Sorry I'm late. I had little energy and motivation to write, and when I did, I focused on rewriting parts of Soul Healing.

I believe it was Undertaker's Wife who asked for jealous Thorin. If you're still reading this series, here you go.

Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews. I'm sorry I'm not more enthusiastic, but please don't doubt my sincerity. I'm just not really feeling Talarin lately, which might explain the timing of this chapter (which I actually kind of like).

BeatofHisHeart: I've seen that painting, but the baby Thorin's holding is his nephew (probably Kili). We can pretend, though. ;)

Queen of Erebor: I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)

kaia: Lol, I'm sure everyone knew why Thorin and Talaitha rushed off. But the dwarves are probably used to it. XD

Just4Me: I'm not entirely sure it was their souls melding, though I suppose with their sharing a soul (a part of Talaitha's), it would make sense.

LianaDare8: Updated. Sorry it wasn't sooner. :/

Disclaimer: Rated M for sex and dubious consent. Tolkien is probably turning over in his grave.


Love can be as cold as a grave,

A one-way ticket to endless sorrow,

An empire of gentle hate,

Today without tomorrow.

"Circle of Fear" HIM

Part VII, Part 1: Possession

She's meeting with him again. Etele. The only other szelemér in the region.

Thorin tries not to begrudge Talaitha the company of her kin, but their embrace that morning had been far too familiar for his liking. It had been close and long, and Etele had touched her fiery locks. Those curls were Thorin's to touch.

He paces the balcony overlooking Dale, receiving curious glances from the guards posted along it. He ignores them, just as he ignores Dís when she chides him for his behavior. Etele is merely a friend, she reasons, a fellow szelemér far from home.

Thorin is not reassured.

So he paces, because that's what he does when he's troubled, and remembers. Talaitha had been skittish about their future in Erebor, especially about becoming queen. He worries Etele's arrival will exacerbate her bouts of homesickness and her doubts about queenship. She conceals the latter from others, but he knows her well enough by now to see through her composed front. He notices the little things she does, like immediately removing her crown after official events and insisting the royal honorifics be dropped. While others might attribute the first to practicality and the second to humility, Thorin understands them for what they are.

Discomfort.

Along with the fears comes jealousy, which flares when he watches Talaitha and Etele exchange cheek-kisses. He doesn't think as he storms from the balcony. He doesn't think as he wrenches open the massive door. And he really doesn't think as he pulls Talaitha inside, leaving a perplexed Etele in his wake.

She struggles against his hold on her arm, but he doesn't stop walking until they're deep in the belly of Erebor. He pins her against the wall, not hard enough to injure but hard enough to shock. She exclaims when he rips the neckline of her blouse, but her words are lost on him, his mind focused on one thing. Mark.

Thorin sucks a harsh bruise into her skin, just above her left breast, while one hand fondles her right breast and the other hand trails up her thigh beneath her skirt. His fingers find her core, and she gasps, the stimulation too fast and too hard. But he doesn't relent. A finger stretches her, then two, and soon she is in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, skirt bunched at her hips.

A squeeze of her buttocks is the only warning she receives before he pushes into her, his cockhead stretching her far more than his fingers had. Her cry of pleasure and pain spurs him on, and he thrusts into her mercilessly, her blouse coming untucked from her skirt as her back slides against the wall.

With one hand supporting her, his other hand delves beneath her skirt again to rub her clit, his fingers maintaining their rhythm even when his hips lose theirs. She comes first, her body bowing forward with a moan, her muscles spasming around him to hasten his own release. His thrusts are short, almost uncontrolled, his hot breath rushing over her neck, his grunts ringing in her ears. She clenches, and he's burying himself deep and moaning hoarsely. There are teeth on her flesh, a sharp pain, a soothing tongue.

When it's over, Thorin sets her down carefully, tucks himself back into his breeches, reties the laces, and walks away. Talaitha is left standing there, her blouse torn and her dignity wounded. Yet instead of stinging with tears, her eyes blaze with anger.

She finds him in their chambers, clad in a clean pair of breeches.

"I am not some livestock to be branded," she hisses, pulling aside the neckline of her blouse to reveal the purple-black bruises. "Look at what you have done to me."

"I see it," Thorin says, eyeing his work with a smug smile.

Rage fills Talaitha and, before he can move away, she slaps him, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. He remembers the kisses she'd placed on Etele's cheek and is struck by the irony.

"If you ever mark me like this again, you will regret it." Her eyes flash dangerously as his hand wraps around her wrists to prevent another slap. "I am not treasure to be possessed."

"But aren't you?" he asks derisively. "You married a dwarf, after all. It is in our nature to protect what is ours."

She wrenches her arm free, glaring at him. "If I didn't know better, I'd say the gold sickness had returned."

"You are mine," Thorin growls, his lips inches from hers. He touches her marriage bead, thumbing over the etched design. "You lost your freedom to flirt with other males when you became my wife."

Talaitha reels back and winces as the sudden movement causes him to pull on her hair. "Is that what this is about?" He doesn't reply, but the hard glint in his eyes is confirmation enough. "He is a former lover. You are my husband, Thorin, though at this moment, I am skeptical about the benefit of that."

"Then how fortunate Etele has come," says the dwarf, smiling bitterly. "Since you deem our union to be detrimental, perhaps he can whisk you back to Nemere."

"Take care what you suggest," Talaitha warns.

Thorin grasps her hips and pulls her to him. "I should forbid you to see him."

"And how would you do that?" she asks, brow arched. "Would you lock me away in the bowels of the mountain? Would you bind me? Chain me? Mark me?"

"Do not tempt me," he murmurs, his voice deep and tinged with renewed lust.

Talaitha looks up at him with such disgust that Thorin drops his hands from her hips.

"You are not the dwarf I married."

And before he can stop her, she's out the door, leaving a chill and a silence in her wake.