Author's Note: sorry the chapter is late! I have to dictate my chapters into my phone using the Google voice-to-text software and, as you can imagine, that's not always very accurate. Also it won't let me put quotation marks in. I'm not sure how to make it do that but I'm working on it. Anyway, I'm not planning on disappearing on anyone, it's just that I've been sick a lot and so it's hard for me to dictate because of my voice. I keep losing it. And I have to dictate the chaps for this and for the original Once. So if February 13 goes by without a chapter, no fear! I'm still going to have a February chapter, it just might be a little late!
Anyway, I figured I should reward your guys' patience with both some political intrigue and some…ahem…stuff. Enjoy!
Quick thing. I use the concept of safe words in this chapter. The reason I did this is because it is my personal belief that everyone should have a safe word if they are sexually active. Whether you are into bondage or not. People think that safe words are only for bondage relationships, but they're not. It is really easy to mistake stop for don't stop in the middle of a sexually heightened moment. Safe words can make it easy to avoid any kind of misinterpretation or lapse in communication.
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Once Upon a Moonless Dark
Chapter Eighteen
The Beast Unsheathes His Claws
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She woke in the dark, phantom hands clutching at her, pinching and bruising. She opened her mouth to scream. Only a feeble squeak wriggled out. She thrashed against the implacable hands, screams echoing in her skull, crashing against her brain.
It was him. It was him, he was back, the dark Elf, the monster, he was going to hurt her all over again. He was going to torture her, kill Becan, kill Nuada, rape her, torture her, kill her and her babies, he was…
Nuada. Where was Nuada? Had that monster already killed him? Where was her prince? Where was Nuada?
Nuada! She cried out for him silently, begging, and felt something stir and begin to throb, to pulse, in the back of her mind. Nuada!
The bedclothes beside her heaved up and suddenly, the room was ablaze with light—the fire on the hearth roared to life, candles flickered with magically summoned flames, and the blown-glass lamp on the bedside table flared up. The darkness—and the hands with their vicious, hungry malice—fled under the wash of golden light, leaving Dylan sweating and trembling, white to the lips, with her husband leaning over her, stroking warmth back into her cheeks with gentle fingers.
Dylan! Little one, are you alright? I'm here, he whispered into her mind as he gathered her up, and her shaking arms stole around his neck. She pulled hersElf close, as close as she could get, burrowing into him. I'm here. You are safe, I'm here. It was only an ill dream, you're safe now. We're safe.
He was here, he was here, she sobbed into his chest. He came back.
"No," Nuada breathed aloud. His grip tightened. "He's dead, Dylan. He's dead. He can't hurt either of us anymore. Never again."
"He wouldn't stop, he wouldn't, he kept hurting me, kept forcing—" She broke off, practically choking on the words. Buried her face in Nuada's bare chest. She could still feel it after the nightmare, still feel him. Hands rough and uncaring, fingers biting, teeth meeting in her skin and drawing blood. She swallowed a sob.
After a glorious, frantic hour beneath the pounding, deliciously hot spray of the shower the previous evening where they had tried to wash away the cruelty of their interview with the king, Nuada had helped Dylan dry off...which has led to the tantalizing strokes of Elven fingers and soft drying cloth against her skin. Caresses that had left her breathless, restless. Aching. Looking into her eyes, Nuada had seen the hunger twisting through her like molten wire. So he'd picked her up and carried her to his bed. They hadn't needed nightclothes for any of the things they'd done before falling asleep tangled up in each other.
So now the prince held her, naked and shivering, her tears scalding as they dripped onto his bare skin. There have been countless nights in the sanctuary after their wedding when she'd woken screaming or weeping from nightmares of their shared hell in the cottage. Too, there had been nights when he had jolted awake and then sobbed like a heartsick child in loving, mortal arms. Not every night, not for either of them, but often enough that they knew how to step with each other. And now she cuddled into him, knowing he would never push her away, never turn his back on her. Here was sanctuary. Safety, after a fashion. Nuada would die before abandoning her. He'd proven it again and again. And now, with their babies into the bargain, he'd grown willing to do a great deal in order to stay alive to protect them. She knew that.
"He's dead," Nuada crooned against her hair. "That bastard is dead now."
What if he comes back? The thought stole her breath and left her icy. She knew in her head that the cruel dark Elf was dead, that he was never coming back after what she and Nuada had done to their tormentor. She'd had bruises on her palms for days after strangling him with the silky rope of a discarded nightgown while Nuada had rammed his knife into the other Elf's belly over and over again. But it didn't stop that frigid terror from stealing into her blood and freezing her to the marrow.
He cannot, little one.
How do you know? There could be some spell—
There's not enough left of him, Nuada murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Steel crept into his voice. When I disposed of the carrion, I made sure of that.
Dylan pulled back to look up at him. She's never heard the details of what Nuada had done to the body left behind after they had killed the dark Elf. Dylan had been barely conscious on the couch in the den, drowning in the waves of pain and pleasure still ricocheting through her tortured body, so she hadn't seen anything, and until now, she hadn't really found a reason to ask what had happened.
"What...what did you do?" Maybe knowing would help. Maybe then the fear of the dark Elf returning would fade.
Nuada studied her for a long moment. His moon-pale skin seemed to take on an ashen hue, and his golden eyes dulled to xanthous gray. Gently, he laid her down on the bed once more and settled the blankets around her to ward off the early spring night chill. Smoothed back her mussed hair.
While you slept, he breathed into her mind, I took the carrion from your bedroom and carried it out into the snow. I dropped it at Wink's feet, and I bade him rend it limb from limb.
Dylan's eyes grew wide. Rend…
Do you want the rest of the tale? Nuada asked tonelessly.
There's more? She asked, sotto voce. He nodded. Then yes.
Wink rent the limbs. I remember closing my eyes to listen to the snapping of tearing sinew, the crunch of our enemy's bones cracking. The blood spurted in silver jets as my eyes opened, but not for long. He'd been dead for a couple days, so there was no heart to pump that foul blood. Then I carved out that foul, rotten thing in his chest he claimed was his heart and burned it to ash.
Dylan held her breath. Nuada spoke softly, absently, while gently stroking her cheek with two fingers. It was a gory, macabre bedtime story...but though it sent a cool shiver through her, it comforted her, too.
Finally, Wink took that monster's head in his hands and split his skull. Then we offered the carcass to the carrion-eating fae of Central Park, and stood back to watch them feast.
She reached up and caressed his cheek. His gaze sharpened, focused on her face. He cleared his throat.
So you see, little sorceress, he is dead as dust. I left him nothing but broken bones stripped clean, sucked dry even of his festering marrow. He is dead, gutted and broken, heart and brain devoured. He is dead. He is dead, and he will never lay his filthy, stinking hands on you or me or our babes ever again.
He laid a hand on her rounded belly, and magic spilled into her, warm and lovely and calming. Dylan smiled a little. For all of his initial reluctance, even fear, Nuada had thrown himself into the role of father and protector. She had no doubt he would slaughter any fae or human that threatened her or their unborn children.
Even the king. Even his father.
She cupped his cheek. You'll make a good father.
A look like pain flashed across his face. He turned his face from her, but she turned him back to her. His face shuttered, trying to block her out. But he couldn't, and they both knew it. Not after their months in the sanctuary. Dylan kept her expression the same, her faith in him obvious on her face. At last, Nuada hung his head.
"How can you look at me so?" He rasped, breath touching warm on her bare shoulder. "I am a monster, yet you—"
No, she murmured. No. When he didn't answer, didn't look at her, she slid her hands into his hair and yanked sharply on the golden strands. His head jerked up. No. Would I give my body to a monster? She demanded. He opened his mouth to answer, but she pressed on. Would I let a monster lie beside me? Would I let a monster kiss me? Would I let a monster touch me?
When his eyes slid away from her, she took the hand he'd settled on her belly and slid it up, along the pale slope to the soft swell of her breast. Nevada's breath shuddered out of him. When he met her gaze, his eyes had turned to bronze-kissed ivory.
Dylan—His fingers flexed. His voice quavered.
You told me months ago that I invited nothing he did to me. That I wasn't a whore—
You're not, Nuada cried. Dylan—
He was a monster, she said. I did not let him kiss me, or touch me, or rape me. Do you understand? He hadn't realized what he was saying, she thought. Hadn't understood what his words about his own monstrosity implied about her role in the hell they'd endured together.
Yes, Nuada whispered, and she saw that he did understand now. Forgive me, my wife. I spoke without thought.
Yes, she said gently. You did. You are no monster, Nuada. You are my hero, my rescuer, my prince. My husband. And while I know your...father is lousy at both of his jobs, I don't believe he'll poison what we have here together. He can't destroy us. He can't break us. Nothing can. We won't let it.
Nuada swallowed. How can you have such faith in me?
She moved his hand to her belly again, and he relaxed just a little. She smiled a little more widely. Said softly, Do you know that when you put your hand here, you always smile? He blinked at her. Shook his head. Yes, she said. Every time. That is why I have faith in you. That, and because I know you. I see you.
I...I did not...The prince trailed off, then bent his head, overcome. Hair like starlit spider silk whispered against her skin, and then Nuada's lips brushed the crest of her belly. He kissed her belly once, twice, three times. Small, chaste kisses. But they grew longer, and far less chaste, as he moved up along her stomach, to her sternum, between her breasts. He pressed hot, fervent kisses to the mound of white scar tissue over her heart, that skin so exquisitely sensitive. She cried out, spine arching as he nipped at the scars, at the unmarked side of her clavicle, at the long column of her throat. His mouth burned against her skin, seared. She thought he would kiss her mouth then, but he instead moved back down once more, using teeth and tongue and the soft, short beard stubble he'd forgotten to shave off in the shower, using it all to tease, to torment—a sweet torture, and an offering of apology for the nightmares he couldn't erase and the insult he hadn't meant to give.
Dylan threaded her fingers through his silken hair, writhing, gasping his name. It stunned her, always, that he could make her want him, need him like this. But he could always leave her in a breathless, mewing, burning haze. She sobbed his name, shuddering as pleasure washed over her again and again and again. When the shudders subsided and she could think again, she found Nuada hovering over her with a soft, tender look on his face.
You're so beautiful like this, he whispered, and kissed the tip of her nose. She actually giggled, and his face broke out in a wide smile. Flushed with pleasure, warm, languid, but still ready for me. So very beautiful. You cannot know…
Come here, she murmured. He bent down to her, kissed her. She tasted his adoration, his desperation. Tasted the echoes of his own nightmares that so closely mirrored her own. Tasted them, and soothed them while soothing her own, while he drugged her with his mouth, with his hands, his body. He sank into her at last, and she fell into him, a headlong plunge into relief and release and sanctuary.
It was a long time before they slept again.
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In the morning, they dressed in easy silence. After months in the sanctuary, they were used to each other. Used to the little habits and nuances of each other. But Nuada knew that Dylan didn't want to leave the middling sanctuary of the royal suite just yet. Not easily would she forget the pain and fear of the previous night. So Nuada summoned a servant and commanded that breakfast should be brought to his chambers for himself and his wife. Let the king and everyone else in Bethmoora make of that what they would.
Dylan was still pale. She hadn't lost the moonbeam pallor of their time in the sanctuary, away from sunlight and moonlight and starlight, their world lit only by candles and the fire on the hearth. He wondered if she would ever regain the soft, sun-kissed glow she had once possessed when he first knew her. But he also knew that venturing into the daylight would be difficult for her. It was difficult enough for him. They had spent so much time hiding in the underground sanctuary. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Perhaps they should have left earlier. They would have avoided the king's wrath that way.
Well, whatever. There was no mending the past now.
She sat at his window, the early morning sunlight just beginning to kiss the horizon. Dawn came late, even in spring. The equinox would not be for a week yet. Nuada approached her, his footsteps preternaturally silent as he moved on bare feet across the rich, burgundy carpet. Yet Dylan did not jump or start in surprise when he laid his hands on her shoulders. She had known he was coming. Of course she did. She was aware of him at all times, as he was of her. They were like twin satellites caught in each other's orbit.
Perhaps it was sick, twisted. Nuada couldn't bring himself to care. All he could think about was being near her. For now, that would be enough. Let the world wait another hour, another day, another week, another month. A year, even. He didn't care.
The realization that he didn't care staggered him. He had lived for four thousand years, forty centuries, for his people. He had been crown prince, first and foremost, his entire life. He had lived for the well-being of his people, the continuance of his kingdom, the protection of the Fair Folk. Yet now he could not see past what was required of him to preserve the lives and well-being of this woman and her unborn children. He had well and truly lost his honor after all. And yet, he found that he could not seem to bring himself to care about that, either.
Are you well? He pushed the thought gently into her mind, where it came to rest with all the lightness of a falling snowflake.
She leaned back against him, lifting her chin and tilting her head back so that she could look up at him. She didn't smile, but her eyes warmed from glacial sapphire to rain-swept lakes in autumn. She was so very beautiful. Pain and sorrow had tempered her beauty until it was nearly exquisite. When he looked at her, part of him wanted to die. Another part of him wanted to live. And yet another part of him ached to shed the thin veneer of civility he often wore and sink into wildness and magic and pure feeling. He didn't know what it was about her that did this to him. He didn't care. He had learned from her to simply accept things as they were. To work within them. There was something freeing in that.
Breakfast will be coming soon.
Good. I'm hungry.
I am glad you still have your appetite. You know that you must eat of course. You must keep up your strength.
Don't fuss over me, she said ever so gently, a soft trail of laughter under her words. You sound like an old man. You don't need to worry about me.
He lifted an eyebrow and mock outrage. Old man? He echoed. That is not what you said last night.
Oh, I'm sorry, stuffy old man. Have I bruised your fragile ego?
He slid his hands down from her shoulders, along her arms, fingertips dancing lightly over the silk of her sleeves. He felt the gooseflesh rise on her skin through the thin, hunter-green silk. Felt the shiver whisper down her spine. Resting his chin on top of her head, he allowed a shadowed smile to curve his mouth. You cannot bruise my ego, mo duinne. I need no soothing after the things that occurred last night. The sounds you made and the things you said have bolstered me quite well.
He grinned when he felt more than saw her blush. Even now, even after all of this, he could still bring the color flooding into her cheeks. That she could still retain such innocence gave him hope for his own sake as well as hers. If she could hold on to her innocence to any degree, perhaps he could somehow regain some of his honor. Perhaps he could take back his lost courage. One day. Maybe.
Dylan leaned back against him again, trying to ignore the heat in her face. It was so easy to fall into intimacy with him. So easy to make demands, to surrender to his own. But in the aftermath, she always found herself turning so shy. She couldn't figure out why. Couldn't understand why her own boldness made her so uncomfortable later on. She wanted to ask her sisters, Petra or Pauline or Francesca, about it. Wanted to, but didn't dare. They still didn't know that she was pregnant. Still didn't know that she was married. They had no idea what had happened. And she had no way of telling them so that they could understand. What would her family do when they discovered she was going to have twins? That she had married without telling them? Would they be angry? Or would they even care? She wasn't sure which possibility filled her with more dread.
Nuada's arms came around her. She felt his heart beating, steady as war drums, against her spine.
Do not fret so, little witch. The harpy shrews are of no consequence. You need not strive to impress them any longer. They cannot harm you or dictate to you or control you in any way. You are princess of Bethmoora. You are future queen of this kingdom. You need not fear them anymore.
A sad smile ghost it across her face. For some reason, she loved it when he called her little witch. Loved it when he called her any sweet or pet name. Loved it even more when he whispered those names in a tortured voice in the middle of the night while her hands and her lips wrung gasps and moans and cries from him. She affected him just as strongly as he affected her. There was something very liberating in that knowledge. Reassuring.
But she didn't think her siblings would understand that, either. John certainly hadn't. He had only let it go after she had begun to cry. He hadn't wanted to distress her any further. Not after what she had told him regarding Eamonn and Nuada and the fortnight they had spent in her cottage. She hadn't told him everything. Barely sketched out the bare bones of it all. But it had been enough to make John leave her be when she had begged him to.
But her sisters were not her twin. They were not John. They had never been understanding. Were rarely ever kind. She didn't know what they would do. Didn't know how they would push. She loved them. She couldn't simply ignore them or forget they existed. Nuada despised them for what he had seen in her memories, but she couldn't divorce herself from the love or the anger so easily. She couldn't forget the ties that bound her to the human world still.
What are we going to do about your father? She didn't want to ask, because she knew he was still raw from the night before, from the accusations that horrible old man had made. But she also knew that they needed to discuss it.
I don't know. We have made our first move. He attempted to make his, and we thwarted it. Now it is time for him to make another, I suppose.
It took her several long minutes before she had gathered enough courage to ask, Do you think he'll try to take the babies away from us?
It is unlikely that he will try, Nuada said, voice as cool as an Arctic wind, but if he does try, then he will die. Simple as that.
You don't want to fight him, Dylan said softly. I know you don't.
Nuada shrugged and didn't take his chin from atop her head. No, I do not want to fight my father. Despite everything, despite the wars and the death and the pain, despite his cowardice and his dishonor, I love my father. But I will not stand by and let him harm my children. He has taken, broken, destroyed so much that is good and precious in this world and in your world. I will not let him take the babes as well. If he wants them, he can take them at the point of the sword...if he can first defeat my own blade. I will make that clear to him if it ever comes up.
They didn't speak for several long minutes after that. Instead, they simply watched the light bleeding into the sky, feathers of rose and tangerine and amber threading through the blue and violet and black. It had been a long time since Nuada had seen the sunrise. Months, he thought. Years perhaps. Dylan could not remember when she had last seen a dawn, either. She closed her eyes and allowed the warmth of the coming light to wash over her face, warming the chill from her skin. You couldn't get sunrises like this in New York City. The towering, jagged skyline broke up the view. But here…here it was all so beautiful. All so clear and easy to see. It was just like being at her cottage, except better.
Well, in some ways better. She did not forget, could not forget, the things the king has said to Nuada the night before, either. Could not forget that that man was responsible for all of the pain and suffering they had endured at the hands of the dark Elf that had tormented them both for so long. He was king here, which meant he had some power over them. It was reassuring that Nuada would fight him if he challenged them, but at the same time, that there was even a need for a challenge left her uneasy in her skin.
She rested her hands on her slightly swelled midsection, rubbing absently. There was just the faintest tickling sensation, like the kiss of butterfly wings, deep within her. She knew it would be a while before she felt anything more than that, but she couldn't ignore that lovely, delicate fluttering. It happened whenever she woke up in the morning, whenever something frightened her, whenever something startled her, whenever something made her smile. She had no doubt that due to her own small psychic gift and the magic in their veins that her babies were easily picking up on her moods and reacting by wiggling around like a pair of fidgety fish.
A gentle, polite knock came from the other room. Muffled. Dylan frowned, then realized that someone wasn't knocking on the bedroom door, but the door to the main royal suite.
Oh, Nuada said. That must be our meal. Come, my lady. Let us break our fast.
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In the other room, which boasted a large fireplace and a sofa and several bookshelves hewn from golden wood, a young Hob maid bustled around, laying out silver dishes on a wooden table in front of the sofa. Each dish was shielded by a silver cover, but that didn't stop the savory aroma of sausage and bacon and roasted breakfast potatoes from tickling Dylan's nose. Her stomach rumbled and there came that sweet flicker of butterfly wings again deep in her belly.
The Hob maid dropped a curtsy, keeping her eyes on the floor in polite deference, but she smiled at the prince and his wife. She seemed to have no issue being there, which surprised Dylan. She'd expected the same kind of reaction from the servants that they'd gotten from the court the night prior. Apparently either the maid hadn't heard what happened or just didn't care. If she found anything strange about Prince Nuada being married to a human woman who was noticeably pregnant, she didn't say anything or give herself away. She simply said, "If that will be all, Your Highnesses?"
"Yes," Nuada said. "Thank you. This looks marvelous. Back to your work."
"Very good, Sire." With another curtsy and a murmured my lady in Dylan's direction, the maid left the room and Nuada lifted to cover off of a dish. Steam wafted up from a white porcelain bowl of cabbage and bacon breakfast soup. The delicious smell made Dylan's stomach rumble again.
Hungry, little witch?
Dylan only smiled at him and picked up a spoon. At least one good thing had come of being in Bethmoora. The food was going to be excellent.
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"What?!"
Crown Prince Bres of Cíocal stared at the two slits his best friend and right hand man, Ciarán mac Aengus, had dragged before him. The gancanaugh had seduced and bedded a pair of palace maids months ago to keep himself occupied. On top of that, they also provided excellent tidbits of information. And one of those tidbits was something that Bres couldn't believe at all.
"You filthy, lying little bitches," the Elven prince snarled. He surged to his feet and both women cowered against Ciarán. "How dare you slander my dearest friend? My brother-in-arms? How dare you?"
Ciarán shot Bres a look. It was probably his use of the phrase "dearest friend." Ciarán was supposed to be more important to Bres than Nuada was. But the enraged Elven prince didn't have time to worry about Ciarán's delicate feelings. This was more important, a thousand times more important. Because if these little whores were to be believed, then Nuada Silverlance, Crown Prince of Bethmoora, defender of the Fair Folk, rightful heir and master of the Golden Army, had not only bedded a human woman, but married her and gotten her pregnant. And the harlot was there, in the castle, flaunting her status as Nuada's new wife. It was impossible. It couldn't be. Nuada would never…
"Take it back!" Bres yelled. "Take it back, or I shall snap your necks like twigs!"
Tears welled up in identical pairs of brown eyes, but it was at this point that Ciarán grabbed the two sluts and dragged them both behind him. Spreading his feet, he squared his shoulders and fixed his scarlet and sable gaze on his prince.
"No, you will not," he said softly, "because they are telling the truth. You asked, and they answered."
But it couldn't be true. It couldn't be. Not Nuada. Not one of his truest friends. Not the prince who had saved Bres from his own murderous siblings. Not the defender of Bethmoora.
Nuada with a human. Nuada married to a human. A human carrying Nuada's offspring. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.
"You knew the rumors," Ciarán said, not unkindly. "You heard what people were saying about him back in the fall."
The words seemed to strike Bres mercilessly. He snarled and the Hob maids cringe back from him, even protected behind Ciarán as they were. They buried their heads in each other's shoulders, clutching at each other, and wept. The sound grated on Bres's ears like someone chewing glass. Yes, they had heard the rumors. Yes, they had been told by their spies that people thought the prince of Bethmoora had taken up with a human whore. But there had been no proof. No one had seen her, much less seen him with her. Only heard the ridiculous accusations leveled on Nuada by his father, the wretched One-Armed King. Bres had not actually believed them.
"Are you sure?" He tried to force his voice the gentleness, because somehow the little bitches were growing even more hysterical. He had no patience for this, but threatening them clearly wouldn't work. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes," one of them quavered. He couldn't remember which one, if it was Lilé or Fiona. "I saw her myself. She is with child."
Bres snarled something vicious under his breath and gestured violently toward the door. "Get out."
With a gentle look and a push from Ciarán, the two sluts rushed out of the chamber, practically tripping over themselves in their rush to get away from him. Bres looked at Ciarán and saw the same shock and betrayal mirrored in those serpentine eyes.
"I thought he might have possibly decided to experiment, use one of them, see if they could maybe be gathered up and trained to be good pleasure slaves or something," Bres said. I would have told him not to waste his time—humans give good sport, to be sure, but they grow wearisome after a time—but it wouldn't have surprised or really bothered me much. But this...this is impossible. How could he?"
"I don't know," Ciarán said. "I don't know what we should do. Your father had no idea things I progressed so very far. We need to report back to him."
Bres sank into a chair, dropping his golden blonde head into his hands. He heaved a massive sigh. "You're right," he muttered. As much as he hated to admit it, Ciarán was right. They would have to tell King Elatha.
"What do you think your father will command us to do?" Ciarán ask.
"More than likely? He will tell us to eliminate this new threat."
"And what about Princess Nuala?" Ciarán asked. Because the whole reason they had come is to cement an alliance with Bethmoora. They had come so that Bres might woo Nuala, seduce her to his side at least a little, and give him a foothold in the Bethmoora government. But now, knowing that would avail them nothing, knowing that their old friend—former friend—would not help them in their battle against the humans when it came time to go to war, the plans would have to change. They would have to bring in outside help. Would have to perform political triage.
Who would have to go? Who would have to die?
Those questions circled in Bres's mind as he stared at the floor, eyes darting to and fro, thinking. Thinking.
And above everything, in the forefront of his mind, was the question: how had this happened?
Bres realized he had only one option. He would have to go to Princess Nuala and discover the whole truth. He just hoped he could keep his temper if it turned out that the betrayal was a true one. It wouldn't do to snap the little princess's neck or gut her the way he wanted to do to her twin brother just now.
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Prince Zhenjin stared at the letter his father the emperor had handed to him. It was a brief missive from one of their spies in Bethmoora. They had gone to Bethmoora just this past winter for the solstice revelry. It had grieved Zhenjin that Nuada hadn't been there, but Nuada hadn't been at any of the midwinter revels for centuries. That was what came of being in exile. But now, it appeared that exile was not the cause of Nuada's absence. No, something far more insidious and dishonorable had kept him from the festivities.
"He's married?" Zhenjin looked up at his father. "He can't be married. He's betrothed to Ming."
"Yes," the emperor said gravely. "That was my thought too. And yet it is true—he has wed, and not only has he wed, but he has wed a mortal commoner and gotten her with child. He has spit in our faces."
Zhenjin shook his head. "My Most Honorable Father, there must be some reason for this. Something that we do not know. Perhaps King Balor…"
The emperor held up a gnarled hand and his heir fell silent.
"Do you think that the Silverlance could be forced into such a union?"
"I think that is the only way he would enter into such a union," Zhenjin said. "Nuada despises humans. Has always despised them. I cannot see him married to a mortal woman. A half-human, possibly, but a full-blooded mortal? And a commoner? No, I do not see it. I cannot believe it. This is some mischief of King Balor, it must be."
Unable to remain seated, Zhenjin shoved to his feet and paced the length of the emperor's informal reception room. He dragged his fingertips along the richly embroidered, jade and bronze silk hanging on the walls, careful not to let his unsheathed dragon claws catch in the delicate threads. With every circuit around the room, his power crackled and swelled, flickering like firelight. It pushed it the fire in the hearth, pushed at the light of the candles, and made the cone of chrysanthemum incense smolder and give off a faint wisp of smoke. The emperor allowed his son to pace out his frustration. Better this, and in the privacy of the receiving room, then a public display of temper. The old Elf could even admit that he was proud of his second-eldest son. Yet he didn't know what Zhenjin would say once he finished striding across the room.
At last Zhenjin came to a halt in front of the emperor's desk again. He looked at Emperor Huizong with blazing, emerald eyes.
"Your Imperial Majesty," he began. "I beg leave to take my brothers and my honored aunt to Bethmoora and investigate for ourselves. I must figure it out the reason for this. I cannot believe that Nuada would betray me, betray us, betray our alliance so readily. We must find out what has happened."
The emperor leaned back and steepled his long, wrinkled fingers. Tapping them against his chin, he asked softly, "And if your old friend has betrayed us, my son? If he has dishonored your sister, our kingdom, your friendship?"
"Then," Zhenjin said icily, "he will of course have to die."
.
It was evening now, the stars glinting like tiny Sparks trapped in shards of ice against velvet the color of bruises. Nuada lay on his back, eyes fixed on the plush canopy above him, hands resting on his bear belly. He had been lying in his bed for over an hour while Dylan enjoyed a long steam in the shower. It wasn't nearly late enough to sleep, yet he lay there in nothing but black trews.
He hadn't left his room all day. He had had their meals brought to them, had taken reports from Wink and Becan's hands alone, and had spoken to no one except a few servants, the two vassals, and Dylan. He knew this was hardly better than the isolation of the underground sanctuary in New York, but he just simply wasn't ready yet to step fully into being a prince here again. He hadn't even wanted to come here. He had only come because if he didn't, the king would eventually find a way to track him down and drag Dylan from his arms. It was to protect her more than anything that he had agreed to his father's demands at last.
And he had only agreed because Dylan had acquiesced. She understood as well as he that they could not remain in hiding forever. Soon, in less than a year's time, the babes would be born. What kind of life would it be for them, trapped underground in that small space, unable to enjoy the sunshine and the fresh air? No, for their sake as well as Dylan's sanity and Nuada's own, he had come here. Brought his wife with him.
You're brooding again. The gentle chastisement came into his mind like the brush of silk in his skull. He looked to his left and saw Dylan come in from the bathing chamber. She wore only a towel, thick and fluffy and black, so black that it turned her skin to sweet creamy paleness. Her hair clung to her neck and shoulders and those scarred cheeks in damp tendrils. She scrunched one hand through her hair to ring some of the water out, to let it be caught by the towel around her.
Nuada slowly sat up. She looked at him, her eyes soft and shadowed and so impossibly blue. I am not brooding. I am thinking.
You're worrying over things we can't change, she said gently. She knew it. Their minds were firmly entrenched in one another. If the day ever came when Nuada pulled his mind out of hers, Dylan had no idea what she would do. She might go insane. The anchor of his thoughts, the buffer of his rage and protective instincts, were one of the things she used to keep herself from succumbing to the midnight obsidian edge of terror constantly trying to crawl up her back into her brain. As sick and twisted and codependent as it was, she needed Nuada. He needed her. Their needing of each other with something that helped them, as well. One day, someday, they would have to work past that. Become independent, individuals again.
But not now. No, now Dylan only wanted one thing. To be safe. To feel safe. To no longer be afraid of her shadow, of every noise in the dark, of every blur of motion at the corner of her eye.
She couldn't have that. She knew that wasn't how trauma worked. Even with therapy, even with drugs, it still didn't work like that, and she had eschewed both because where could she get the kind of help she needed? What human psychologist could help her?
No, the only thing she could have was the man in front of her. The Elf who would die to protect her. The warrior who burned for her, who would never turn against her. The person who might not be able to keep her safe, but if he couldn't, he would endure every terrible thing right along with her.
What are you thinking, my princess?
Dylan blinked, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she wore nothing but a towel beneath Nuada's gold-kissed ivory gaze. She smiled, lifted one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug.
You.
She didn't want to think about anything else at the moment. Didn't want to remember the night before, or any night that didn't involve being wrapped up safe and protected in Nuada's arms. Just the thought of being out, being vulnerable, made her fingers twitch, made her nails ache as she remembered clawing at Eamonn's arms, his chest, his face, trying to force him off of her, trying to rake him, spill his blood so he would stop, stop, stop. She had only wanted him to stop.
Except when she hadn't. Except when her body had demanded more and more and more and more. She had found something too twisted to be considered simply pleasure when trapped under Eamonn in the thrall of the Tears. When he hadn't used them, that had simply been a nightmare. Pain, fear, the stink of him, his breath in her face, his hand over her mouth crushing her jaw and cutting off her air. But with the Tears, with that poison swimming in her blood…
She remembered raking her nails down his back, feeling the flesh gather beneath them. The first time she had done it while the Tears burned in her blood and set her skin on fire, while Eamonn moved inside of her, he had arched his back and hissed in pleasure, increasing his hellish pace, and it had felt...impossible. Wrong. Twisted.
Delicious.
No, she ordered herself, clutching at the table, shaking her head. No, stop it. Stop thinking about it. It doesn't matter what it felt like. It only matters that I didn't want it. I didn't want it. I don't want it. I don't, I didn't, I—
But her body still wanted it. She could still remember the poison melting into her skin, hooking thorns like fire into her bones. Even now, her skin ached and she suddenly couldn't catch her breath. She could only stand there, trembling, panting, desperate for air, feeling those hands swarming up her body, forcing her thighs apart, pinching and slapping and pinning her down and the poison sliding viscous and so hot down her body between her legs…
She looked at Nuada. He looked at her and he saw the memories in her eyes. He held out a hand to her.
"Come here." He spoke aloud, and his voice was husky.
"Will you..." The words hovered like a ghost on her lips. She hated to ask. She had never asked quite like this before. But there was something she wanted. Something she was almost positive she needed. If she was ever going to stop remembering what Eamonn had done, then she needed..."I don't want you to be mad at me."
"I would never be angry with you," he said gently. "I think I know what you want. But I need you to tell me. That way, there are no mistakes. I never want to hurt you." Never again, came the unspoken words. Never, ever again.
She shivered. "Nuada, I...That's just it, I..." He had done so much for her in the last months. Helped erase the phantom memories of mouths and hands on her by giving her new memories. But that didn't mean anything just now. She had no idea how he would react. He said that he thought he knew what she needed, what she wanted, but did he really? Could he? Could he understand why she wanted it?
"When he was...Without the tears, it was agony," she said. All of it. I was terrified and...It was like I was drowning in him. Smothering in him."
Nuada said nothing. He simply waited, his hand out, eyes still ivory, but the gold in them turning to bronze.
"But when the Tears were on me, when they held me tight, it wasn't agony. It felt..." She swallowed. She wanted and didn't want to say it. Wasn't sure what he would do. Wasn't sure how she even felt about it, this dark and sickening truth about herself. But she was no coward. She couldn't be a coward. Not now. Not after everything. So she swallowed and said, "The things he did to me felt so good. If someone else had done them, someone I loved, I think I would have loved them. I want you to do them."
Nuada didn't move. He didn't blink. He could have been carved from Marble or moonlight. He studied her for a long moment. Licked his lips.
"I have done those things," he said softly. "I have taken you, under me, on your knees before me. I have let you ride me like a wild horse to the taming and bring me over the edge into breaking. I have let you break me and I have broken you. I am not quite sure, it seems, what you want of me, little witch. But if I can, I will give it to you. What is it you want? Speak plainly. Ask me."
She took a deep breath. Let it out. Took another, and let it out. Hugged herself, pushing at her hair to get it out of her face. Beads of water trickled over her temples and cheeks and neck and shoulders.
"I want you to force me."
His nostrils flared. He slowly rose to his feet.
"Explain."
"I don't know if I can." She closed her eyes against the terrible stillness in his expression. "Look into my mind. Maybe that will help you understand. I don't think I can explain it in words."
She felt him slip into her thoughts, warmth and shadow, tenderness and desire. Knew it the moment he saw what she wanted. She wanted to face the nightmare again to prove she would not be defeated, but couldn't, because Eamonn was dead. She wanted to relish the pleasure while denying the man. Wanted to conquer the fear, but could only do that in the hands of someone she trusted. It wasn't that she wanted Nuada to take away her choice. She wanted him to give her the illusion of having no choice, so that she could take that choice back. But she was so frightened, so shy, so unsure of herself even now, that not only was she afraid to ask, she didn't know how to ask. And she wanted rough, hard, forceful, because she had experienced pleasure against her will through such acts and wanted pleasure on her own terms through them now.
But this is perfect, Silverlance. That hideous voice echoed in his brain, an eldritch whisperer. This is absolutely perfect. You can both have what you want and I can have what I want. You can take her like the animal you are, like a dog with his bitch, and know that she wants it. You can act the beast and still keep the princess. And I can watch you castigate yourself because you know that deep down, you are nothing but a monster and a whore and she is nothing but a whore as well.
Shut up, Nuada snarled at the Phantom. Shut up, shut up, shut up. But he couldn't deny the truth. He did want Dylan. Wanted her in every way. Wanted to know what it felt like to make her submit to him not because she feared him, because he knew that she didn't and never would, but because she could never deny what he could give her. She craved him and he craved her. They were addicted to each other, the touch of bodies and of minds. And he wanted to give her everything that she needed.
"I do not want to scare you," Nuada said softly. But he also wanted this. Wanted to unleash the full force of his strength, his hunger, his darkness. Wanted her to accept it, to embrace it. To give herself to it. He wanted to be the beast with her. To taste the darkness again and know he could turn away from it before it consumed him. She claimed she wanted his beast. His darkness. Did she? Could she truly?
"If I think that you're going too far, I can stop you."
Nuada raised an eyebrow. "Stop me?"
Dylan nodded. "Let's agree on a word. If one of us says it, then we need to stop whatever it is that we're doing right away. Okay?"
This time he simply stared at her. "That is a brilliant idea. However did you think of it?"
A small smile tugged at her mouth and she looked away, color creeping into her cheeks. "My sister Francesca talks about sex a lot. She says it's called a safe word. I think we should use the word...tangerine."
He couldn't help the incredulous laugh that bubbled out of his throat. "Tangerine? Why tangerine?"
"Because it's weird," she said with a shrug. "That way you'll notice and it will make you do a double-take. That's what you want it to do. And if you say it, I know that it'll catch my attention."
She was so brave and so clever. "All right," he said. "Tangerine it is. Now..." His hands drifted to the laces of his trousers. He stared at her, letting his eyes roam over the creamy swells of her breasts behind the black towel as he slowly, deliberately undid the lacings. "Come here."
She came, slowly, unsure. Usually when he wanted her, when she wanted him, he came to her. She normally didn't have to move from her spot before he was on her, kissing her, stroking her, rousing her body to a fever pitch. Shyly, she stopped in front of him.
His fingers slipped into her hair, gently cupping the back of her head for one moment of tenderness before they twisted, tangling the dark strands around his fingers. He yanked her head back and the sting at her scalp made her gasp. He pulled her closer. She shivered at his heat, his nearness, the teeth bared in a hungry snarl as he breathed in the scent of her. The word tangerine hung in her mouth, tanging at the back of her throat. Panic sizzled in her blood, but she refused to let it out. She could do this. She wanted this. She would enjoy what she wanted and Eamonn could go to Hell. Again.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her temple. His tongue flicked out to taste a single drop of water the slipped over her skin from her hair. "You have no idea what you do to me. How you make me burn. Temptress." Another quick lick of his tongue. She shivered. "Do you want to know what I'm going to do to you?"
She licked her lips. Nodded.
"First, I want to see you on your knees in front of me," he growled, and gooseflesh rippled over her skin. The thumb of his free hand brushed over her lower lip when he cupped her chin. "I want your mouth. That lovely, perfect mouth. And when I'm done with it, I want to taste myself on your lips." A soft gasp escaped her. "And then I want you, on your knees, here before the fire. I want to see the golden light of the flames licking along your skin, the shadows on your spine, while I take you. I want to tangle my hands in your hair and hold you steady for me, hold you helpless while I remind you what it's like to have me. When I'm done with that, I want to see you here, on your back on this very beautiful rug, your knees up by your ears, your hands pinned, your body flushed, skin dewed with sweat, your eyes locked on mine while I take you, flood you, again and again.
Her breath came in short shallow pants now. She swallowed, licked her lips again. Tried to lean forward when he moved in as if to kiss her, but his fist in her hair held her still.
"And then, he breathed against her mouth, "I am going to memorize the taste of you again. The taste of us. You know I can never get enough of you. Finally, when it is all over, when you think you can take no more, when you can only lie there shuddering and whimpering for me, I'll have you on our bed. I'll watch you come undone beneath me, watch as you claw at the sheets, as you cry out my name, as you surrender to me again and again and again and again, until all it takes is the touch of my fingers, my mouth, to shatter you."
A soft moan filled the room as he pulled her against him, the hard planes of his body, still keeping her head immobile with the fist in her hair.
"Gods, I want you so much," he growled. "You have bewitched me, and I am your slave. I am your dog. Your hound. I will do whatever I must to have you, to please you. Dylan, you have no idea...the things I want from you...even after all this time, it still hasn't stopped. This need to hear you screaming my name, to feel your arms around me while you sob beneath me and beg me for more. Is that what you want?"
"Yes," she whispered.
With his free hand, he tugged the towel out of her grip, so that it slid down her body to pool at their feet. He pressed a hand, palm flat, to her belly. The heat of his skin almost burned. She gasped.
"Are you mine?" He didn't know why he asked. He only knew that he needed the answer.
"Yes," she breathed.
His fist tightened in her hair. "Tell me."
"I'm yours," she said softly, and in his mind she said, I'm yours, and you are mine.
Always, he snarled, and took her mouth with his.
He made her moan. Made her weep. Made her scream his name again and again and again. She made him groan, made him shudder, made him beg her. And at last, after they had touched and teased and tasted, they lay in bed beside each other and Dylan set her cheek on Nuada's chest. Listened to the gentle drum of his heart, uncaring of the sweat slicking his skin. His hand played up and down her shoulder, her arm, as he pressed little kisses to her forehead.
Are you angry? She asked softly. Or upset? He had been rough. Deliciously rough. There had been times when it had almost hurt, but somehow that had blended in with the Exquisite pleasure of him on her, with her, in her. But she wasn't sure if he had enjoyed himself as much as she had enjoyed things. Wasn't sure if the light spicing of fear had ruined it for him. It would be awful, she thought, for him to be unsatisfied when she felt so wonderful, so strong, so newly tempered and remade. She'd faced the fear, surged through it, conquered it. Enjoyed herself immensely in the process.
No, I am not angry, he said. I am not upset.
She sensed it in him—he wasn't angry, as he said, but he was upset. She just didn't know why. She couldn't get a firm grasp on what was bothering him, despite the way she hovered inside his mind, embraced by him and his thoughts. And before she could gather the courage to ask him outright, she fell asleep, worn out.
Nuada kissed the tip of her nose and closed his eyes. She had done so well. Somehow gotten her hands on the leash to his inner beast. And he'd reveled in that. But…there was still the fact that he had…
He wouldn't think about that now. Instead, he listened to the sound of her breathing, and somehow, he fell asleep within moments of her.
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Author's Note: so…any…thoughts? At all? I'm sort of venturing into new territory a little bit, I think…thoughts would be welcome. Because I know that a common reaction to psychological trauma of this sort is to behave as Dylan does. I did a lot of research into it, that is another one of the reasons the chapter took so long. I hope that I got the right tone across.