Author's Note: it's a miracle! LA is finally updating with chapter fourteen, woo-hoo! Sorry I took so long. Explanation as to why at the bottom. But I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was a bit of a rollercoaster to write, so hopefully you all like it. Huggles for you all! And everyone should thank WhenNightmaresWalked, because this chap is dedicated to her, because she's the one who's been reminding me not to neglect my other fics. So yay, Nightmare! Anyway, enjoy!
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Chapter Fourteen
So Wrong, Yet So Right
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"Dylan Myers, will you be my wife?"
She stared at him for a moment, unable to form any words as the question echoed in her skull. Nuada gazed back at her, topaz eyes carefully blank. He didn't want this. She knew that. He didn't want to marry her. But she was pregnant with his children. Through no fault of his own, a woman he would have rather dropped dead than sleep with now carried his children…and Nuada would do the honorable thing and protect them, protect her, by marrying her. By making her a princess. By shielding her with his name, his family, his title, and a title of her own. Even though he thought her disgusting—he'd made it clear months ago that humans were repulsive, that sleeping with a human was worse than fornicating with farm animals—he would marry her.
Could she do that to him? Could she really inflict herself on him again, after everything that she'd done to him? Everything that had happened to him because of her? Dylan thought of what Nuada had said before, about how her decision to keep the babies instead of aborting them was tantamount to letting Eamonn rape them once again. If he felt that way, did she really have the right to accept his proposal?
But…but her babies were in danger. And she was supposed to care about that. She was supposed to put them first. That's what mothers did. Even when it was hard, that was what mothers did. Her own mother had sacrificed Dylan herself, the youngest of the Myers children, to protect the others from Dylan's perceived insanity and any dangerous effects it might have. And it had been hard on her mother. Dylan had been able to see that even as a little girl. Didn't she have an obligation to put her children above everyone else, including their father?
She looked at Nuada. He'd become too thin, she realized. Was he eating? She hadn't been, but she'd been so focused on her own pain, her own fear, that she'd pretty much ignored the prince's needs. As long as he was there for her to cry at, like an Elven teddy bear, everything was fine. But now she could see the strain in his face from the past month.
Could she really do this to him? Could she really?
Could she do it to herself? Marry Nuada, when being around him constantly made her remember the things he'd done to her while under the influence of the Tears? Because she still remembered his hands on her, his mouth, his tongue…Nuada had done some things to her she'd never even known about before.
And she'd loved every second. Or her body had. And her body wanted more of that, even though it was so wrong, so sick, so twisted to think of those encounters as anything other than rape. But it had felt so good when he…whenever he had…and he'd been so tender, so gentle, unlike that psychopath who'd just had his way until he got bored with her. It had almost been as if Nuada…as if Nuada cared for her. As if his whole focus had been her pleasure. Men weren't like that during sex, though. At least, not in her experience. Not unless they were with someone they loved deeply, and Nuada didn't love her.
Dylan didn't know if she could survive being married to the Elven prince who'd risked so much for her, who'd saved her life and her sanity more than once, when her body inexplicably wanted him like this and her heart kept insisting it needed him…and when he cared for her as nothing more than a friend. Could only care for her as a friend.
Did she want more than that from him? More than friendship?
She couldn't be thinking these things. Not right now. What was the matter with her? She couldn't be considering Nuada as anything more than her friend, her very traumatized friend, her very troubled and shadowed friend. Her friend who was going to marry her because she carried his twin babies.
Swallowing hard, Dylan tried to work up enough saliva to talk. She had to give him an answer…but she had so many questions. So many doubts, so many uncertainties. They could wait, though. They would have to. Clearing her throat, she somehow managed to croak, "Y-yes. I will. Of course I will."
To her surprise, Nuada raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, one at a time. His lips were soft, and warm. Dylan's heart gave a violent lurch in her chest. It suddenly hurt to breathe, and once more a sliver of resentment lodged in her heart at the thought that because she was pregnant, because her maternal instincts had forced her to out of the cocoon of sticky gray fog that had protected her for so long against what had been done to her, now she could feel this inexplicable pain over the simple gesture of her prince kissing her hands.
"My lady," Nuada said softly, bowing his head. His hair whispered against her hands, soft as spidersilk. "You honor me."
No, she didn't. She knew that. She knew he had to be feeling like a noose had just dropped around his neck and begun to tighten with inexorable pressure, because that was exactly how Dylan felt. This was so completely outside her experience—and her expectations, up until five minutes ago—that her head was swimming and her pulse was overly loud in her ears. She opened her mouth. Somehow the words squeaked out. "I know you don't want this…I know I disgust you because I'm human—"
"No," Nuada said. The rest of her words died in her throat. "No, Dylan." Moonlit blue eyes met sunlit gold. "I despise humans. You know this. But you…you are more than human to me. You are my friend. My champion," he added with no little bitterness. "My solace in this dark time. And now, you are my lady. My betrothed. More than that, I…I am quite fond you. I have been for many months now.
The way her mouth dropped open and her eyes bugged out probably would have been almost comical to him if it hadn't stung so much; she could see the hurt in his gaze in response to her incredulity. She blinked at him in absolute shock for several seconds, trying to school her expression—and failing. Nuada raised an eyebrow, and she snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. Finally Dylan managed to speak.
"You...you…" You are?was the question sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't ask it. Couldn't. This was something she had never, ever expected to hear from him, of all people. There was a weight on her chest so heavy it almost hurt. Fond of her. Nuada was fond of her. That meant he liked her. Even though she was human, even after everything that had happened with Eamonn, he was fond of her. He cared for her, had cared for her since before this nightmare's beginning.
She knew that, because he wouldn't lie to her. Until that moment, Dylan hadn't really let herself contemplate the fact that he'd called her his friend that first night he'd come back, the night she'd thought he meant to kill her to pay the debt between them. Hadn't let herself think about it, because it had hurt to think that, because she'd been helpless to fight back and had needed him so much to stay half-sane during Eamonn's tortures, because he had needed her to do the same, he now considered her his friend. But for that affection to have been born before all of that…
How could Nuada, who despised humanity with a heat that rivaled a wildfire, feel anything for her except dislike and, if she were lucky, reluctant tolerance because of the debt he believed he owed her? It made no sense. How could he care for her? She'd forced him into so much…he had been raped because of her, not merely once or twice but again and again…How could he care about her in any way?
But he wouldn't lie. Not even to spare her feelings. He would never lie to her.
Dylan wanted to think about all of it. Wanted to hold onto the words for a few minutes, or a few hours, just turning them over in her mind until they made sense. Later,she thought. Time for that later. Until then, she needed to just stop and try to find her equilibrium.
Unfortunately her treacherous mouth and stupid brain had other ideas.
"But you don't love me," she blurted.
Nuada blinked, clearly baffled by her words. "I…of course I don't."
His matter-of-fact tone somehow turned the simple words into a slap, but he didn't know it. And would he even care if he did know? Of course he would, because he was fond of her, and because he believed he owed her something. And she'd hurt him enough, hadn't she? So she didn't show him how much it hurt that he could be so casual about not loving her.
She'd never once considered she might marry someone she didn't love. Who thought about that kind of thing nowadays? Royals, maybe, but she wasn't a royal. Dylan had always thought that if she got married, she would marry somebody she loved, a member of the Church, a Priesthood-holder, and that they would marry in the Star Kindler's Temple. And yet now…
"Dylan," Nuada added, "I am a prince. I never expected to marry for love. My father was lucky in his choice, but I did not expect to be so. If I must marry, if I must make that choice, take that step, I can at least choose someone of whom I am quite fond. Someone honorable, whom I can respect, someone who can be my friend. Specifically, you."
Biting her lip, she nodded and stepped back. She suddenly didn't know what to do with herself. She was engaged to the man she considered her best friend. She was engaged to an Elf. Engaged to the crown prince of Bethmoora. She was pregnant with his children. Somehow it suddenly seemed incredibly important to decide whether she should keep standing or sit down on the sofa. Her hands shook as she brought them to her face, smoothed back her hair from her eyes. What had she done? Because she'd been an idiot, because she'd been so scared for Nuada and so tired, she'd let a monster into her cottage and ruined Nuada's life. Ruined her own life.
The words tumbled from her lips, cold as serpents and sharp as diamonds. "What happened to all that 'I will not sully myself by joining with a human' stuff?"
Nuada actually flinched. Dylan saw it, saw how her prince went pale as a corpse, and hated herself more in that moment than she'd ever hated Eamonn. He swallowed. Rose to his feet from where he'd knelt on the carpet. He wouldn't look at her as he said, "I am not certain what you are asking me."
"I just meant…" She'd just meant to be cruel, apparently. Just meant to lash out because she was panicking and he seemed so calm while he turned her life upside-down and inside-out. Of course she knew this was just as hard on him, if not harder. As far as she knew, he might have a girlfriend somewhere. A fiancé. A lover or something. And he would break things off with that hypothetical mystery woman to do right by this human who'd screwed them both over.
She'd hurt him again. She could see it in his face, which he tried unsuccessfully to keep blank. Even though he refused to look at her, she could see the muscle flexing in his jaw, the glacial topaz of his eyes. She cleared her throat.
"I just meant that if…I'm sorry, I worded that…wrong. I only meant that I know you hold your vows very sacred," she said softly. He still didn't look at her. "And I know that if I asked you to, you would…you would be faithful to me. As your wife. And I know you wouldn't ask me for…for anything. Because of…everything. And I'm grateful that you would respect me like that. But…but I know you have…needs. Um…"
He was looking at her now, with something that might have been horror in his eyes. She tried not to cringe when he closed the distance between them and grabbed her by the shoulders. He gave her shoulders a hard squeeze. "What are you saying?"
And suddenly she was terrified. Not of him—never of him, Nuada would never hurt her, never—but of saying the wrong thing, because she kept doing that, kept opening her mouth and hurting him, making him angry, flaying him with her words when all she wanted was to make it all up to him, erase the darkness that had so recently come into his eyes, and she didn't understand what she'd said wrong this time.
"I just…I just…it's just that I…I get that just because I may be—" frigid, a voice that sounded too much like Eamonn's hissed in her mind, "be…um…just because I might not want you to…I mean…I don't want you to think that I'd…that I'd ask you to give up…I…"
Nuada actually shook her, once, quickly. "You think I would do that to you?" He demanded in a low voice. His eyes were stormy with hurt, sharp with anger, tormented with something she couldn't name. "You think I would…simply because I have 'needs,' as you call them?"
Her entire body shook now, not just her hands. She whispered, "It's not a big deal…I won't be upset. Honest."
"Damn you," Nuada spat, his grip tightening. "To offer me…acting as if I had succeeded in hiding it, when all this time…" He snarled, a low animal sound that rumbled in his throat and sent a chill spreading through Dylan's blood. His eyes weren't topaz anymore. Now they were pale, pale ivory, kissed with bronze. "How did you know?" He demanded in a growl. "How?"
She licked her lips. Nuada's fingers bit into her shoulders as he yanked her closer. Wide-eyed, she stammered, "I…I just…I thought…because you…I'm sorry." She'd only meant to tell him that if he had someone else he wanted, someone he loved, she wouldn't stand in the way of him being with her. If he wanted a mistress, he could have one, since she couldn't…be his wife that way. Even though her body said she was wrong about that, she knew he didn't want that from her. After everything that had happened, even if there had once been a chance, now he would never want something like that from her.
The Elven warrior snarled, "The humans say not to tempt a desperate man."
Dylan swallowed and tried to find a way to soothe the anger she didn't understand. "Nuada, if you're…if you're tempted, then…I mean, I won't stop you. If you…if you want to…I mean, it's not fair to you if you can't—"
"Fair?" He snapped. Nuada made a sound that would have been a laugh if it hadn't been suffused with anger and savage pain. "None of this is fair, Dylan!" He shook his head, growled, "Do not offer this. Do not play the martyr with me."
"I…I'm not." Why was he so angry? She didn't understand it. "I didn't mean to…to upset you."
Bronze-kissed ivory eyes squeezed shut and he muttered, "No, of course you did not. You only mean to shame me."
"No!" No, he couldn't think that. She wouldn't hurt him for the world. Forgetting his anger, forgetting that he was strong enough to hurt her quite badly if he chose—though he never would choose such a thing—she raised a hand and laid her palm against his cheek. He flinched as if she'd slapped him. "Nuada, there is no shame in this."
His gaze was miserable when he opened his eyes. "No? Is there none, then?"
And he kissed her.
Dylan gasped as his mouth slanted over hers, her lips parting, and Nuada's tongue swept into her mouth. She raised both hands to shove against his chest, but the touch of his lips and the tender invasion of his tongue suddenly brought a thousand heady memories to life. How often had he kissed her like this? How often had he taken her mouth, somehow pouring fire and golden light into her body with just his kiss? But Eamonn…but Eamonn would…
Something stirred in her veins, a ghost of flame, and she couldn't think. Couldn't remember what she was afraid of. Couldn't do anything but collapse into Nuada's arms as he cradled her against him, tunneling his fingers into her hair, as he continued to kiss her, to drink from her like a man dying of thirst. Pressing in, groaning, taking but gently, gently, tenderly. She couldn't stop him, even though her chest ached and her hands shook. She couldn't stop him. She didn't want to stop him because this…because this…He cupped her shoulders, fingers biting but not quite hurting, exploring her mouth as she moaned into the kiss. His hands slid down from her shoulders, fisted in the sides of the black tunic she wore, fisted so tight she felt him shaking. He groaned into her mouth again. It sounded almost like…almost like a sob. But Nuada never cried. Never. Except when Eamonn…what had Eamonn done that made him cry?
She tasted something sweet on her tongue, two sweet things, mingling flavors, and salt. Her fingers tangled in his tunic, dragging him closer. Her heart hammered in her chest, bruising her bones. She thought she might choke on this sudden clutching, grasping need to kiss him. What was this? The Tears? The last traces of the gancanaugh poison?
No. No, it was…
The world swirled and tilted as strong hands smoothed over her hips and cupped the backs of the tops of her thighs, as strong arms lifted her up. Nuada tilted his head back a little, preventing their mouths from parting as he picked her up. Then the cold stone of the wall was against her back and she felt him, Nuada, press against her. She wore only the tunic, long enough to be a dress on her, but the cool Elven silk slid up her thighs, and the material of his clothes was rough as it rubbed against her skin. Her hands clutched at his hair. His hands flexed against her thighs, hot and strong.
Was she crying? It felt like it. Her chest hitched as she struggled to breathe. Her entire body trembled and her eyes burned even though she'd closed them tight to shut out what was happening, what she was doing, what they were doing.
"Forgive me," Nuada moaned into her mouth. "Forgive me, Dylan." His hands gripped her thighs tighter, pulling her taut against his body. "Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop, Dylan, for the love of…please…please, you must…" And then he couldn't say another word as they melted into each other again, feeding on each other, desperate for something that would wash away every dark thing they'd dredged up in the last days. Dylan gasped, whimpered as Nuada nipped at her lip, soothed the soft sting with a gentle swirl of his tongue. His mouth dragged over her jaw, latched onto her throat. He sucked, kissed, made the flesh tingle and her blood burn.
"Nuada," she gasped. "Nuada…please…please…" She forced his head back to hers, forced his mouth back to hers, needing him, feeling like she might die without him. What was happening to them? How could she do this? This was a thousand times worse than the need from the poison, a thousand times fiercer than anything she'd felt while Eamonn…while Eamonn had…
Nuada's frantic, desperate, almost angry kisses burned her mouth, had her tasting salt again, and sweetness. He made a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper as she tightened her legs against his hips, wanting…wanting…she didn't know what she wanted, only that he had to keep touching her, kissing her, or she would die.
"Dylan, we can't…we can't…"
"Nuada…"
"Make me stop," he moaned. "Order me…Dylan…gods…"
Somehow she tore her mouth from his. She gasped for breath, and so did he, pressing his forehead hard against her collarbone. Something warm and wet drip-dropped onto her skin and she realized Nuada was crying. His gasping breaths were sobs. The sweetness she'd tasted during the savage kiss had been his tears…and, Dylan realized as she touched her fingertips to her lips, his blood. Either he'd bitten himself, or she had bitten him. Someone had bitten her, too. She tasted the quicksilver-salt of her own blood, the bitter sea-pain of human tears. They were both crying, both bleeding.
Dylan wrapped her arms around Nuada as he shuddered and shook. "Shhh," she whispered, stroking his hair. He still held her up, still had her pinned, but somehow she didn't care, couldn't care. Something was desperately wrong with him. With her and with him. She felt it, the same way she could feel things from her twin brother. He needed her. Nuada needed her now. "Shhh," she crooned. "It's okay. It's okay."
She didn't remember why or when he put her down again, only that he didn't let go of her once he had. She didn't let him go, either. Only continued to pet his hair and whisper, "It's okay, Nuada. It's okay."
"It has not stopped," he rasped. "It should have stopped, I…it has been days. Weeks. Yet I want you still." He raised his head and stared into her eyes. One hand slid from the top of her shoulder down over her arm before he laced his fingers with hers. He pressed her hand up against the wall beside her head. Did the same with her other hand. "I want you," he growled, eyes still wet, tears still on his cheeks. "I burn for you, Dylan. Do you see what he has done to me?"
What to say? What to do? She didn't know. "Nuada…" She tried, but he clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, made a sound as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. Swallowing, Dylan whispered, "Nuada—"
"Don't," he spat. "Gods…don't. Do not say my name like that. Do not…" He drew a shuddering breath that seemed to knife through him. "I remember you, Dylan. Do you understand? I remember you. Your scent. Your taste. The feel of your skin beneath my hands, beneath my mouth…" Nuada laid his cheek against hers. His voice dropped to a tortured whisper, hot in her ear. A shudder went through her, equal parts fear and reaction, that phantom fire yet blazing in her veins. "I still remember everything. It will not leave me. The memories…they taunt me. Lying with you…the way you reacted to me…you cannot know. And I am ashamed to call myself a warrior, ashamed to call myself a man, when I can feel like this after what I have done to you." He sighed, made a sound as if he was in pain. "Yet when I was inside you, Dylan, I felt peace. Though I hungered, though I craved, though my mind was swamped by the poison…when I was with you, it felt so very right. As if your body was made for mine. And that sickens me because I—"
"He's done it to me, too," she confessed in a broken whisper, cutting him off. "I know what…what you're talking about." And she'd been so scared that if Nuada ever learned about it, about the memories of being with him, of how it had not only felt so very good, but so very right…she'd been terrified that he would turn on her for that if for nothing else. Turn against her, hate her. Even in the midst of the gray fog, she'd felt a dull sort of fear. "It felt right when you were with me. When it was just you. I…it was like…like it should have happened in another way."
Nuada pulled back to stare at her, the first flickers of something akin to hope in his gaze. "Yes. Yes. As if it was fated to happen, but not that way. As if we…as if we should have come together in a different way. I have never felt that with anyone, and to feel it with you…it sickens me."
"Because I'm human," she whispered, feeling fresh tears spill down her cheeks.
She tried to turn away, but he caught her face in his hand and gently forced her to look at him. He shook his head. "No. Because I raped you, Dylan. Because I hurt you, violated you, when everything in me rebels at the thought. And now to want you still, when you are so fragile, so…so haunted by what I did…" He shook his head again. "To feel any such thing for you…for my victim…do you not see how wrong that is? How twisted?"
Biting her lip, she nodded. "Yeah. I do." She dropped her head to his shoulder. "We're so messed up. Both of us. We are so messed up. I'm sick. We're sick." She sniffed back more tears. Slid her arms around him, though it felt dangerous to touch him. Like juggling hand-grenades that were missing their pins. "What has he done to us?"
"I do not know," Nuada rasped. "I do not know." He pressed his face against her hair. She felt his breath, warm against her ear and along her cheek. Suppressed emotion still thickened his voice when he whispered, "I am sorry I…sorry I forced myself on you like that. Just now. Please forgive me. I did not mean to…I did not want to, but I…I could not help it, I…" Nuada sucked in a breath. "What I feel…it poisons me, I…I ache for you, Dylan, I…"
Cradling his face, she whispered, "I know," as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I know, Nuada. I know. It's okay."
"Is it?" He whispered. And she understood. How could it be okay? How could either of them ever be okay again? They were toxic to each other…and yet necessary to each other.
Dylan nodded reassuringly. "It's okay. We…we'll be okay. One day. We will."
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It took more courage than he would have thought it possible for her to possess, for Dylan to take that first step into the kitchen. The desperate hunger that had roused her from her apathy a few days ago didn't plague her, didn't spur her on this time. But there was something she wanted. Something she wanted to do, for herself and for Nuada, and it had to be done in the kitchen. So, she told him, she would go in there.
Nuada went with her. He couldn't seem to bring himself to let her out of his sight after that vicious, stormy interlude in the den. He could still feel her imprinted on his hands. Still feel her legs, warm and lean, against his hips. Still taste her blood on his tongue. All of it served to terrify him. All of it served to rouse him until the blood fairly throbbed in his veins, hot enough to scald him. How could he want her? How could his body betray him this way? How could he have kissed her like that after everything else he'd done to her?
Yet she felt that same need, that same cancerous lust for him that he felt for her. Was she frightened of it? Frightened of him? He would rather she take his dirk and drive it into his heart than have her be afraid of him. Not Dylan. What would he do if she truly feared him now?
Dylan gently pushed him into a dining room chair before going to the wood-burning stove in her kitchen and pulling down a small frying pan from the cupboards above it. She studied the stove before looking down at her arms. The tunic's ebony sleeves hung well past her fingertips. She flicked a glance at Nuada before rolling up her sleeves carefully, in measured folds, until the cuffed sleeves rested just below her elbows. Then she dove into the cupboards and fridge. Nuada caught a glimpse of a cartoony magnet stuck to the fridge door of a penguin with wide eyes. It read, "You did what? With who? For how many cookies?"
"Milk, vanilla, Nevermore, and...Ah, powdered chocolate." Pouring some of the milk and a bit of vanilla into the skillet, she stoked the fire before tapping the chocolate powder into the pan and stirring slowly with a wooden spoon she pulled out of a drawer. Every so often she sprinkled another tiny pinch of the brown powder into the heating milk.
"What are you making?" Nuada asked, sotto voce, to keep his mind on something other than the fact that every time she rose up on tiptoe, using the counter to support herself, the hem of the tunic rose up to mid-thigh. His fingers twitched as he remembered sliding his hands over those slender hips and down over her thighs before lifting her up. In that moment it had taken nearly all of his control to keep from carrying her to the sofa and divesting her of the single troublesome garment that separated her bare skin from his touch.
Do it now, a cold and all-too-familiar voice hissed in his mind. His hands convulsed around the edge of the table. The breath stilled in his lungs. Simply go to her, Eamonn's voice hissed, and coax her to you. Set her on the counter. Spread her thighs. Take her there. She wants it. She wants you. Did you not see how she writhed for you mere moments ago? How she melted into your kiss? You want her, Silverlance. Feel how your blood burns. And your whore wants you, as well. You can smell it on her. Take her. Take her here, now. Do it. Do it. Take her. It will be everything you remember and more…
He bit his tongue, hard, until his own blood flooded his mouth, drowning out the salt of hers. The slice of pain helped to drown out the hissing voice. Dropping his face into his hand, Nuada pressed hard against his eyes. He had a headache. The throbbing pain lancing his temples was nearly as bad as the ache of desire pulsing through his body.
What was wrong with him? He was a monster. A heartless, soulless beast with no honor. How could Dylan treat him so gently after he'd practically attacked her in the other room? How could she want him after all Eamonn had made him do to her?
"I'm making hot chocolate," Dylan murmured, jerking him from his self-recriminations. "I used to make it for my brother when he had nightmares. And I make it for myself when I'm having a really rotten day. I'm adding Nevermore to it so you can have some too. The iron in the chocolate won't hurt you." She tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the skillet and then propped it against the frying pan's rim. "But that needs to simmer for about ten minutes, so you and I can talk."
She took a seat across from him, and his skin prickled with heat at her nearness. He couldn't help the reflexive withdrawal that put a few more inches between them. Yet at the same time, his body yearned toward her. The blood burned in his veins. What was this? Why was this happening?
Dylan folded her hands and set them on the table. She looked at Nuada. "When are we getting married?"
It wasn't what he had expected her to say. He swallowed, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. He ran a hand through his hair. It didn't surprise him to see that his hand shook. "At the earliest…tomorrow," he replied. "The first night of the Harvest Moon. If you have suitable clothes."
"I can get them by tomorrow," she mumbled, looking at the tabletop. "What about you?"
He nodded without looking at her; he kept his gaze fixed on a small line scored in the wooden tabletop, as if from a chopping knife. He cleared his throat. "Do you…do you wish a ring?"
Leaning back, Dylan folded her arms defensively across her stomach. "It's up to you, I guess."
They were dancing around each other, Nuada realized, trying to avoid saying something that would throw them back into each other's arms. He cleared his throat again. "If you wish it, I…my mother left me her betrothal ring." The words escaped him without conscious thought; he couldn't seem to hold them back. "If you wish a ring…it would honor me for you to wear it."
"Your mom's ring?" Dylan echoed. He risked a glance at her face and saw her confusion. "But…but you adored your mom. You can't give me that."
"I want to," he found himself saying. Why? Why did he want to? Because suddenly the desire to see her wearing his mother's betrothal ring, forged of pure white gold and bejeweled with three Iaran sapphires, surged up so strongly in his chest that he could barely breathe around the need to ask it of her. "Will you wear it, my lady?"
After a moment, Dylan nodded. "I'd be honored."
Since he couldn't look at her face without having to strangle the urge to kiss her again, he found himself staring at the way she folded her arms and cupped her elbows, the way her right thumb pressed hard into the flesh of her upper left arm. She fidgeted for a moment.
"What will we do? I mean," she hastened to add, "when we're married. How do we…how does the ceremony go?"
He cleared his throat again because he needed a moment to swallow regret and remorse. "Traditionally, we would be wed beneath the royal Eildon Tree in the gardens of Findias, but any hawthorn tree will do."
"There's a hawthorn tree in my yard," she mumbled.
Nuada nodded. "Good, good. That will do well enough. Beneath the tree, we will exchange vows—I in Gaelic, you in English, as it is your native tongue—and since we will have them, we will exchange rings. We…then we exchange the customary kiss, the priest will pronounce us wed. That will be it."
Eyes distant, Dylan nodded. "I see. And after that? Does it count if we…if we don't consummate the marriage?"
His mouth went desert-dry as he thought of how they could ever possibly steel themselves enough to touch each other again, much less join together as husband and wife. He could rise to the occasion; he knew that. But Dylan…he thought of taking her, perhaps in his bed in the underground sanctuary where they had spent three moons together before, feeling the hot pleasure course through him…while she lay beneath him, eyes shut tight, biting her lip to stifle her sobs of fear because when it came time for the act itself, she couldn't bear to have him touch her like that again. Gods…
Yet she was entirely correct. It would not be legal if they didn't consummate their union. And his father, suspicious of all Nuada said or did, could by rights order him to swear that their marriage had been fully consummated, and if it hadn't…because of honor, Nuada would be forced to tell the king so. And if they hadn't, the king could have their marriage annulled. Why he would, Nuada didn't know, but could the prince truly risk it? His father had proved somewhat unpredictable in the past. What if he thought Nuada was using this marriage as some sort of trick, a way to gain political support or power? What if Dylan had something to do with the Golden Army? The crown prince knew she didn't and he could perhaps swear as much to the king…but what if Balor didn't believe him? What then? There were so many possible dangers, so many what-if's…
No, Nuada couldn't risk the safety of his lady, his charge, and the safety of her unborn babes by relying too heavily on Balor.
Eyes gone a dingy, xanthous gray met Dylan's. He stared into her eyes, trying to read her, trying to understand what she wanted from him, what she truly thought…but those tired blue eyes were calm, and as unfathomable as the sea. What to say to her? What could he say to her?
At last he said the only thing he could think of. "No, it does not 'count,' as you say. I…" He flattened his palms against the table, refusing to allow himself any other show of nerves. "I promise you…I promise you I will be gentle, Dylan."
She scoffed, and he had to fight the urge to flinch. He was becoming a coward, no better than a feeble old woman afraid of her own shadow. Dylan's slightest gesture or unhappy word could gut him easily these days. What had happened to his courage? To his strength? But he knew. He'd been raped of it until he had nothing clean left of himself…except, perhaps, his need to do right by Dylan. His need to care for her. He would take care of her, and the babies. He had that left.
"Gentle," Dylan echoed softly. She shook her head. "Judging by what happened in the den, I doubt it's going to be gentle."
"I swear to you," Nuada insisted, forcing his voice to remain steady, "I will not hurt you. Not…not again. I swear it."
Her look was excruciatingly gentle when she leveled it at him. She reached out and slipped her hand under his where it lay on the table, curling her fingers around his in a show of trust that left him breathless. "I know," Dylan whispered. "I know you would never hurt me. It's just…what happened to us out there?"
"I do not know," he confessed. "I have never felt such…such mind-consuming, all-encompassing need, save when…"
Dylan finished the thought for him. "Except when we'd been poisoned." She bit her lip, and his pulse quickened. "Is it the poison?" She asked softly. "Could that be it? It's like…I mean, I know Branwen's Tears can be addictive. Could that be the problem? Are we…are we somehow addicted to each other?"
Nuada shrugged helplessly. "Perhaps. I do not know, Dylan. I only know that this wanting has only grown stronger, not less so, as time has passed. Forgive me. I wish I understood. It…it is not the same as before. It is different in its way."
She leaned toward him. Squeezed his hand as if in reassurance. "Different how?"
He hesitated. "Have you…ever wanted someone?" He asked. "I know your history, my lady, and I know animals posing as men have often used you ill. I do not wish to assume you have ever felt…felt lust for a man ere now." She shook her head. "Ah. Men…feel desire differently, I think, than women. It is…complicated. You would think it simple, perhaps, but the feelings stirred by lust for someone a man cares for are different from what the Tears stir up in the blood."
"How?"
Nuada pressed his lips together until they tingled as he tried to put into words what he barely understood himself. Agitated, he surged to his feet. Paced the length of the kitchen. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he turned back toward Dylan. She watched him from her chair, no condemnation on her face or in her eyes.
"When I look at you…I see a woman I have wronged, someone I care for whom I have hurt deeply. Yet I also see a very beautiful woman. Perhaps one of the most beautiful women I know." He watched the color flood her cheeks, watched her duck her head a little. "There is a vulnerability to you, a gentleness, a…a sort of innocent sweetness that makes me want to…" Nuada scoffed at himself. "It sounds foolish."
Dylan folded her arms across the back of her chair and propped her chin there. "No," she protested gently. "It's not foolish. Tell me."
"I want to…" He raked his hands through his hair. "I want to wrap you in my shirt like a helpless kitten, hold you close to me, warm you and protect you…shield you from the darkness that has constantly shadowed your life until now. Yet at the same time, I…I want to…" He laid his hands against the counter. Bowed his head.
He heard the creak of the wooden chair, the almost silent tread of her bare foot on the polished wooden floor. He felt her, warm and too close, too real, a few inches behind him. Every muscle in his body went taut as a bowstring when her hand landed, light as a butterfly, on his shoulder. She whispered, "Tell me."
"At the same time," he whispered, his voice roughening to a growl, "I want to pin you with my body, spread your thighs, and take you again and again until I have no strength left. I want to fall down at your feet, beg your forgiveness, swear myself to you," which he had never wanted to do with anyone, ever, not even Naya or Yukihime, and they had meant more to him than any women before or since them except…"Yet at the same time, I want to force you to your knees, my fingers tangled in your hair and your mouth at my service."
Was he frightening her? Was she disgusted by him? She should have been frightened, should have been disgusted. How dare he say these things to her? Never mind that she had asked; he should say no more. Yet the words tumbled from his lips unbidden when he added so softly he wondered if she could even hear him, "I want to make love to you through the night, Dylan. I want to greet the dawn tangled together with you. When I hold you, I want to breathe in your scent and smell my own mingled with yours. I want to be able to smell you on my skin. I want to fall asleep with your head on my chest, listening to your heartbeat, feeling your breath, knowing you sleep in my arms, that in dreams you taste my kiss, feel my hands on your body, that when you sigh and whisper in slumber, you are sighing for me, that you are whispering my name…I have never wanted that from anyone before."
At long last he turned to look at her, half-afraid of what he would see on her face. Fear? Revulsion? Neither of those things was visible in her expression. Instead, she simply looked…heartbroken. Moving as if afraid of startling a wild thing, she reached out, her hand alighting with all the softness of a snowflake against his cheek. Tension whipped through him. His heart knifed sideways in his suddenly-tight chest. He couldn't breathe; why couldn't he breathe? Dylan was the only person who could touch him who didn't make him feel like a wild creature in a cage, but now he couldn't seem to draw a breath.
Her voice held impossible tenderness when she whispered, "Do you think it's that different for me?" The invisible fist squeezing his chest tightened mercilessly. Dylan shook her head. "You don't get it. You think I should be disgusted by what you feel because of what happened to us…but you don't think I feel the same? That I'm not waiting for you to turn on me because my body wants something so…sick? So wrong? After what I did to you…Nuada, I have never wanted to be with anyone. Ever. Do you understand? Do you get what that means? How messed up that is? I've been someone's…someone's whore-doll most of my life, it seems like. I've never felt anything like lust for anyone. No lust. No pleasure when someone touched me. I mean, no one's done the things you did…not where I was willing, I mean…but sometimes they…sometimes they tried to make me…enjoy it. I didn't. Ever. Until you. And now I want that. Even though it's so twisted, I want it. Do you get that? Do you understand?"
Nuada swallowed, mouth dry. Oh, yes, he understood. He covered Dylan's hand on his cheek with his own. Breathless with a sudden looming dread threatening to grind him to dust, he demanded hoarsely, "What has he done to us? What have you done to me? What is this?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. It sounds like…I mean, I…I feel safe with you, even now. Even after what happened in the den. I'm not scared. I'm not disgusted. I want to be here. With you. I mean, I don't mean I want us to…I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want him to hurt you. But…but now it's like, whenever I think about not being physically close to you, at least in the same building if not the same room, I can't breathe. I can't breathe with you gone. I've never had that before. Not even with John. You…whatever I did to you, you did it to me, too."
He touched her face. His palm curved to fit the contours of her cheek, his thumb brushed along the delicate edge of her cheekbone. Dylan drew in a quick, jumping breath. Somehow he managed to ask, "What is this, Dylan? You are a mind-healer; are we mad? Has he driven us mad?"
Dylan laughed softly, the faintest edge of hysteria beneath her voice. Her eyelashes drifted down to form dark, lacy crescents against her scarred cheeks. She licked her lips. "You want a professional analysis?"
No, he wanted answers. He wanted her to look at him again. Wanted her to tilt her face up so he could lean down and taste her mouth again. Wanted to lay her down on the den sofa and chase passion into the night, tangled in the dream of her. But he said, "Yes."
"It sounds like…" She swallowed audibly. "Like love."
He nearly choked.
Her eyes shone wetly when she added, "Some kind of twisted, warped version of love. Something…sick. Obsessive. Something unhealthy. We…we need each other. We're too dependent. Too…too involved with each other now. I don't think…I don't think we can stop. Especially once we…get married. We can't stop."
Without thinking about why it was reckless—dangerous, foolish, suicidal—he pulled her against him. Every soft curve of her body molded to his unyielding frame. Dylan's eyes widened; she reminded the prince of a frightened little rabbit staring up at a wolf. But when he lightly gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, her lips parted, and she let out a slow sigh.
"Do you want to stop?" He asked softly, wondering where the words came from. He needed to let her go. He needed to get out of here. He needed to run, run fast and far, because the maelstrom of madness that had begun the night he'd come to her cottage and found her with Eamonn was slowly sucking him in.
Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times before she whispered, "I…I don't…we can't do this yet. We're not…we have to be…Nuada…"
"Do you want to stop?" He repeated. "I do not mean this…yearning. I do not mean seduction or lovemaking. I mean this…this madness. This dark sickness we share. Are you afraid of this dependency, as you call it? Our need to be with each other? Do you wish it to stop? Do you wish you did not need me with you? That I did not have to be at your side? Is that your wish?"
Bottom lip quivering, she shook her head. "But it has to stop, this isn't right. It isn't good for us. Either of us. We…we need help."
"Is that what you want? For me to walk away? For us to part? For us to find solace in others?" The thought of another male with his hands on her, touching her as Eamonn had, of possibly hurting her, making her cry, frightening her, forcing her…it sent rage pulsing through his blood like poison.
"N-no," she whispered. Tears thickened her voice. She shook her head, blinking hard. "No."
"You call this love?" Nuada asked, voice dropping to a velvet growl that sent a tremor through Dylan. "This savagery, this depraved hunger…you name this love?" He leaned down, his lips just brushing hers in a whispering caress, before he shifted, pressing his lips to her ear. "Not love, Dylan. No. We are sick, we two. Broken."
She drew a shuddering, hitching breath. Sniffled. "We need therapy," she whispered.
He shook his head. "No, Dylan. I need you. And may the gods have mercy on me for it," he added, brushing his lips over the spot just beneath her ear. "And on you. On us both. Are we damned to this madness, this darkness? I think we must be. Why else would our bodies cry out for each other, even after the hell we have somehow managed to escape together?" He gripped her upper arms hard, almost hard enough to bruise, but he was careful not to cross that line. "Are you my curse? Are you my damnation?" Another whispering kiss against her skin. "Answer me."
"I don't know," she breathed. "I don't know. Nuada…don't…I can't…"
Gold-kissed ivory eyes pinned her when he pulled back to look down at her. His gaze caressed her face, tracing every line and curve and feature. "I know," he said gently. Her faith. It was one of the few things yet keeping her sane. Her faith kept him from bedding her before the exchange of their vows. He had to respect that part of her, it was so integral to who and what she was. He could seduce her, of course. He could rouse the fire in her body to a fever pitch and then tumble her into bed and drown them both in pleasure until they were utterly exhausted…but what would that do to her? "I know, little one. I can wait. I will wait…for you. But I beg of you, Dylan…have mercy. Kiss me just once more."
Even though it was disgusting of him to want it. Even though it was so wrong of him to ask for it, and wrong of her to give it. Even though it was yet another sin against her carved into his soul…he needed her kiss. Just one more kiss…
Her fingers brushed his cheeks before sliding into his hair. She rose up on tiptoe, and he felt her trembling before he captured her mouth, hungry for her. Ravenous. He walked a very thin line—walked the razor's edge—between desire and madness in that moment as Dylan refused to open her mouth to him again, giving him only her lips. He wanted her to open her mouth. Needed her to. His heart thudded like a pummeling fist against his breastbone as he bit back a groan, because he would never force her. If she didn't want to surrender to him again…or if, for some reason, she couldn't…he wouldn't force her.
No force necessary, that insidious voice whispered in the back of his skull. A few flicks of the tongue, a few caresses, and she will open more than her mouth for you, Silverlance. She will do it…for you. Ask her. Persuade her. It isn't difficult. The little whore is desperate for you. You know she is.
Shut up, he snarled silently as he kissed Dylan with excruciating gentleness. Her lips were like silken fire, so sweet, so maddening. He caught Dylan's lush bottom lip between his teeth, nipping just hard enough to make her gasp. A flick of his tongue against her lip soothed the soft hurt. She shivered in his arms. Gasped when he nipped her again. To that voice, he snapped, Shut up, damn you!
When Dylan pulled back, Nuada had to fight not to lean toward her and prolong the kiss. Dylan swallowed and whispered, "Tomorrow?"
It took him a minute to remember what was so blasted important about tomorrow—their wedding. Their quick, impromptu, haphazard marriage affair. But there was little time. Balor had summoned him back to court, and he could not go, with Dylan carrying his unborn children, unless he returned with her as his wife.
"Yes," he whispered tenderly. "Tomorrow."
"Everything's happening so fast," she whispered, dropping her forehead to his chest. "And this…why does it feel so wrong and so right at the same time, Nuada? What's wrong with us?"
"So much," he replied. "I would not know where to begin. Perhaps we cannot love as others do. Perhaps he broke something within us."
She shivered. "What if this…whatever it is…is toxic? What if it's bad for us? It feels…so…"
He laid his cheek against her hair, feeling the silky strands catch in the stubble of his emerging beard. "Wrong," he mumbled. "Yes, I know. And yet so right. As if this should happen, but in a different way. Just as before. Perhaps…perhaps we are sick in our very souls. Perhaps we are mad. I do not know. All I know is that this wedding must happen, however conflicted or tormented we feel. For the children's sake."
After a moment, Dylan nodded. "For the children." Then her eyes widened and she squeaked, "Oh, the milk! I think it's boiling…" She turned to look at the frying pan on the stove. Sure enough, the milk was just beginning to boil. "Ah! My hot chocolate! No, don't do that," she protested to the skillet. "No, no, no…"
Nuada didn't know why, but something about his betrothed trying to salvage the hot chocolate made him smile. It was simply such an ordinary thing. Something innocent. It lightened some of the weight on his shoulders.
Perhaps things would work out after all. Somehow.
.
.
.
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Author's Note: I know it's been forever since I updated. Literally, this has been my writing schedule for the last however-many months—go to my beta's house with 1-2 chapters of my Loki-centric Thor fanfic Darkness, 1 chapter of Once Upon a Time, 1 chapter of my original novel, and 25+ logo thumbnails (for an art project I'm doing); then spend the next 5 days (not counting Sunday, which would be the 6th day) trying to meet my quota again. The only reason I managed to get this done was because, due to illness between me AND my beta, I met my quota but couldn't drop it off, giving me a week of catching up on my other fics. Yay! I plan on trying to update Once Upon a Winter's Night as well, and my other Nuada-centric Hellboy fanfic, Snow White, Blood Red (as well as my other Loki fic, A Curse as Dark as Night, and Cold). We'll see how that goes.
Anyway, let me know what you think of this chapter, huh? Both Nuada and Dylan are in a really dark place right now, and aren't up to dealing with their physical attraction in a healthy way, but they were already in love and attracted to each other before the start of this fic, and I had to figure out how that would influence the events of this variation. Also, they are actually slightly addicted to each other because of the Tears and the circumstances of their first sexual encounter (a common side-effect of Branwen's Tears). Just an fyi.