Author's Note: so this chapter is a bit longer than anticipated, because I couldn't find a good stopping point. The events of this chapter were difficult to write, so I hope you guys…enjoy…them. Is enjoy the right word? I don't know. Anyways, here's chapter 5. Hugs to you all!

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Chapter Five

Burn Me to Death

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"What in the name of all the gods are you doing?"

Nuada sighed and glanced over his shoulder at Wink, who stared at him with his single eye wide and his mouth hanging open. The Elven prince sighed and pressed his palms to the smooth plains of the sanctuary's wooden table, wondering the same thing as Wink. He'd had less than two full days of rest and recovery in the magical underground healing space. If the flogging had been inflicted by anything other than an iron-tipped whip, it wouldn't have been—much of—a problem, but the iron still poisoning his blood meant his wounds healed human-slow, even with the magic of the sanctuary aiding him.

He could feel the toxic burn of it threading through his veins, soaking into muscle and bone. It left a dull ache in his limbs, a smoldering fire beneath his skin; a sluggish fever-heat baking him from the inside out. A wise man would've been in bed. A wise man would have perhaps swallowed his pride and risked seeking out a healer to tend to him. A wise man would've gone to one such healer, mortal though she was, and let her do what she so often could for him. But that wasn't why Nuada was on his feet now, shuddering through the waves of nauseating pain that swamped him.

"I'm going to see the human," Nuada muttered. A tremor went through him as he lifted his head to look at his vassal. Slivers of white-hot pain sliced across his back with the movement. "I need to ensure Eamonn has not visited any retribution on her, either for aiding me or defying him."

"My prince, you are in no shape to travel," the troll informed him sharply. "You can barely walk."

A humorless smile tugged at Nuada's mouth. "Which is why I am starting out now. I expect to arrive a little after mid-of-the-night. She will tend to my hurts when I get there." He hesitated, but then added, "I may stay for several days. Just to be sure."

Wink growled, a low rumble that rolled through the sanctuary like thunder. "A visit to the mortal can wait, Sire."

Nuada would've been inclined to agree…if not for the dream. He could not recall the details, only that he'd been straining to reach Dylan, haunted by her agonized screams and sobbing pleas for mercy. Every instinct prickled, demanding he go to her, ensure his enemy hadn't lashed out and taken vengeance on her for her service to the Elven prince. But he didn't speak of the nightmare to Wink. His vassal knew the prince was often plagued by brutal nightmares; why, he would ask, should this one be any different? Only Nuada's instincts told him it was.

"It cannot," was all Nuada said.

Frustration sizzled beneath Wink's skin. Centuries ago, when Nuada looked upon the troll more as a father, he could have badgered the prince into remaining. But that love had morphed into the love of a friend and brother, and Wink was the Silverlance's vassal, Nuada his liege. He was honor-bound to obey the prince's order. But…

"At least allow me to go with you," Wink said softly.

Nuada shook his head. "I have a mission for you, my friend. I need you to return to our lair. My father will no doubt send a spy to check up on me, to ensure I stay away from Dylan. They will come to the lair first; I know my father. He will not send a fae to a mortal dwelling unless absolutely necessary. If such spies come for me, you must send me word at once."

"My prince—"

"I need to see her, Wink," Nuada confessed softly. "Something—I know not what—is driving me to go to her. I must be certain she is safe." Weary topaz eyes rested on the worried troll. "Forgive me, Brother. I know you fear for me. I will take care, but I must do this."

Cyclopean eye narrowed, the silver cave troll asked cautiously, "My prince…what do you think you owe her?"

Another shudder of pain ripped through the long, lean Elven body. Nuada's teeth snapped together so hard he tasted the sour-sweetness of blood where he'd bitten his lip. His fingers knotted into fists against the smooth table grain. Through clenched teeth, the Elven warrior bit out, "I owe her for defending me to Eamonn, though it might have cost her life. I owe her for protecting the halfling child where anyone might have run far from the responsibility and the danger. I owe her for keeping her promise to me to protect my people to the best of her ability. And I owe her for…" For two contented months' evenings of conversation, stories, bread broken in what might be called friendship, for lack of a better name. "She has done more for me, for my people, than most would ever be willing to do. Yes, she is human…but she is…I believe she is loyal to me. Does not that loyalty deserve mine in return?"

Wink had no counter to such words. Only a slow-building shadow of nameless dread swelling in his heart. So he merely pressed his hand to his chest, bowed his head, and murmured, "By your command, my prince." And he watched Nuada walk out of the sanctuary with a sinking heart.

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Dylan's head lolled limply on her neck and tears of pain and exhaustion rolled down her cheeks. Ropes bit cruelly into her wrists. Only the unconscious support of the bedpost kept the crick in her neck from worsening. She'd been a fool. She'd been a complete idiot to think she could survive Eamonn's bargain without begging him to stop. If he'd kept his attentions focused on her, maybe she would've been able to hold out. But it hadn't been for her sake that she'd pled for mercy.

It had been Becan's. Her brownie.

She'd wondered, while Eamonn had touched and stroked and kissed her and she'd wept and hated him, if the house sprite Nuada had told her lived in her cottage was home. What was it doing while the dark Elf molested her? Watching avidly? Only if it hated her, and if it did, why did it service her house? Had it gone for help? Or was it helpless to do anything? Dylan hadn't known the answer, but the thought of anyone witnessing what Eamonn was doing to her had made it all so much worse. She'd nearly choked on humiliation.

Then her brownie had made himself known. Not only that, he'd attacked Eamonn. Using house-sprite magic, he'd launched everything that could remotely serve as a weapon (that he could touch) at the Elf of Zwezda. Hope had sprung up in Dylan's heart when she'd realized what was happening.

Only then…then Eamonn had charged toward a corner of the room, and snatched an invisible entity from the air. Dylan had screamed when Eamonn had slammed the little body against the wall. There had been a small crunch and a tiny, strangled gasp of pain. The levitating objects had thumped to the floor. Eamonn had smashed the wee fae into the wall again. Another crunch. A wheezing, gurgling cry of agony. The cruel, pale hand had reared back to crush the brownie against the merciless stone a third time when Dylan had finally screamed for him to be merciful, please, just don't hurt him anymore!

Now Becan lay huddled and unconscious in a glass jar with air-holes punched in the top, which Eamonn had set on her dresser, while Dylan slumped on the floor beside her bed, arms stretched upward by the ropes binding her to the bedposts.

"Did you really think a brownie would be enough to defeat an Elven noble?" Eamonn crouched in front of her and brushed his knuckles along her jaw. She fought not to flinch, and failed. He hadn't just groped and fondled her after Becan's attack. He'd done that first, then methodically and mercilessly beaten her blue and purple. She'd caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror over her dresser—both lips split, bloody, and puffy; one eye half-swollen shut and a violent red-violet; a crust of blood beneath her slightly swollen nose; and inky-indigo splotches painting her face. The worst of it hadn't been the beating, though. She wouldn't think about the worst of it. At least he hadn't raped her—yet.

Eamonn's fingers tangled in Dylan's hair and he forced her chin up, making the muscles in her neck and upper shoulders spasm. She sucked in a breath. Another tear spilled from the corner of her eye. Cat-slit silver eyes roved over Dylan's face. Her heartbeat thudded against her bruised ribs, keeping time in the sudden humming silence. Eamonn's pale lips curved into a cold smile. He leaned in and took Dylan's bruised mouth, his tongue plunging deep so that she nearly choked on it, and ravished her mouth for countless heartbeats while she wept helplessly. She didn't dare bite him. Not when Becan's life hung in the balance. And she couldn't stop her body from rousing, despite the thudding pain clamping down on her body from the phantom memory of Eamonn's blows.

With a groan, Eamonn tore his mouth away. "Gods, the waiting…I can scarcely bear it." He licked her lips, and his saliva burned in the cracked splits bisecting her mouth. "When Silverlance arrives, then I'll have you at last. Will you enjoy that, sweetness?" He leaned in, his hands sliding down along the slender column of her neck, over the shadowed necklace of bruises marring her throat, over the fragile collarbones. He skimmed his palms over her breasts, still clad in lace and satin, though the soft pale flesh at the swell of her breasts beckoned him to mark it with purple fingerprints. His hands smoothed over her belly, feeling it quiver with that heady mix of desire and fear. At last he grasped her thighs, just beneath the hem of her nightgown, gripping mercilessly, digging his fingers into the creamy flesh. His breath was hot, moist, violating as he growled in her ear, "Will you enjoy it when I spread your thighs and plow you like a rutting bull? When I finally use you as Silverlance should have done long past? Will you enjoy the taking? My seed between your thighs?"

His tongue slid along the side of her neck, warm and wet, making her stomach roll. He groaned appreciatively as his teeth sank into the delicate flesh of that pale throat, just beneath her ear. Dylan whimpered. Eamonn's teeth tightened, pressing…pressing. Pain ripped through Dylan's neck. A spill of warm wetness trickled down her skin; she smelled rust and salt. Blood.

"I can wait no longer," Eamonn murmured, lapping at the blood. "I must have you. You will submit. You will enjoy what I do to you. I will defile that innocent virgin's body, all so that I may rub your precious prince's face in your desecration…and you will enjoy every second." Without anymore warning than that, Eamonn's hand slipped beneath the hem of Dylan's nightgown. His fingers hooked in the waistband of her panties, bunching around the elastic, ready to rip the scrap of cloth from her body, leaving her vulnerable to him.

Terror raked merciless claws across her heart. Dylan began to struggle wildly, forgetting what Eamonn had done to her thus far, forgetting the danger to Becan. "No! No!" She screamed, thrashing. "Don't touch me! Let me go! Let me go! No!" Eamonn's backhand cracked across her face. Fresh blood spilled into her mouth. She spat it in his face. "NO!"

A knock at the front door stilled them both. They froze, tangled together, panting for breath. Then Eamonn drew a deep, sniffing breath, like a wolf scenting prey. "Oh, yes," he growled. "He's here. He's here at last. And he's wounded. Wounded badly, by the weakened feel of his power and the smell of all that blood."

"What?" Dylan whispered. "What did you do to him?"

Eamonn's grin was vicious and feral. "Flogged him—two-thousand lashes with an iron-tipped whip. A fitting punishment, flaying the flesh from his back, after he'd given in and succumbed to the wiles of your flesh. He's in no shape to fight, I assure you."

"You're lying," Dylan snarled as the knock came again. But she knew, from the confirming warmth in her chest, that in fact, the Elf of Zwezda was telling the truth. If Nuada tried to take the other Elf on in his current condition, he would lose. And if he lost, Eamonn would kill him. Kill them both.

Lamplight flashed on a knife-blade. Dylan flinched and barely managed to stifle a scream. But all Eamonn did was cut the ropes binding Dylan's wrists over her head. The tip of the knife caught on the delicate skin of each wrist, drawing blood from shallow cuts across the blue veins. Not enough to do true damage, but it hurt, blazing lines drawn in fire across her wrist, and the blood was stark scarlet against her pale, mottled skin. Then Eamonn was dragging her to her feet, shoving her through the bedroom door. He paused only long enough to snatch up her robe. He marched her down the hall while forcing her spastic, twitching arms into the sleeves. All the while, he issued low-voiced orders.

"You will invite him in. Welcome him. Tell him you were hurt out there in the mortal realm, that some men attacked and frightened you. Beg for his comfort. You will do this," Eamonn snarled, "or I will crush your little brownie to pieces, one tiny limb at a time, and I assure you, it will take hours. And that is nothing compared to what I will do to you, sweetness."

Then he practically threw her at the front door just as Nuada knocked for the third time. When she looked back, Eamonn was gone. There wasn't even a glamoured shimmer to tell her where he might be hiding.

Becan…Dylan shuddered, clutching the robe tightly around her. Warm blood spilled down her arms from her wrists, down her neck from the wound there. He'll kill Becan…Nuada's in no shape to fight him…I can't let him in…but I can't turn him away. I can't let him in…I don't know what to do. A sob caught in her throat.

"Dylan?" Nuada called. The edge of concern in his voice made her hands shake badly as she undid the seven bolts on the door and unlatched the main lock. Somehow she knew that if she didn't answer, he would break in, as he had that first night with the leanashe. If he did that, Eamonn would kill him. But how was she to make him go away? How was she to convince him to leave before Eamonn had time to attack him?

"Open the door," a cold voice hissed in her ear. She felt glamour shoving at her, trying to force her to obey. It wouldn't work. The silvery mark at her throat, the fear darrig's blessing, kept the fey magic from catching her in its grip. "Do it now."

Fresh tears fell as she struggled to think of something she could do. She was so tired…Eamonn hadn't let her sleep for the two days he'd held her captive. Her hand shook as she turned the knob on the front door. It swung open to reveal Nuada, fist upraised as if he'd been about to knock once more. When the light from the entry hall fell over him, and he saw her in the light, his eyes widened and horror spread across his face like a disease.

"Dear gods," he breathed, reaching for her. "Dylan, what happened?" She flinched, trained from two days of constant blows and unwelcome touches. The nearness of him whispered to the Tears in her blood, setting it aflame. Heat settled low in her belly. For a moment she could scarcely breathe. Then Nuada was gripping her shoulders, fingers biting. "Who did this?"

"Let me go," she gasped, unable to think of anything else. The moment that he'd touched her, she'd nearly fallen into his arms. Struggling for air, Dylan staggered back against the wall of the hallway. The world swam around her. Fever pressed down on her skull; was it the Tears? The cold of winter beyond the door? Or was her mind finally fragmenting? Nuada stood there, so safe and so strong, a haven against the darkness, and she ached to throw herself in his arms. But she couldn't, she had to warn him, somehow, about…"Don't touch me. Just please go away!"

"What is it?" Nuada asked, drawing closer. His eyes, molten bronze with rage, darted over the bruises, the cuts. Then he saw crimson on her hands. Quick as a snake, his hands shot out and he gripped her wrists. She cried out in pain. He flipped her hands over to see the bloody crescents in her palms, the rope burns on the fragile paleness of her wrists, the slices across the mazarine veins. Brow furrowed, eyes troubled, he gazed at her. "What is this? Who did this to you?"

She shook her head, which made it throb harder, made the world flip end over end. She was gasping now, pain clutching at her, fear ripping at her. "Please…please, Nuada, I…please, I…Why won't you just go—"

"Was it Eamonn? Did he do this to you?"

Her eyes flashed to his face, and he must have seen the truth in her gaze, because realization crossed his expression. His gaze began to slide past her when suddenly strong arms were jerking her back from Nuada's clutching grasp. An arm snaked across her body, light flashed on something silver pain bright, and Dylan felt the coldness of Elven silver laid against the line of her carotid artery. A cruel hand jerked her hair, forcing her head back to leave her throat vulnerable.

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"Well, we know you're not in top form, Silverlance, since you didn't breach my glamour. Feeling a bit out of sorts, are we?" Eamonn drawled, sneering at the prince.

"Eamonn! You coward, let her go!"

"But if I give her back to you I shall be so lonely," Eamonn chuckled, backing Dylan up further. "She's been such lovely company these last two days. So warm to me. Hmmm…" He licked her cheek. She flinched. "So welcoming. Of course, she withheld many of her favors for fear of what you would think, so I promised her we could wait until your arrival. Poor darling," he added, nuzzling the line of Dylan's jaw. "She must be positively frantic for relief by now, as it's been a full day since I made her drink the Tears."

Nuada jolted. Horror and rage warred across his features. "You…gave her…"

"The beatings and the bloodletting probably helped her keep a grasp on her sanity," the dark-haired Elf added airily. "But now that you are here, I imagine it will be like trying to escape a nymph in heat. You want Silverlance, don't you, sweetness?" Eamonn brushed his lips against her temple and grinned when Nuada growled like a dog. "Throw down your weapons, Silverlance." When Nuada only stared back at him coldly, the amusement left the other Elf's face. He jerked Dylan's head back further and pressed a touch harder with his blade. A rivulet of crimson spilled across mortal flesh. "Do it or I'll cut her throat."

After a brief hesitation, Nuada tossed aside sword, twin-knife, spear, and dirk.

"Take off your shirt," the dark Elf commanded. Face expressionless, Nuada obeyed, tossing the black silks to the floor. Eamonn smirked. "Now repeat after me, Silverlance. 'I swear, by the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I will not try to fight, escape, or resist in any way while Eamonn mac Dubh is binding me this night.'" The prince didn't speak until Eamonn dug the point of his knife into Dylan's throat and she gasped in pain. "Say it."

Looking as if he were swallowing glass, Nuada vowed, "I swear, by the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I will not try to fight, escape, or resist in any way while Eamonn mac Dubh is binding me this night."

The silver-eyed Elf pulled the knife a fraction of an inch from the mortal's throat. "You do anything wrong, sweetness—you do anything I dislike—and I'll kill your precious prince. Do you understand?" Dylan looked at Nuada, cold and remote as a winter moon. She begged him for forgiveness with her gaze. Nuada gave her a silent nod, and followed Eamonn as he walked backwards with Dylan, the blade still at the vulnerable blood-vessel of her throat. He didn't dare go for the Zwezda Elf while he kept that knife at her throat. Somehow Eamonn bound the mortal with one hand for the ropes while he kept that knife steady. Then he went to Nuada, and quick as a snake, his hand shot out and he struck Nuada a handful of blows to the back and ribs that staggered him, knocking him to the floor. Agony ripped through his back as he hit the carpet. Chuckling, Eamonn hit him in the ribs again, then delivered a vicious kick.

"Stop it!" Dylan screamed, straining against the ropes. "Stop it, leave him alone! Eamonn, please! Please, Eamonn!"

The dark Elf grinned and dragged Nuada to his feet, threw him toward a mess of ropes, and bound him quickly, Gordian knots and cords so tight they bit cruelly into Nuada's flesh. He didn't struggle as the other Elf tied his hands behind his back and then to the sapling-thick bedposts. Then he rigged the bonds so that, if Nuada fought the bindings after his oath to Eamonn ended, it would dislocate Dylan's shoulders again. His feet were bound to the heavy oak dresser, forcing the prince to kneel in front of the dresser, half-suspended by the ropes. Nuada bit back a curse. Eamonn was far too clever for the prince's peace of mind. And he'd positioned them so that whatever Eamonn did to Dylan, Nuada would be forced to watch.

Eamonn chuckled and dropped onto Dylan's bed, propping his elbows on his knees. "Well, now. Isn't this cozy? And doesn't she look lovely, Silverlance?" A pale, rough hand swept back the curtain of Dylan's hair before traipsing over her temple, her cheek, her jaw. His fingers alighted on the nightgown strap, black lace and satin. She shuddered, tried to pull away. "Did you get this little confection for her, Silverlance? Was she going to wear it for you while you buried yourself deep in her body?"

"You're disgusting," Nuada snarled.

"I'm not," Eamonn lashed back. "You are. You're the one who wants to rut with her, use her, take her to your bed. Make her your lover. You want her, don't you? I can see it in you. Battered, broken, still you ache for her. I can see the yearning for her in your eyes. You cannot take your eyes off her, even now." Eamonn lifted the knife he'd set on Dylan's nightstand, toyed with it so the light from the fireplace gleamed on the silvery blade. "She's so lovely to you…despite her scars. Why? Shall I put that fondness for her face to the test? Shall I see how you'd feel if I ruined that lovely face completely?" The knife lashed out, a flash of silver, and a crimson line ripped across Dylan's cheek. She screamed, sobbed as memories burned through her.

"Don't! Stop it!" Nuada roared. He remembered the ruin of her face the night he'd met her, the blood smearing her bruised cheeks, the pain of the knife-slashes. Eamonn's arm lashed out and another slash appeared on Dylan's face. Her scream ripped through Nuada's heart. "Leave her alone, damn you! Nádteagmháilléi—don't touch her!"

Eamonn scoffed at the prince. "You're pathetic. Luckily I'll not have to deal with your pitiful sentiment much longer. I have a gift for you, Silverlance." The two flasks Eamonn had set on Dylan's nightstand when he'd first arrived were still there; Eamonn lifted it up, pulled the stopper. Sniffed the contents. Grinned viciously. "I don't dare try to force you to swallow this, as I forced your little fraochún. You've too much muscle on me. My luck is in, however—I needn't have you drink the gancanaugh poison. I only need to pour it on you."

He bit out through clenched teeth, "Poison from a gancanaugh male will do nothing to me." A rich, dark laugh in response made Nuada grind his teeth so hard he thought he might crack a molar. "Feicfidh mé tú a mharú."

"You'll kill me? I doubt it," Eamonn replied. "And this isn't the poison I used on your little darling. This is from a female gancanaugh of my acquaintance. I think you'll enjoy the results."

Nuada's eyes widened. For the first time, true fear glimmered in their depths. "No. Eamonn, no. Please. I know what you're thinking of, you cannot! Eamonn, don't!"

Pale lips curved into a smirk. "I promised her that you would be the one to take her first." With another dark laugh, he splashed a dollop of the poison in Nuada's face. The venom spattered his flesh, burning instantly. Flooded his mouth. Nuada spat, desperate to rid himself of the Tears, and knew it would do no good. Already the pain was scalding him, ripping through him. The fire raked over his body; he shuddered at the sudden throbbing ache. Another splash of poison hit his chest. He heard the sound of liquid splashing from far off, heard Dylan scream.

Agony dragged him down, shredding him until he could think of nothing, see and feel and hear nothing. White-hot talons tore into his belly, clawed lower toward his groin. Nuada panted for breath. No, no, no…no, he couldn't…he could not…but then the pain drowned out his thoughts, strangled them until he could focus only on the need searing him.

Then there was sudden slack in the ropes binding him. He fell to his hands and knees. A scent hit his nostrils; they flared, desperate for that scent. Woman. Heat. Desire. Female flesh. His skin crawled with the need for that flesh, the mad craving to touch, smell, taste. He lunged. Pain spread in a sheet of fire down his back. He ignored it, reaching, straining for...straining…straining…

Touch. Satin, cool and sweet and smooth. Flesh. Warm. Fragile. He wrapped his hand around a wrist, felt the roughness of abrasions, the sting of human blood. The ache washed it all away. Delicate wrist, small bones, so delicate. His hands slid up over an arm, a shoulder, his fingers tangled in silken hair, then his mouth found a mouth, sweet and bitter both. Blood in the kiss, lips parting, a moan into his mouth, tangle of tongues, a slender body against his. Cupping her cheek, such fragile bones, sliding down, cupping the soft weight of her breast. She moaned again, arched into his touch. Need, need, gods he needed her. Taste her lips, taste her skin, taste her, take her, he had to, he had to.

He was thinking only of scent, touch, taste, when he grasped the flimsy front of her nightgown and ripped it down the middle. Such sweet skin, had to taste, had to drink her in. Slender fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him. His tongue swirled hot over her skin, leaving her gasping. His fingers curled into the elastic band of undergarment at her hip, ripped it away with a jerk. She cried out, lifted her hips in silent plea. Her hands went to the waistband of his trews. Yes, yes, by the Fates, yes…

His hands slid over her smooth belly, her thighs, caressed ragged scars. She cried out again, writhed for him, oh, gods. His fingers found her, delved, she was so ready for him, he couldn't stop, couldn't wait. Vaguely through the poisonous haze of brutal cancerous need, he heard her begging frantically, "Please, please, please, please."

But no…no, this was wrong, he couldn't…couldn't…she didn't want…but she begged him…she wanted him to…couldn't think, couldn't breathe, had to, the pain…gods, the pain, the ache, had to make it stop, make it stop for them both, make it stop!

"Please," Dylan whispered, pressing against him, her voice trembling. Her hands roamed over his shoulders, caressed the taut muscles of his arms as he held himself poised above her. That touch left him nearly mindless with the wicked need to claim her. And then…oh, and then…she whispered so softly, so sweetly, "Please…Nuada."

His name on her lips, that breathy plea, shattered the fragments of his control. Nuada took her mouth, his tongue thrusting deep as he drove into her with single-minded savagery. Dylan gasped into the kiss. Her body welcomed him, took him, surrendered to him. And he lost himself in her, in the heat and feel and overwhelming desire that kept him locked to her, until there was nothing but the woman beneath him, her need, his need, this unending, all-encompassing need…and in the distance, as if from far away, the dark and cruel sound of laughter.

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Author's Note: wow. So I've never done something like that before, and it's been over…6 years since I've written any kind of serious intimacy scenes. I tried to keep it tasteful. How'd I do? What do you guys think will happen now? Of course I know what will happen, but what do you guys think will happen? Hmmm? And are you happy now, Sweetnsour333, now that chapter 5 is up? Lol. Huggles to you, dearest, for the well-timed nagging. I'm grateful.

Reviews are love! Hugs and love to everyone,

LA