1
Elsbeth is not going to sleep tonight. How could she? Jasper has told her to, Walter has told her to, Ben, even Hobson expressed some concern when she declared her intention to stay awake all night. Yet how could it be otherwise? She has sent them all away, ordered them to sleep.
There are lights on in Bowerstone. No people, of course, but she ordered the lamps—in homes, factories, schools—lit anyway. The sun will not rise tomorrow, and when the Darkness arrives she is determined it will not see a kingdom already in submission. It will see 'the light that burns' everywhere it turns its inhuman eyes. She's heartened to see the warm gold glinting out of every building, and it helps to stop her biting her nails. She glances at her hands. They're down to the quick anyway.
There is just one more problem. One more thing that until thirty minutes ago, she was absolutely confident of. The treasury. As of this morning, it had six million, five hundred thousand gold pieces in it. Plus a few spare. But she has relied on Hobson's accounting thus far, and now she's not sure. She should have done it herself. She should have made certain.
She glances over at the clock. It's coming up to midnight. A few seconds later she is belting a robe over her nightdress and heading for the door. The dog briefly lifts his head up with a whine.
"Stay."
Two minutes after that, the Queen is entering the treasury, confronted by mountains of shimmering gold. She is walking towards it even though she doesn't want to. She doesn't have time to count all of this. She will probably die tomorrow—is this really how she wants to spend her last evening?
But there is no one here to pull her away now, and no one she would listen to even if there were someone else here. So she sits, cross-legged at the foot of the mountain, and begins with tears rolling down her face.
Somewhere around two a.m., the doors to the treasury open again. Elsbeth has her back to the door, but she is well aware that it can only be one person, and her spine curves in relief. Logan. Please. Please come to me. Save me from this.
He does, crouching behind her and putting his arms all the way around her. He slowly takes the gold from her hands, then stands, bringing her up with him. Through her thin pyjamas, his chest plate is cold, but she huddles into him anyway.
"Well … this is not a good idea, my Queen."
"Couldn't stop myself," she whispers.
He turns her around to face him. "Beth, there are so many things could you do, even if you do not intend to sleep. Which, by the way, is what you should be doing."
"Like what?" she asked, a bitter smile gracing her lips. "What is there to do?"
"Anything."
"What would you do?" she asks, glancing at his mouth. "If you knew you were going to die tomorrow?"
"Whatever I wanted to."
She nods, then kisses him with no more warning that that. It is soft, gentle, experimental. But it cannot be mistaken for a kiss with no more meaning than an affectionate gesture from sister to brother. Logan goes taut in her arms, and she waits for him to pull away and leave—she won't mind, if he does. But if she can do anything tonight, that was what she wanted. But she doesn't think he will. He's gone tight and strained because he's trying to hold it all in. Because there's still that voice in his head that's insisting this is a very, very bad idea. She helps to silence that voice with another kiss; this one to his neck, feeling his pulse jump under her mouth.
"Well, this is what I want, brother," she whispers. "Will you give it to me?"
His eyes are closed when she looks back up into his face, his hands around her waist clenched. She will most likely have bruises from where his fingers are now, bruises which she hopes will be added to in a moment. Without opening his eyes, Logan leans forward and down, unerringly fitting his mouth to hers. The kiss is not hurried or rushed; though time is not infinite for this, there are enough hours before the dawn that won't be coming. She presses herself closer, feeling her body ready itself for him. His hands slip up under her pyjama top, gloved fingertips grazing along her skin so tenderly and so hesitantly. She's convinced she might really break if he treats her any more like glass; under his touch, it feels like her flesh is melting. She pulls her arms down from his shoulders, fingers finding the buckles of his armour and tugging at them ineffectually.
Logan chuckles and pulls his mouth from hers. "Having trouble, Beth?"
Without waiting for her to answer, he takes her hands and shows her how to undo the chest plate. After the first one, he resumes kissing her, sliding his hands up her bare back boldly this time, pulling her towards his body. At the same time, he deepens the kiss, coaxing open her mouth to admit his tongue. She moans; she can't help it, at the sensation, and at his taste. Finally, all the buckles of his chest plate are undone, and it swings open on one side, a hinge to the torso underneath. Logan shrugs it off, and it hits the floor with a loud clang, but neither stops. Elsbeth's fingers scrabble eagerly at the layer underneath, only to be defeated—there are at least two more items of clothing she must remove before she can touch him. A little Heroic strength helps, and the buttons on his jacket give way completely, popping off and rolling across the floor. Now only in a shirt, a shiver races over his skin when her hands slide under it. She does not touch him nervously, though she has never done this before. Her brother is a well-built man, and she feels the evidence of it now, her fingers caressing the ridged muscles of his stomach and up, then down again. She delights in the way they tense and quiver under her touch. Wanting to see as well as touch now, she tugs the white cotton all the way off, and pulls away from his mouth, baring him to her gaze. He's … beautiful, that's the only way she can put it. Pale, perhaps, but his chest his criss-crossed with darker lines and slashes; scars. He matches her, she thinks with a smile. She traces them with her fingers, following them with her mouth. His skin burns under her lips.
He groans lowly. "Beth …"
Feeling the score needs to be settled, she takes his hands in hers, tugs his gloves off. Her body wants to be felt by him now, not cold leather. Once she has, she puts his hands exactly where she wants them, her eyes focused on his. With the hem of her top in his hands, there is only one thing for Logan to do, so he does it, pulling the top up and off. She waits to feel vulnerable, ashamed perhaps for baring herself so brazenly to him, but there is none of that. He kisses her again, then moves his mouth down to her neck, sucking at the juncture of her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in his hair; something she's wanted to do, she realises, for many weeks now—really tousle it and make it messy, break the rigidity. With his hands, he strokes over the swell of her breasts, tracing ever-decreasing spirals. Elsbeth feels her nipples pucker, stiffening into hard peaks that go harder still when he touches them. He's not very gentle; between forefinger and thumb he pinches, flicks them quickly and then slowly. She moans aloud and pushes her chest further into his hands. Her lower belly presses against the hard bulge in his trousers, and she knows what that means but she can't think straight when his hands are replaced by his mouth. Fire leaps from her breasts to between her legs, and she can feel moisture weeping down her inner thigh. Logan makes a quick flicking motion, and her pyjama trousers pool around her ankles. The Queen is completely naked to him now, and his hands grab her backside, lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist with a wanton moan.
"Bedchamber?"
He shakes his head; it is at the other end of the castle, and the need to be inside her is desperate. "Too far." He kisses her again, biting her bottom lip. "Besides, I've a better idea."
He walks to the mountain of gold behind her, lying her on the bed of coins. Then, he kisses her neck, her chest—stopping to lavish a little more attention on her breasts, naturally—her stomach, then lower. Elsbeth's heart is pounding; she's heard of this, but only heard of it, and could never quite believe it was anything more than whores' boasting. She's trembling, suddenly scared but oh-so-aroused. Logan's fingertip circles the slippery bud of nerves he finds there, then presses. She twitches in pleasure, another moan escaping from her throat. It's followed almost immediately by a cry; his finger has been replaced by his mouth. His teeth hold her clitoris between them, while his tongue sweeps over it mercilessly. It hurts and it's wonderful and it's fire and it's bliss, and she bucks up into his mouth. Her hands go down to entwine themselves in his hair again, simultaneously pushing his face closer and trying to pull him away because it's too exquisite for her not to lose her mind. Tension's coiling in her muscles, rising up from the base of her back, a knot that is being pulled tighter and tighter. When her entire body is hard in expectation, Logan's index finger rams inside her, tearing through her maidenhead. The pain might be enough to wake her from the pleasure trance, but he sucks hard with his mouth at the same time. The explosion—it can only be called that—rips through her completely, wiping thought or awareness completely from her mind. She does not hear the scream of pleasure that echoes around the treasury, nor see Logan stand briefly to remove the last items of his clothing; in the aftermath, she even forgets to breathe.
When she opens her eyes, she opens her limbs for him as well. He's utterly magnificent naked. She feels her eyes should not be glued to the rod of flesh rising up from between his legs, but they are. It's like nothing she's ever seen before, but instantly she knows it is for her, it has always been meant for her. Her inner muscles quiver with need for it, and she whispers his name in a pleading tone. She needs him inside her, needs him to give her a sense of wholeness. Logan settles himself on top of her, positioning herself at her entrance.
"It will hurt."
"I need it," she moans, breathless and begging. "I need you, please, please, Logan. Inside me."
His mouth catches hers again, and he stops any noise of pain she makes as he pushes into her. He's right, it does hurt, but it's the best pain she's ever felt. She feels herself stretching to accommodate this hard length of flesh, her fingernails digging into the skin of his back slightly. But it never pushes too far, it never demands more than she can give—and after a short time, they're completely joined, hips pressed into one another. The gold underneath her is icy; the man over her is burning; the searingly hot cock inside her is pulsing. It is almost enough to make her climax again, right there and then. His expression is tight with effort, his teeth clenched. She is so tight, and so wet, and so perfect it is all he can do not to do the same. She shifts, her legs wrapping more fully around him. Any lingering soreness is gone now, leaving only the coals of pleasure banked high, glowing and waiting to be stoked into life. He pulls back slightly, then thrusts back into her. She mewls with need and begins moving her pelvis in time with his as he sets a steady and powerful rhythm. Each time he plunges into her, she feels him press against the opening of her womb, filling her so completely and deliciously it makes her head spin. Her breath is ragged now, her moans increasing in volume and frequency, interspersed with sharper cries when he buries his mouth in her neck. He kisses and licks and sucks and bites, and each time he does, she whimpers his name. It drives his lust and desire for her onwards, which in turn drives his pleasure. He's close now, feeling climax begin stirring in his groin, but he wants her to come with him.
He leans up, takes hold of her legs, spreads them and begins hard, deep, fast thrusts, hammer-blows of his hips. They take her by surprise, and he knows it's cruel, because no one's first experience should be like this, but she's too much, too yielding and willing to gobble up anything he gives her. Elsbeth only arches her back and slams her own hips back at him.
"Look," he rasps, "look at us."
She does, her eyes—when they aren't shut against the intensity of the experience—going to the place when brother and sister are joined. She watches him saw into her, slick and glistening with her juices. It should be shameful, and evil and sick—but instead it is more perfect than anything else could ever be. Surrendering to the sweet sin of it she shudders into orgasm, over the crest and down to the black oblivion on the other side. Logan follows not a second afterward, a long, low groan of her name on his lips. He spills into her in white-hot spurts, flooding her with everything in him.
In the afterglow, all Elsbeth can see is white light.
