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Chapter Eleven
Hermione watched in a mix of disbelief and fear as he knelt before her, setting down a dish of water with a washcloth. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they slid around her ankle to lift her foot—that surprising gentleness being part of what caused her fear.
Shaking his head at the torn skin, he wrung out the cloth and carefully dabbed away the blood.
She winced, shivering at the sensation. After a moment, though, as he continued delicately working the stinging flesh with the warm, damp fabric, she found her eyes drifting closed.
Voldemort snapped his gaze up to lock on her face. His eyes narrowing in an appraising look, he watched the shift in her expression as he cleaned her wounds. Now, this was interesting.
She didn't even appear to notice that the rhythm of her breathing had changed, or that the tension had left her limbs. Rather than the stiff, angry and frightened creature he'd dragged in here, she was now all but slumped before him, her fingers curling into fists and uncurling again and again in the bedcovers on either side of her.
He added a bit more pressure to the delicate sweeps of the cloth across her broken skin. How rewarding, the way she gasped and shivered. Even more so to note the way the points of her breasts had tightened, pressing against her nightdress.
Very interesting.
Smirking, and just as quickly wiping the mirthful expression from his face, he put down the wash cloth and reached out. Crooking his finger under her chin, he lifted her head. "Open your eyes, Mudblood."
His voice snapped her back to reality. The pleasant sting that had taken her away from her senses, that had triggered that sweet ache between her thighs, causing her heart to race and her skin to tingle, had been his doing.
Well, she was aware that this moment played into what she'd told Thorfinn was their only option for a plan right now—that she let him think he was breaking her will. Only, she wasn't so sure how long it would be simply letting him think it. If he had realized what pain did to her, how long before his breaking of her will was a reality?
Holding her gaze, he dropped his hand from her chin and reached for the washcloth once more. Switching to her other foot, he wiped at the blood, pressing harder, now.
Even as she stared back at him, trying to keep her expression schooled and her reaction in check, she couldn't help a tremor that wracked her body as the pain sent another sweet pulse through her.
He slid the fingers from around her ankle up along her leg to cup her calf. Her skin was so deliciously soft against his that he nearly forgot himself a moment.
Shifting closer, he rose up on his knees. Oh, the look of shock in her eyes, battling the daze trying to take over, was exquisite! He moved nearer, still, until he was right before her. Until they could feel one another's breath ghosting over their lips.
Her thoughts were so muddled just now. Her exhaustion, her confusion, the lateness of the hour, literally everything she'd been through these past few weeks with her protectors, alone . . . . She didn't even know what she was thinking at this moment.
This close, he watched her, his gaze unblinking as he once more pressed against her torn skin.
As before, her eyes drifted closed and her breath came up short. Best of all? She didn't seem to notice the way she leaned toward him, her lips parted.
Close enough that when he spoke, his mouth brushed against hers. "I think you should rest now, and in the morning, I'll bring you to Narcissa to have these wounds treated properly."
And then he moved back, placing her leg down as though nothing had happened.
Her eyes snapping open, she gaped at him as he turned his attention to the dish and cloth and climbed to his feet. A shiver that had nothing to do with pain or pleasure tore through her as she realized what she'd almost prompted to happen just now.
It was happening. And faster than she'd thought possible—faster than she'd thought she'd allow to happen. He was breaking her, after all.
Swallowing hard, she was not even aware her eyes had watered until a tear rolled down her cheek.
Seeming completely oblivious to her struggle, he circled the room, dimming the lanterns. Returning to the bed, he moved past her, pulling back the covers.
Though she didn't turn to watch him, she was distinctly aware of him removing his robes and dropping them carefully aside. Unable to stop herself, she moved ever so slightly to glance over her shoulder.
And just as fast she whipped back around. He was completely bare as he climbed into bed and pulled the covers over himself. She hated that that quick glimpse she'd caught of him was so breathtaking.
Folding one thickly-muscled arm behind his head, he closed his eyes. "As I said, Mudblood, you need to rest."
Struggling to find her voice, she managed, "I . . . I'm not—"
"Come here, now."
She thought her heart would stop at the command. But then, he'd only spoken it. He was the leader of Wizarding Britain, wielder of the Elder Wand. If he wanted to force her compliance, he could, more easily than she even wanted to think about.
In his mind, speaking the words rather than simply making her follow his command with a flick of his wand was probably a courtesy. One he would not have bothered showing any of his followers.
This was her reality. This circumstance right now. Her brow furrowing, she nodded, though her movements were reluctant as she turned and crawled across the bed and under the covers to lay opposite him.
Though he didn't open his eyes, he did shake his head and sigh. Reaching out with his free arm, he took hold of her wrist. Sooner than she could react, he'd pulled her across the bed. She found herself pressed flush against his side as he curled his arm around her holding her to him.
She hated the feel of his solid, naked form against hers. Hated that he was warm, hated that this was actually comfortable.
No matter what happened in the days to come, nor if Orias, Thorfinn, and Antonin might be able to decipher her cryptic comment about a Shakespearean tragedy, this moment was a microcosm of what her life had become. She was Voldemort's trophy, and no matter how she'd fought it, he had just shown her how easily he could make her forget who and what he was.
Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes, trying to imprint on her memory how much she loathed the feel of his chest beneath her cheek.
Somehow, she'd managed to fall asleep. Yet, her fitful slumber was disturbed only an hour or two in.
The Dark wizard wrapped around her shook violently. At first, she didn't know what was happening, nor even what to do. She tried to wrench herself out of his embrace, but it seemed even in slumber, his arm around her was locked in place.
Shuddering, he screamed behind clenched teeth, though he didn't once wake. He was either in pain, or having a nightmare. Whatever the source, she knew she didn't want to ponder what sort of dreams could terrify the Dark Lord of Wizarding Britain.
She considered waking him for a moment, but in his current state, and his Elder Wand hidden somewhere near him—God, if only she knew where—she thought perhaps it was wisest not to be the thing that startled him awake.
Hermione watched him for several minutes in the dim light of the room. Watched until the crease in his forehead smoothed and the tension in his muscles—save for the arm locked around her, of bloody course—drained away.
When he was settled back into peaceful slumber, she laid her head back down, but kept her gaze locked on his face. Forcing a gulp down her throat, she tried to ignore the battering of horrid pictures against her mind's eye as she unwillingly imagined just what it could be that he would so fear.
"Romeo and Juliet?" Antonin echoed the title, shaking his head.
By the time Thorfinn had returned to their shared quarters, the other two Death Eaters had been asleep—though that had seemed a grudging inevitability, as they'd both dozed off sitting up, clearly waiting for his return. As much as he'd hated to admit it, there was nothing to be done at that moment, and he'd been rather exhausted himself, so he'd taken the opportunity to get some rest, as well, knowing that the morning would be a much better time to think, anyway.
"I don't know what she meant by it!" the younger wizard insisted in a harsh whisper as they made their way down the corridor toward the Great Hall for breakfast. "She only told me . . . ."
Orias halted midstride at the way the other blond man's voice trailed off. "Only told you what?"
His brow furrowing, Thorfinn said in a hollow tone. "The girl, Juliet . . . she poisons herself."
Both Orias' and Antonin's brows shot up at that.
"Oh." Orias scowled, shaking his head. "She'd better not be thinking of offing herself!"
Thorfinn held up his hands. "No, no. Um, it wasn't real poison. Blast it, I can't remember it all, but it had to do with faking her death."
Antonin arched an eyebrow as Orias nodded in thought.
"I don't quite know how or when we can pull that off," Antonin said with a nod of his own, "but I do believe it can be arranged."
Again, her exhaustion had taken control, permitting sleep to overtake her at some point after Voldemort's disturbing, mysterious nightmare. She didn't know what she'd dreamed herself, but she became aware of sweet, tingling sensations. Became aware of the delectable impression of fingers and lips dragging over her skin.
What a pleasant imagining after the horror of the night she'd had.
She was turned onto her back, the hem of her nightdress pushed up to bare her hips and the straps pulled down, revealing her breasts to warm, hungry kisses. Aware of her knickers—still such a new addition to her wardrobe—being slipped down over her legs, she shifted to assist in their removal.
Those kisses, the flicking, teasing tongue and scraping of teeth, dragged downward. Hermione felt her legs being parted, a ravenous mouth burying itself between her thighs.
That flicking, teasing tongue swirled and stroked. That ravenous mouth suckled and uttered pained groans when she shivered and rocked beneath it.
The blissful feel of her body tensing seemed just what she needed in this moment. Just what would distract her from her awful waking life.
She reached down, curling her fingers into soft, thick hair. Gripping tight, she held that wonderful mouth tighter to her, still, as she came, shuddering and whimpering with her release.
That voice let out a sound of satisfaction at her eager response.
As her orgasm ebbed, and the tension in her drifted away, she let her eyes open. And, with her eyes opening, the headmaster's quarters swam into focus around her.
This hadn't been a dream!
Looking down her body, she saw her nightdress bunched around her midsection. Her arms stretched down, fingers gripped into dark, tumbling curls. She saw him there, laying between her parted legs, his mouth pressed firmly against her as he nursed her through the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Those newly-blue eyes opened, locking on her shocked face. Smiling against her, he did her the courtesy of waiting until her body had stilled completely beneath the workings of his tongue before he raised his head.
"Good morning, Mudblood."
Her brow furrowing, she scrambled backward, all but plastering herself against the headboard and out of his reach. "What the bloody hell was that? How dare you!"
Voldemort actually chuckled at that, seeming not to care that he sat there watching her without a stich of fabric on him. "How dare I, what, exactly?"
Hermione shook her head, gesturing emphatically toward where she'd just been laying. "'What, exactly?' That! Just . . . just . . . feasting on me as though you'd been invited to!"
His gaze darted about before he realized the source of her confusion. A half-smile curving his unfortunately beautiful lips, he asked, "You really do not recall, do you?"
Her expression fell. "Don't recall what?"
"You did invite me."
Once more shaking her head, she stared back at him, the confusion in her eyes only increasing at his words. "What?"
"My, my. This is very interesting. You truly don't remember." With another of those rich chuckles of his, he sat back on his heels, completely shameless, as he stroked his chiseled jaw. "Forgive the vulgar phrasing, but I awoke to your hand wrapped around my cock."
The color drained from her face. "My hand around your—"
"And stroking. You, my sweet Mudblood, worked me until I spent myself all over the bedclothes." He watched her face intently as he spoke, looking for some spark of recognition.
When she could come up with no response—had she been dreaming she was curled up with one of her wizards and somehow acted it out on him?—she only continued to gape at him. Was that even what had happened?
What if she hadn't been dreaming of anyone? What if she'd simply acted from some half-asleep state?
"Very interesting," he said, again, his smile broadening. "If you did that without truly being aware of your actions . . . what does it say about what you really want?"