Meggie was in shock. She didn't know what to do or say, so she simply sat there, unmoving, watching his tongue trace careful circles around the cut. She was mesmerized; not only by the sight of him sucking on her wound, but also at the flood of emotions she was feeling. It was as if a warm wave had entered her and was washing all the cobwebs from the corners of her soul. It was refreshing, to feel something again after being numb for so long. It only took a moment, but she was hooked.
When all the blood had been cleaned from her arm, he pulled away and licked his lips slowly. He reached into his bag and pulled out a white linen cloth. He ripped a strip off of it with his teeth, big enough to wrap around her wrist, and bound her wound tightly to staunch the bleeding. Then he raised his piercing eyes to hers.
"Why would you want to hurt yourself like this?" he asked her sternly, holding her cold hand between his. "Do you have a death wish?"
"That is none of your concern," she said indignantly, pulling her hand away from his grasp. She could still feel the lingering warmth of his tongue. "Even if I did, why would it matter to you?"
A shadow fell over his eyes. "Don't talk like that, Meggie," he chided.
"Why should I believe that anyone would even care?" She looked out the window, her eyes losing focus. "I haven't seen or heard from a single person in days. I'm a prisoner in this place. An outcast in my own world. No one even bats an eyelash in my direction unless I do something dramatic. Not even the maids look at me anymore. I'm just a piece of furniture." She dropped her gaze to her bandaged wrist. "No one would miss one piece of furniture."
Dustfinger didn't say a word, just kept his eyes locked onto her. She felt vulnerable, almost naked beneath his gaze. It filled her with a sense of impulsiveness. She found that she loved this attention. And she wanted more of it.
"I mean, how bad could it be?" She was nearing hysterics, a cruel gleam in her eye. "How bad could it possibly be?" She gripped the letter opener with both hands, raised her arms high above her head, and brought the sharp blade down on her thigh before the man had a chance to stop her. The metal sank deeply into her leg, buried to the intricate hilt in paled flesh and warm blood. The crimson seeped out of the gash and soaked into her short skirt, filling the room with a scent of copper.
A gasp leapt from her throat as the pain washed over her. She leaned back in the window seat and basked in the feeling. It wasn't a nice feeling. It was actually extremely awful. But it was something.
Dustfinger leapt to his feet and grabbed the rest of the linen cloth. He slowly pulled the blade from her leg and immediately pressed the cloth to it, putting all of his weight onto it. The white fabric quickly turned red. He stood upright, dropped the coat from his shoulders, lifted his shirt over his head, and quickly used it to bind her thigh.
Once the wound had been secured, he turned furious eyes back to her flushed face. He noted the silent tears that streamed down her cheeks. He assessed her, how cold her skin was, how pale her complexion had become, and how thin she looked. Anger lingering, he sighed and scooped her up in his arms. Without another word, he whisked her away and into the washroom down the hall.
He sat her on the counter next to the sink and went about getting medical supplies from the cabinet. With a warm, wet cloth and a roll of proper bandages, he doctored up her wounds until she no longer bled.
Dustfinger put his hands on the sink top and sighed heavily. His gaze fell back to her. "Are you trying to make me angry?" he growled at her. "Because you're doing a wonderful job." When she didn't respond, he cupped her face in his hands and moved it from side to side. "Is anyone home in there?"
"I just want it all to go away," she muttered as a new wave of tears leaked down her face. "I'm so tired of feeling empty…"
He looked at her for a terribly long moment. Then he leaned in and took her lips with his.
Meggie's eyes opened wide.
His lips moved slowly on hers at first, tasting and testing the kiss. His fingers crawled upward into her messy blonde hair, tugging her closer to him. He could feel her tense mouth begin to relax, and she gave in to his kiss. Her features melted against his, and she clung to him, like he was the only thing she had, the only ounce of life she could find.
Dustfinger pulled her body closer to him, wrapping her legs around his waist. She was so cold against him, as if her blood was ice. His tongue wormed its way into her mouth and was met by hers, the kiss deepening dangerously.
A few moments of desperation passed as they kissed each other. When they broke apart for air, both were gasping. His eyes peered into hers, and hers into his. Then, in a silent agreement, she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, and he picked her up off the sink. Her bedroom was only a few doors down from the washroom, but it seemed like the trip there took an eternity and a half.
He dropped her carelessly onto her bed once they were behind her locked bedroom door. She gazed up at him anxiously. He was shirtless, and his toned body was absolutely gorgeous in the pale light of the gloomy day. He stood beside the bed, looming over her like a beautiful threat. She shivered.
"You keep saying that you want to feel something," he said slowly, his eyes combing over her magnificent form. Then his regard settled once again on her eyes. "I'll give you something to feel."
With one knee on either side of her hips, he leaned over her skinny body and captured her lips in his again. His hands ran from her hips, up her belly, along her arms, and to her wrists. He gripped her damaged wrist harshly, making her wince and cringe. He broke the kiss only for a moment to whisper, "I thought you liked pain."
His hands then traveled down to her thighs. He slipped a calloused finger under the bandages on her leg and found the tender gash with his fingertip. Tracing it tentatively, he looked down on her to watch her body tense and her delicate face contort in pain. "Can you feel that?" he breathed darkly. "Is this the kind of pain you want? A pain that you brought to yourself? A pain you have someone to blame for?" He brushed his lips over hers. "I wish I had someone else to blame… But I have only myself…" He looked into her hazy eyes. "That's the worst kind of suffering."
Meggie breathed heavily. Every ounce of her being wanted the pain to go away. Her wrist throbbed, her leg burned, her heart ached, her stomach churned. She fought the new stream of tears that lurked behind her eyes, but she couldn't suppress a sob. "Please…" she whispered. "Please make it go away…"
He sat unmoving above her, searching her features for something, anything to tell him to stay away from her. But it seemed as if her body was beckoning him, begging him to feel something other than agony. All it felt was depression, numbness, and it yearned to feel happiness, some sort of release. And his was communicating the same need.
"I'll take it away," he promised, half to her and half to himself.
The kiss he gave her this time was full of passion. It burned their lips with an invisible fire, but it was so delicious that they drank it in like thirsty savages. He moved his hand from her leg and knotted his fingers in her hair, tugging her closer still, needing to consume her. She wrapped her arms around his sides, her fingertips outlining the scars that she found there. She wanted to memorize every part of him.
He leaned back after an immeasurable moment and looked down on her with hunger. His eyes blazed with such wonder and craving that she shuddered under their gaze. His deft fingers swiftly undid the buttons on her blouse, and he tossed it away as if he hated it. He brought his hands to her chest, small blade brandished, and she tensed as he cut through her bra and threw that with her shirt.
Dustfinger set his knife aside and leaned down over her once again, this time to kiss the skin of her neck. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. She smelled so wonderful, like the pages of a book; hints of ink, wisps of herbs, and the musky scent of aging pages. It filled his lungs like a swell of comfort, familiarity. It made him feel home.
He scattered hot kisses across her chest and stomach. His mouth took thoughtful care of her breasts, making sure there was no spot that his tongue did not find. She arched her back to meet his mouth, and he hungrily complied, grinding his teeth against her nipples and sucking gently. A moan slipped from her lips, and he groaned.
His hands went to work undoing her skirt as his lips traveled down her belly. Her skin was alive with sensations she hadn't felt before, and his skin prickled with such desire that all he could think about was how very much he hated the thin fabric of her panties. Using his knife, he did away with those as fast as he could. He sat upright again and assessed her.
She was naked in the pale light. Her skin seemed to glow with the darkness around her. She lay panting, half-lidded, unashamed of her starkness. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted attention. Before, she thought she had just wanted attention from anyone, but now it became clear that she wanted it only from this beautiful man above her. He was all that mattered to her.
Very slowly, he ran his hands down his own chest, across his ripped stomach, and began unfastening his belt. He knew she was watching him, and he wanted her to. He wanted her to see what she was doing to him, to see how badly he wanted her. And as he disposed of his trousers, she knew just how bad that was.
Dustfinger lay above her once more. He traced his thumb over her cheek and looked at her lips as they quivered with need. "I'll take it away, Meggie…" he repeated quietly. Then he kissed her lips and drove his desire deep into her.
A flood of pleasure swept over her as he invaded her body. Every nerve in her body was overcome with euphoria, and she cried out with relief. All the tension left her, melted from her bones and made her relax against this wonderful man. Her fingernails dug into his back and dragged over the ridges of his scars. He winced and growled and bit down into her shoulder as he began to move within her, slowly at first. She was tight, and he needed to feel her adjust to him before he could take her body for himself.
As her walls began to ease around him, he withdrew and thrust again, deeper this time. She moaned loudly, almost desperately, which caused him to groan. She felt so good. He opened his eyes and watched her writhe beneath him, helpless and hopeless under his control. He changed his rhythm and observed her facial features twist and transform as she tried to sort through the sensations he was giving her. He grinned widely and wrapped his arms around her body, holding her still while he manipulated her body like a puppeteer.
The only sounds that filled the room were the soft plinks of the rain against the window pane, the creaking of bedsprings, and the heavy breathing that accompanies lust. The bodies of the lovers danced over the mattress, consumed by passion.
Meggie's breath hitched as she began to reach her breaking point. She gasped, grabbed onto his shoulders, and clawed desperately at his skin as her climax hit. Her convulsed, writhed against him, cried out. His name hung on her lips, and he too fell over the edge. He knotted his fists in the bed sheets to avoid hurting her. His voice was hoarse as he moaned, low, full of desire. He buried his face in her neck, growling as they both descended from their peak. They were exhausted, sweaty, and full of affection.
The rain still streamed down the windows, a stronger torrent than before. Crashes of thunder and flashes of lightning livened up the sky, and hurricane winds tormented the foliage on the ground. The storm raged and swirled outside, while inside the mansion, the garden-view bedroom, the fervor had quelled.
Dustfinger lay on the bed, naked and breathing evenly, holding the young woman in his strong arms. Her wounds had begun to bleed again in the activities, but they would deal with that later. She was happy, nestled in his embrace. Her body felt alive, every cell in her body sang with energy.
"Promise you'll be more careful," he said into her hair. His hands stroked her back lazily.
"I won't hurt myself anymore," she whispered. "Promise you won't leave me again."
He smiled. "After this, I'm not going anywhere."
Finally. With his words, she felt a warm sensation in her chest. It was happiness. Finally she felt what she had wanted to feel all along. Happiness, excitement, and love.