Chapter VII

Lord Cedric had found that he couldn't stop; he wasn't even sure of the events leading towards, but for every time Elyon's grip tightened in his hair, he pushed his teeth in a little further to leave a graze of rouge scores, marking her pale neck with his presence. There was no concern in his mind, nor thought of leaving evidence on her bloodless neck and bodice; his mouth bursting the few blood vessels that passed, though any passer later would be none the wiser as she clutched him closer and made no sound of malady to his long fingers digging desperately into the bones of her back, to the hand that bid no effort in hiding as he groped the petite shape her bosom had taken, Lord Cedric could only manage to press her against the wall between theirself and Miranda, so as to trap her close enough that he could dig himself against her. "..Jusst..tell me..what you..want.."

It was to much, as her pale voice half-whispered words; the blissful chime of her being contorted somewhere between pleasure and ecstacy and tortured and pained. Cedric wasn't sure whether she would moan or cry, but he found that his robes and her own were too thick, despite his grounding against her, and her breaths penetrating him was a near force with which he'd like to, as he lost more and more of his control in her scent; in her hair as teeth and lips ventured higher, and he swept his tongue forcefully, as painfully slowly as he could manage himself, down her neck until he reached her ear; gnawing gently against the pure skin as she arched towards him - answering his needs, with a simply six words, but the seventh chapter of her story would be her down fall.

"..Phobos.."

He was shaking, Lord Cedric realized, as something below throbbed rythmically; disobeying the rest of his body which faltered. Standstill; the moment he was caught in slowly removing itself - time moved slowly as his grip faded, and back straightened, and Lord Cedric had known, but had turned anyway, and there had been no Prince where she was facing.

He had never felt it before, and he would commend her for her superiority, for she had raped him of his nobility, confidence and something far more disturbing all at once. And until this moment he hadn't honestly believed her a demoness - it had been merely a figure of speech for his craving.

But Princess Elyon was hard. Lord Cedric would never meet such a cool rock; respect faltering only because she forced it with him to his knees, and some day he would thank her brother.

Despite an alliegence of sentiment, Lord Cedric had learned to despise anything better than him. Tit for tat would have sufficed, but of course Miranda was standing there too. He had no doubt there would be a knife in her hand. So he left her to blunder through excuses to her menial. Princess Elyon didn't have friends.

The lifestyle choice that only a witch would take voluntarily.

She was more expensive than he'd thought.