Author's Note:so here's the March update. Remember, the chapters appear a week (or so) in advance on my Pat-Re-On (it won't let me just spell the word out). You can also find sneak peaks of further chapters, playlists, and fanfic art on my Pat. Re. On. as well, for Moonless Dark as well as the main storyline. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Still bringing in the politics but as I've said before, I work on this fic when I'm in a lousy mood. The worse my mood, the worse whatever torments Dylan and Nuada experience. So keep that in mind.

The chapter title is from a line in an Evanescence song (although I can't remember which one...) and later in the chapter I make a reference to the movie/em Robin Hood: Men in Tights.

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Once Upon a Moonless Dark

Chapter Twenty

Haunting You

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Dylan would not speak to Nuada. She couldn't. What could she say? That she had dreamed Eamonn had cracked the window with her skull and the cracks had appeared in the waking world? It was impossible. And when she'd asked Nuada how the window had been damaged, he'd said something about how sometimes the castle windows picked up cracks during the late winter/early spring hail storms. Normally they would've been repaired already, but the Master Glasswright had passed away from a winter illness and her protégés weren't as quick with their work as she had been.

A dead glassblower to excuse one dream-marker. Nuada had apologized himself for leaving the bite-bruises on her collarbone and shoulder and the long, dark stripes on her breasts from careless Elven fingers. Had he been the one? She didn't remember him doing such a thing, not even when she'd asked him to be so forceful, but that didn't mean he hadn't. She might not remember. It was easy enough to leave marks in the middle of sex that didn't register on the brain until some time later. She'd left what her prince called "vixen scratches" on the Elf's back and shoulders and even his biceps pretty often. At first she'd been horrified when she had noticed them, but Nuada had simply laughed it off and said he considered it a compliment to his skills. Some of the marks had actually scarred, albeit lightly. He still hadn't cared.

Were marks like the ones she left, like the ones on her clavicle and breasts, simply a part of their sex life? She knew Nuada had left bruises on her at times, soft blue shadows on her inner thighs or the sensitive skin of areolae, but not like this. She hadn't minded the shallow bruises; they'd left her skin uniquely sensitive over subsequent days, and the prince had made expert use of that fact. But he'd never done this to her before, not even when they'd both been half-asleep and ravenous.

Sitting at the window seat—a different window seat than the one from her nightmare—Dylan stared with unseeing eyes at the late afternoon sky, one finger tracing lightly over the black mark at her collarbone. Nuada was so convinced he'd done this, unaware in the midst of desperate passion. What was the alternative? That the months-dead dark Elf was haunting her? Having his vicious way with her vulnerable body while she slept, leaving the hideous marks?

Dylan didn't believe in ghosts. She believed in hauntings, but her definition of that phenomenon was different from most. Hauntings were always done either by evil spirits, those angry and jealous minions of the Adversary, or they were the result of strong psychic impressions left over from some terrible event. The latter would've affected Nuada, too, but the former…

But demons could do no lasting damage to a flesh-and-blood form. It was a sacred law. It could not be demons, or she would have no bruises. It could not be psychic haunting, because Nuada would have been affected. But she was almost positive she would've felt it if Nuada had done this. Even in the throes of the Tears, even at his most insensate, he'd never really hurt her before.

And she couldn't talk to him about any of this. He looked so guilty and there was the chance she was wrong, that he had done it, and anyway she had no idea what she would've said, even if she'd been sure. Their enemy was dead. And even before his death, he hadn't had the power to lay a curse on a fae royal. The firstborn son of a king, the heir to the throne, in his fortieth century? His birth order, age, and rank all fueled the power he possessed naturally. Very few other heirs had his power, and Eamonn had been only a noble, not royal. There was no curse that could harm them, at least not one at his command.

Dylan was not royal, nor even Elven, but thanks to the babies inside her, royal blood with royal fae magic now mingled with her own. She'd been pregnant before Eamonn's death, obviously. So he shouldn't have been able to lay a curse on her, either. Not while she carried the crown prince's firstborn.

"Dylan?" Nuada's voice broke her futile reverie. She pressed her forehead against the cool, smooth, unbroken glass of the window and made a small noise to let him know she was listening. "I…I must run an errand."

A frisson of unease whispered along her spine. Errand…to where? He did not say, and she wondered why not. She could've asked, but she didn't have the energy. She was just…so tired. She was thirty, too old to be woken up in the middle of the night every night by dark dreams. If things didn't improve, she might have to…have to take something…

It was hard enough, taking the prescription painkillers that allowed her to walk when she wasn't in the magical healing sanctuary she'd stayed in with Nuada for so long. She had once gotten by on half-doses and she'd had to switch from Vicodin to nothing once she got pregnant. After months off the medication, she wasn't even certain she could go back to taking it. She needed to. She knew that. Medicine would help her so much. But every time she thought of it, it felt like phantom needles stabbed into her arms and the backs of her hands over and over again, felt like chalky blocks of medicine nearly as big as her thumbnails were being shoved down her throat.

"I will not be leaving the castle grounds," Nuada continued. The words eased some of her tension. He would be near. If she screamed, if something frightened her, he would come for her. "You may accompany me," he added tentatively, "if you wish it. I would be…most glad of your company."

Leave the royal suite. Go out among the Bethmoorans again. Let them stare at her, wonder, whisper. She would be at Nuada's side, but…but what if somehow they were separated, out there among all those enemies? She thought maybe she could survive being without him here in the safety and closeness of the bedchamber while she waited for him to return, alone, where nobody could stare at her, but out there?

Her fingers twisted together, knotting until her knuckles turned white as bones. He wanted her to come with him. Was he as frightened of being away from her as she was of being separated from him? But to go out there…she couldn't possibly. Not yet.

Eyes on the Elven prince reflected in the window glass, she shook her head. Tried to pretend she didn't see the disappointment and worry in those golden eyes, or feel it trembling between them on that strange link they'd forged in the sanctuary.

Nuada gave a nod. "As you wish, my lady. I will return before half an hour. Wink and your brownie will be nearby, should you have need of them."

Unless she was in danger, she wouldn't call them. She needed to think. She needed to figure out what was happening.

Lost in thought, she kissed Nuada absently when he came to her and pressed his mouth to hers in farewell. She didn't see the wan smile that curved dark lips as he drew away, but she was vaguely aware of the touch of worried amusement in him at the perfunctory kiss as he turned and left the room.

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Nuada walked to the Royal Kennels with an ear out for either his father, whom he did not wish to see for a good long while; for Miyax, the agloolik that took particular care of Nuada's dogs; or…

*It's the prince!*

That.

What sounded like a herd of stampeding cattle turned the corner at the end of entryway for the Kennels. A pack of large dogs—the smallest reached the middle of the Elven prince's thigh at the dog's shoulder, and the biggest stood higher than his waist—raced toward him. The Elven warrior folded his arms and simply waited. As expected, the pack of fey Irish wolfhounds skidded to a halt about a foot from the toes of Nuada's boots, though the puppies all wagged their tails hard enough to half-knock themselves over. The leader of the pack, a red female named Flannán, approached her master and sat, offering him an adoring look from dark brown eyes.

*Master,* Flannán said. Her tail wagged once. Unlike the other dogs, Flannán was fully grown and no longer possessed the excitability and (as she called it) lack of good manners the pups did. So she didn't even consider jumping up on her hind legs and trying to lick the prince's face.

Well… maybe a little. But only a little.

"Flannán," Nuada said, and laid his hand atop her head to offer her a scratch behind the silky ears.

Many faerie hounds, unlike their mortal counterparts, could speak and possessed intelligence at about the same level as Elven adolescents. The prince's hounds were known both for their beauty and their intelligence, to say nothing of their courage. He'd bred and trained them over countless centuries to hunt and to fight, to defend, so they had to be clever and able to handle themselves without a master's guidance.

He'd come back every couple months during his exile to see Nuala—though it was clear to him she was uncomfortable in his company, he couldn't deny himself hers—and to make sure that Nils Fjøsnisse, Master of the Stables, was taking proper care of Nuada's horses and that Miyax, Mistress of the Kennels, was taking proper care of his hounds. The prince still took an active role in breeding and training both, even though his role was greatly reduced from what it had been. This habit had been one of the bones of contention between the crown prince and the king; if Nuada could be bothered to return to Findias for the sake of his beasts, why couldn't he be bothered about court events?

The answer had been obvious. Nuada loved his horses, and his dogs. He hated court functions. And because of something his father had often said. "Animals are like children—they don't understand why promises sometimes have to be broken, so be careful what promises you break to them." The king hadn't been able to fault such reasoning. At least not after the initial grumbles.

Now Nuada looked with pride on his best she-hound and said, "I'm going to need one of your pups for something special." For Dylan. To protect her in waking and in sleep. To help her when the shadows prowled too closely and he could do nothing.

*Hunting? Is it hunting? It is!* The puppies wiggled harder and bounced up and down.

Nuada swallowed his amusement as one yipped, *Wabbits!*

*Shhh!"* Said another, crouching and snapping playfully at another puppy. *We're hunting wabbits.*

*I love wabbits!* Another cried, bouncing so hard and fast it was almost vibrating.

"Not hunting," the prince said firmly. The chatter stopped. Maybe he ought to bring Dylan here, he thought. She liked dogs. No doubt the pups would adore her. Perhaps if he brought her to meet them, it would make her smile. "Not hunting," he repeated. "Guarding."

Immediately the pups went very still. Fifteen pairs of wide, eager eyes fixed on Nuada's face. No more wiggling. No more tail-wagging. The pack was suddenly as serious as Flannán had been this whole time. The red she-hound turned her head to study each of her offspring for a moment. Then she reached back with a paw and pushed a she-pup forward.

The pup was about the size of a roe deer, with silky fur the color of fresh milk. Her paws were large enough that Nuada knew the puppy would one day grow into some serious size. She might even be taller than her mother, whose shoulder stood higher than Nuada's sternum. The dog's eyes were dark amber, the body lean and wiry, the chest deep and the head long, with a sharp muzzle. Flannán gave the puppy an encouraging lick along the muzzle and nudged her closer to the prince.

The puppy looked into Nuada's eyes and said, *I can guard. I am Eímh Ionsaí, but I like Eímh. I can guard.*

Eímh Ionsaí. It meant "swift attack" in the Old Tongue. Flannán named her offspring according to their strengths. Which meant this little she-hound was fast and fierce. Still…

To his prized wolfhound, Nuada said, "She's still young." If she'd been a human child, she might've been ten or twelve years old. He did not doubt the pup, however. He merely wondered what his four-footed lady would say of her.

*She is fast,* Flannán replied confidently. *Her heart is strong and brave. Her teeth are sharp. She has good sense. She can guard. And her brother, who is out on coursing practice, will do well as a guard-mate.*

Ah. Two hounds, young though they were, would be well-suited to the task. Better suited than a single beast. Flannán had a good eye for such things, and Nuada trusted her. When the other pup returned from his practice, the prince would speak to him, too. If Flannán said the pups would work well in tandem, he believed her.

Now Nuada knelt and looked more closely into the puppy's eyes. A strong heart. He could see that in her. And good sense, which was hard to come by in a puppy. He knew his dogs and knew this one would probably be best for what he wanted. What settled it was that Eímh didn't look away from him. Instead, the pup held out a paw and said, *Shake, and it is a bargain. I will guard for you, Master.*

The Elven prince grinned and shook the proffered paw. "I will return tomorrow to fetch you," he said. "When I do, it will be your task to guard…" How to explain Dylan's identity to the guard dog? Easier than explaining to his father, to the court, to Nuala, but…still. "My mate," he said eventually.

He didn't like the phrasing; some fae referred to their lover as their mate to mean they were destined for each other, but he had always thought of it as something for beasts. He was no animal, save when the dark Elf he'd butchered had made one of him, and neither was Dylan. But Eímh was a hound, and it was what she knew, so he used the term now.

Eímh cocked her head. *Mate?* Her ears perked and her tail wagged. *Mate?*

"Yes."

All the hound pups cried, *There will be new Elf puppies!* Nuada tried not to grit his teeth. The young wolfhounds started wiggling and bouncing again while Flannán gave him a sympathetic look. And Nuada still needed to talk to Nils, now that he thought of it. Dylan would need a horse, both for pleasure and for political functions. What would the head groom say about the pups' new idea of "elf puppies?"

Probably what everyone else was saying. He didn't want to think about that. Even now, the thought of his unborn children left him uneasy, though the thought brought a small smile to his lips more and more often. Pondering his father's thoughts on the matter served to murder that smile swifty enough.

When would the king demand to speak to him again? And when would his sister finally break her sennight-long silence?

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Somehow she'd known that once Nuada left, he would come.

Dylan scrunched her eyes shut and shoved her forehead against the window. She hadn't wanted to believe he could come to her while she was awake, but deep down she'd known without realizing that she'd known. Only when the bedroom door opened and the dark Elf stepped into the room had she realized she'd been waiting for him, like a victim waiting for the executioner's ax to fall.

She didn't bother running. The last time she'd run, she'd ended up concussed and bruised and violated. She only squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of him. Pressed her fingertips against the glass until the joints of her fingers ached.

She didn't hear Eamonn's footsteps on the carpet, but she sensed him drawing near. She still jumped when his hands settled on her shoulders.

She trembled. In the window, Eamonn's swift grin showed.

"Hello, sweetness. You look…ravishing in that gown. Did Silverlance choose it for you?"

She bit her lip. She'd changed her clothes after the nightmare and being fed by Nuada; the feel of the fabric, the laces brushing against her skin just above the neckline, the color of it like the color of the bruises on her breasts…she hadn't been able to stomach wearing it another moment, especially in the face of the broken window. So she'd shed it quickly and donned a pale green gown the color of seafoam, one in the style of Briton instead of Eire, with the white underdress that laced up the back beneath a velvet kirtle that tied with both sash and dark green laces in front.

Now, for just a moment, she wondered if she'd been insane to wear anything with laces around the dark Elf. Did he consider it an invitation to untie the knots? Was she inviting him to put his hands on her when she dressed like this?

No. She invited nothing. Parading around in front of him naked still wouldn't have been an invitation. He had no right to put his hands on her, to beat her, to force her. He had no right.

Eamonn leaned down and pressed his face against the top of her head, inhaling deeply. Dylan's teeth sank harder into her bottom lip. He had no right, but she could not stop him.

This was a dream. She'd fallen asleep at the window. It made sense; she was always so tired. This was a nightmare and as long as she played it cool, played it safe, the vicious Elf wouldn't have time to hurt her again before Nuada returned from his errand and woke her up. Or she might shift, lose her balance, and fall out of the window seat and wake up that way. Either way, if she fought Eamonn using her wits and her psychiatric skills, he wouldn't have time to do anything truly bad to her before she woke.

"I really must compliment your choice of shampoo and soap," Eamonn said softly against her hair. He was still sniffing at her. "I'm partial to strawberries, myself. But you knew that. You chose it for me, of course. To please me."

She'd chosen that particular shampoo because it smelled like candy and made her happy. The sheer unfairness of his proprietary statement pried Dylan's mouth open and she was seconds away from making a sharp comeback before she checked herself. She couldn't provoke him. This was a dream, yes, but she couldn't bear another…session…with Eamonn, even in her sleep.

Somehow she managed to whisper, "I'm…glad you approve." She was shocked when she didn't choke on the lie.

The Elf looked down at her. Cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. "So pliant today?" He smiled. "Tired from this morning, aren't you, pet?" He slid his hands along her shoulders, heedless of the pang from the bruise on her shoulder, to curve his fingers loosely around her neck. Dylan swallowed. Shifting to press close, his chest to her back, Eamonn pressed his lips to the shell of her ear. "That's all right. I don't need a fight every time I visit. And it was so good this morning, wasn't it?"

She couldn't say yes. If she tried, she'd vomit. Could you vomit in a dream? If she did, would she throw up in the waking world as well? Maybe she ought to try, to force herself to wake up.

Unless she only asphyxiated in her sleep…

Eamonn's breath panted hot and uncomfortably damp against her ear as he continued, "I believe the humans call it…an orgasm? When a woman's body releases under the wash of pleasure her lover offers her." He wasn't her lover, she didn't want him, he wasn't anything to her except a nightmare, torment, pain, grief. She couldn't say that, though. Had to keep quiet as he whispered, "When her spine arches and her muscles lock and her eyes squeeze shut, when her toes curl and her mouth falls open and that sweet cry escapes her lips…"

Don't blink, Dylan ordered herself. She kept her gaze fixed on her reflection. Didn't look at Eamonn as he pressed a small kiss to the spot just under her ear that always made her go limp when Nuada kissed it. Don't look at him.

"There's another human word for it. I can see it in your mind, almost…ah." He sighed against her ear. "Coming. I made you come."

She closed her eyes. Tried not to let the words dripping into her ear like poison string together to make cruel sentences. If she focused on breaking apart his words, they would have no meaning. They would mean nothing.

"How many times, Dylan?" He asked oh so softly. Her lashes fluttered; he was so close, too close, she could smell him, feel him pressing in on her. Monster, monster, monster. Get away! She squeezed her eyes shut again. Eamonn's tongue flicked out, lashed her skin. Dylan jerked at the warm wetness. Desperately tried to bite back a whimper. "Tell me, sweetness. Tell me the truth, now. How many times did I make you come for me?"

His fingers flexed against her throat. He expected an answer. She couldn't provoke him, but…

"I don't remember." Could he taste the lie? She absolutely remembered. She remembered every single time he'd broken her in the horrible dreams from the last couple nights. Seven times in total. A fae number, a number for magic and for curses. She'd been wrung out at the end but still managed to get away from him at the last. Get away…or simply endure him.

Eamonn murmured, "Tsk, tsk, tsk. How ungrateful." Another flex of his fingers against her neck. "Let me remind you."

She stiffened, positive he was going to hurt her again, but he didn't. He simply blew in her ear, a long slow breath, and suddenly she was back in the nightmare, experiencing it all again. His hands on her breasts, bruising through the cloth of her dress, and then unlacing and ripping and cutting her clothes so that he had access to the parts of her he wanted. She felt it all again—the bite at her shoulder oozing blood, his fingers on her, in her, pumping and stroking and his arousal grinding against her skin almost hard enough to bruise while she…then she…

She was back in the present, in the new nightmare, shuddering as if the twisted memories weren't memories at all, but the matter of mere moments ago. She realized Eamonn's arms were around her because she'd fallen backward under the first onslought of sick pleasure from the flashback. Eamonn cradled her to him and pressed his lips to her ear again. His breathing had the faintest ragged edge.

"How many times did I make you come for me, sweetness?"

"S-seven," she gasped, trembling with the aftershocks. "Please…" Leave me alone. Go away, please. Just go away.

"And was it good?" He asked. "My hands on you, my fingers in you…was it good for you? Because it was good for me. Watching you come undone while you tried so hard to be defiant, to pretend you didn't need what I was doing to you. You wanted it so very badly, did you not? It felt so good, didn't it, Dylan? I was so good to you, wasn't I?"

She couldn't say yes and she couldn't tell the truth. He would hurt her. He would hurt her if she said no and she would be sick, violently sick, if she lied and said yes. What was she supposed to say? What could she do?

He nipped lightly at the curve of her ear. She bit her lip almost savagely, tasting blood. She couldn't scream. Couldn't show him how much she despised him even though she longed to do it, to kill him, to hurt him, to drive him away. She couldn't provoke him and oh, oh, ugh, he was licking her neck now, kissing and licking her skin and she had to fight not to claw at his eyes.

"It's so strange," he mused against her neck. "You're so damnably ugly and yet…you have interesting eyes. They almost sparkle with defiance. And such a lovely mouth, and your lips…I enjoyed feeling them wrapped around my pike, I must confess. You were very good at that. I know Silverlance hadn't had you before I came, but he taught you quite well how a whore uses her mouth. You've quite the tongue. And despite your scars, your skin…is oddly attractive. So pale, like fresh cream. It shows the bruises very well." His fingertips ghosted across the tops of her breasts before touching the bruise and then the scar on her collarbones. He kissed her neck, feather-light. "Shows my marks. You enjoyed that, didn't you? When I left my mark on you?" Another kiss. "I remember you crying out when I gave it to you. You loved every minute of me using you, didn't you? Proving to you what a fae-slut you truly are. You loved it, didn't you?"

Why did he want her to say it? Why? Why did he have to keep badgering her? It had to vindicate him somehow, getting her to agree with the horrible things he said about her. But she wasn't a slut. She hadn't invited him, hadn't wanted him. He'd drugged and raped her, dammit. There was nothing in the world she could've done to deserve that.

Dylan bit her lip. She hadn't asked for this. Didn't deserve it. She wasn't a slut or a whore, and even if she had been, she didn't deserve Eamonn's abuse. She wouldn't say anything to him. Wouldn't answer. He couldn't make her.

He nipped the vulnerable edge of her ear with those sharp, strong teeth. A small shiver rippled down her back.

"I know you hear me, Dylan," he whispered, and his breath was hot and his voice came low and growly. "You can shake your head and bite your lip all you like, but we both know the truth. All the silence in the world will not change this." He kissed her ear. Flexed his thick fingers against her neck, tightening the loose circle just a touch. "I know you wake in the night from dreams of me, the ache in you unbearable. I know just what you look like," he breathed, "with your fingers between your thighs, spine bowed, panting like a bitch in heat, desperate for relief because you woke before I could finish you. I've heard the way you mewl and gasp for me, Dylan, while you chase release in the dark."

Another kiss at her earlobe, and another just over her pulse after he moved his hand. He kissed her gently, tenderly, like a lover would. When his lips touched her skin, all she could think of was the feel of his fists sinking into her belly so hard she tasted blood. The feel of his foot catching and cracking her ribs so that every breath was agony. The feel of the broken snowglobe glass digging deep into her back and thrusting through her palm to grind against her bones.

Her breathing matched his now, ragged, shallow, but with fear instead of lust. She had to fight not to flinch when he kissed the bruise on the top of her shoulder. When he licked it, a long, slow swipe of his slimy tongue that made it throb with dull pain.

But his sick, cruel words told her something vital: he was lying about being able to see her in the waking world. She knew it, because she didn't do what he accused. Thinking of him while pleasuring herself? Since she didn't masturbate, that would've been rather difficult. He was lying about being able to see her, which meant he was lying about other things. She clung to that as his words settled over her with all the weight of cold, sharp iron. While he kept on lying to her.

"You think of me while you pleasure yourself, little whore. You think of me while Silverlance ruts into you. You have to swallow back my name when he pushes you over the edge. Don't you?" His fingers stroked up and down her carotid artery, up and down over her pulse. If he pressed down hard enough, fast enough, with his Elven strength, he could rupture the artery easily and she would bleed to death at his feet. "You're thinking about me now, aren't you? Me kissing you," his lips brushed her jaw. "Tasting you. Touching you. How it felt when I took you again and again."

A tear spilled from the corner of her eye and Dylan hated herself. He spoke the way Nuada did sometimes, asked her things Nuada asked. But her prince never called her names and when her prince asked her questions, the answer was always yes. Yes, she woke in the night wanting him to touch her. Yes, she thought often of the things he did to her in bed…and next to the bed, in chair, on chair, on the rug, over the back of the chaise lounge, on the chaise, half under the chaise, in the shower, in the bathtub, on the table, against the wall, and anywhere else that happened to be handy at a time when they needed a surface. Yes, she thought of Nuada, how he made love to her. How careful and patient and wonderful and skilled and wounded and loving he was with her. She thought so often of how much she loved simply to kiss him. His kisses were magic. Sometimes, if she thought about him hard enough, she could taste him on her tongue.

Dylan didn't think any of those things about the monster currently molesting her ear and neck. She thought about strangling him. Gutting him with Nuada's knife. Driving an iron stake through his chest. Watching him drown in his own blood.

Eamonn yanked her back against him. "Sweetness. Answer me. You do those things, don't you?" A sharper nip at her ear this time. "Admit it. Admit you think of me while he uses your body. Admit you wish it were me inside you." Her mouth trembled. She couldn't, she couldn't. He pressed his fingertips against her throat and Dylan felt the threat in the touch, as obvious as setting her hand to a hot stove. Why was he doing this? He hadn't done this in the cottage. Why the mind games? Why? "Say it, Dylan. Say you wish it was me fucking you instead, while Silverlance pillages those lovely gates. Say you're a whore, my whore. Admit you want me to take you. You want it, don't you? You want me."

If she said yes, he would attack her again but if she said no, he would hurt her so badly. If she agreed, he would take that as consent and he'd do things to her, she knew it. But if she said no, he would hit her, beat her, and then torture her until she woke up from this horrible nightmare.

His fingers pressed harder into her skin. Dizziness swam through her skull. A sick, bizarre thought flitted through her brain. Desperate, she latched onto it. It was wrong, it was dangerous, it was disgusting, but Dylan turned in his arms and, grabbing him half-around the neck, smashed her mouth against his.

It was more a mashing of lips than a kiss, and Eamonn was obviously shocked by the sudden move, despite his claims that she loved the things he did to her. She just wanted him to stop asking her questions. The wrong answer would bring back the nightmare and there was no right answer and she couldn't do it again, she couldn't, she'd go insane…

If she hadn't already. Because the bruises came from somewhere and she didn't remember falling asleep this afternoon.

Then Eamonn's hands were gone from around her neck and his fingers were tunnelling into her hair and he was kissing her, hungrily. His tongue swept into her mouth and he growled low in his throat.

She remembered that growl from the cottage. Remembered how he'd growled against her breasts while he raped her, half-purring about how good she felt and how impressed he was and how he could see why someone as weak-willed as Nuada might have become entranced by the thought of having her whenever he wanted. She'd felt that growl against her thighs when he'd violated her with his tongue and teeth, while she'd been trapped splayed out under him, without the full dose of Tears to completely dull the horror and revulsion, and he'd gloated to Nuada that he knew how to pleasure a woman.

Even through the haze of need from the poison, she remembered that. It had been one of the times when Eamonn had given her half-doses to see what would happen, what she would do. Even that small taste of the poison had been too much for her body to resist, but she hadn't been so swamped by pleasure that she'd been oblivious to how sick it was, how sick she felt. She'd only made it through those moments by imagining—imagining killing herself, or killing Eamonn.

Dylan stiffened and tried to pull back from the kiss as tthe growl shivered over her like a touch. She could feel him now, like a rapacious ghost, feel his mouth on her, feel him inside her, the way he'd been in the cottage. She couldn't do this, couldn't do this to distract him, couldn't stand this, she was going to be sick, she was going to pass out-

Suddenly Eamonn was gripping the back of her neck and shoving her head down and she almost panicked, terrified of what he was going to make her do…but he only put her head between her knees as black spots danced in front of her eyes.

"Deep breaths, sweetness," he ordered. "Deep breaths or you're going to faint, and that wouldn't be good for our babes, would it?"

He was right. He was right, damn him. She had to get her breath back, had to calm her churning stomach. It was harder than it might have been because he kept murmuring encouragements to her and rubbing her back. She wanted to scream for him to just stop touching her, but she managed to bite it back. He wasn't beating her and he wasn't raping her. She wanted to keep it that way.

She couldn't even demand he stop saying "our babes." Damn him. She couldn't risk provoking his temper.

Eventually she could sit up straight without her vision going gray. Eamonn pushed a glass of water into her hand. She had no idea where it had come from. It was so cold, condensation dripped from the beautiful crystal. When she eyed it, he said, "It's not drugged. Now drink, little slut, or I shall be angry."

She didn't want him angry, and noble fae couldn't lie, so she drained the glass and felt better. What sort of dream was this, that she could feel so faint and then feel so much better after a drink of cold water?

He brushed her hair from her face and she couldn't stop her flinch. What was he going to do to her? Why was he taking care of her? In the cottage, not only had he raped her, he had beaten her repeatedly. More than once, he'd wrapped his hands around her throat and choked her until she'd fallen unconscious. He'd only stopped because Nuada had pleaded with him not to kill her. Why take such care with her now? Simply because she was pregnant?

But he did not show any sign of guessing her inner thoughts, or being plagued by them. Simply finished brushing back her hair, then caressed her mouth with an obscenely gentle stroke of his thumb.

"You're mine, you know," he said softly, matter-of-factly. As if the words didn't sicken and terrify her. "You and Nuada both."

She couldn't help it—her bottom lip began to tremble. A fresh tear slid down her cheek. Eamonn caught it on his thumb and, as he'd done in her cottage when he'd still been alive, flicked out his tongue in an obscene gesture and ate the tear, uncaring of the salt that surely burned his tongue.

"It must be the babes," he mused. "I don't remember you crying half so much before you were with child. Nuada certainly doesn't cry when I use him."

Dylan jolted. Her mouth fell open. It took several long seconds before she managed to croak, "W-what?"

Eamonn quirked an eyebrow. "He hasn't told you. That is interesting. Do you think you're the only sweet bit of slut I visit in the night? I've been enjoying your prince every night, as well."

Dylan stared at him. The Elf laughed.

"Oh, sweetheart, your face! I told you that both of you were mine, and sweet as you are, you can't slake my lust. It takes both of you and even then…" He leaned in, and she jerked back, thunking her head against the window. "Even then, the wanting never stops," he snarled, a bestial rumble in his throat. "It is all I think about while you and your whore prince traipse about, alive, enjoying the cool sweetness of fresh water and the taste of warm buttered bread and the feel of each other's hot, heaving bodies while you rut with each other. It is all I can feel—the hunger for you both, and the pleasure of you. You see, in order to curse a royal, I had to sacrifice something as well. I, too, am cursed, Dylan, with wanting…and so I will never let either of you go. When I grow tired of this existence, only then will I let the pair of you die with me."

And he kissed her, hot and hard and hungry. She tried to pull away but his strong, Elven hands held her head in place. She tried to clamp her mouth shut on instinct and Eamonn, quick as a snake, reached down and pinched her nipple through her dress so that she screamed. Then his tongue was shoving into her mouth and he was climbing on top of her, pinning her to the window and window seat. He kissed her and kissed her as if he wanted to devour her, snarling like some rabid dog as his mouth worked against hers. She slapped him, but it stung her palm more than it seemed to hinder him. Raking her nails down his cheek drew rivulets of silver blood, but he didn't stop.

When he finally pulled back, his pale lips were stained scarlet with blood from Dylan's mouth. His own blood dripped onto his white shirt collar, staining it with gray. He licked his lips. Sighed.

"We are joined, we three," he said. "Surely you sense it."

She shook her head before she could think, before she could stop herself. "No. No."

"Oh, yes. Always. For eternity. Your life, tied to mine, tied to his. My immortality, my life, my blood, offered to chain you both to each other, to me." He leaned in, brushing his lips across her mouth. She was too stunned to try to bite him. "This is no dream, my sweet. No nightmare. You are not asleep."

"No—"

Her protest was cut off by his kiss again. He was not gentle. Blood ran in thin trickles down her chin from where he bit her, lips and tongue. She shoved at him, desperate. He was not hindered. He only groaned as if in pleasure when she savagely chomped down on his tongue, even though she tasted sweet liquid that she knew to be unsalted fae blood.

"No," she tried to scream. "No!" This was a nightmare. This wasn't the waking world. If it was, she wouldn't have bruises on her shoulder and collarbone, they would be bite wounds. Wink and her brownie would have come charging in when she screamed.

This was a dream. It was. She needed to calm down. If she provoked him, kept fighting him, he would hurt her worse. So even though her mouth screamed that it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, she stopped pushing against Eamonn. Stopped yelling into the kiss. She forced herself to be still, to accept the punishing tear of Eamonn's teeth, the violation of his tongue thrusting into her mouth and making her almost gag. She stopped resisting, praying he would notice and stop.

Eventually the kiss ended. Eamonn's mouth was smeared with red. Dylan felt blood dripping down her chin. No doubt she looked like someone had punched her in the teeth.

Very slowly, Eamonn leaned forward and licked the blood from her chin. Trembling, she forced herself to let him. It had to burn him; why did he do it?

"You're not fooling me, little whore," Eamonn whispered, a scant inch from her bleeding mouth. "You despise me just as much as you ache for me."

Dylan shook her head. This was not a lie. She didn't ache for him at all, and she despised him so much she would've happily poured bleach down his throat. But Eamonn made a disappointed sound and sighed. Tapped her gently on the nose. It was the sort of gesture Nuada might have made. Her eyes burned.

"Little liar. Shall I put your composure to the test?"

The thought sent shards of ice slicing through her stomach. Test her how? She couldn't simply lie back and pretend nothing was happening if he decided he wanted to enjoy her. If he tried, she would have to fight, have to rip him apart, have to-

"I fucked Silverlance, you know."

Dylan blinked. It wasn't what she'd expected at all. It took her too long to process the human word. To understand what he was saying. She stared at him. "What?"

Grinning, almost leering, Eamonn leaned in, looking for all the world like a young girl about to share a confidence with her best friend. "I. Fucked. Your. Prince."

Dylan had suddenly gone icy. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. Her lungs jerked and spasmed in her chest, but she still couldn't get enough air. When he said that he used Nuada, she'd thought he meant torturing him, beating him, hurting him, or conjuring a dream-shade of her to torment him with, but not…

"You didn't notice when he needed you," the dark Elf continued, "because I'd bespelled you and gagged him. It was just last night, after I finished with you. You were half-asleep in the shower, you didn't feel my spell or his call for you to come and wake him, to save him from me, from his nightmare."

She swallowed. Licked her lips. Tasted blood, warm and coppery.

"He's quite good, you know. Feels just as good as you," Eamonn said. "Lush and tight as virgins, the pair of you, even now. He tried to be so stoic while I was rogering him but he couldn't hold back everything and that made it all the sweeter. It is so…titillating, those sounds he makes when I plow him like a rutting bull."

She'd been in the shower. She hadn't thought…Nuada hadn't said…hadn't acted at all like he'd had any kind of bad dreams. She hadn't known. He hadn't said anything…But this was a dream, just a dream…

Nuada had told her Eamonn hadn't used him the same way he'd used her. She'd thought that meant the dark Elf hadn't actually penetrated Nuada's body, hadn't violated him with his own flesh, but only used poison and Dylan to do it. He'd told her that. He wouldn't lie to her, and if he hadn't wanted to confess it, surely he just wouldn't have brought it up? Yet more proof that this nightmare-shadow of Eamonn was lying to her.

But the image he'd put in her mind wouldn't go away. Dylan's fingers convulsed into a white-knuckled fist.

"I've missed him just as much as I missed you," Eamonn said softly. "You're both so delicious. And Silverlance…seeing the way the muscles of his back strain as he tries to escape me, feeling them quiver under my hands as I take him…" He groaned, a grotesque sound of appreciation. He smiled at her. "So good. And when I…what is that human word, again? Ah, yes. When I comeinside him, he always gives this little scream, one of those muffled roars of rage, saturated with despair and hate. He can never keep it behind his teeth. He does it because he can feel me filling him up and he can't stop me and he hates it so very much. He hates how good it feels. Just like you do."

Dylan wasn't breathing. Her fists trembled.

"Shall I show you when he returns from his errand? Shall I show you how I fu—"

With a half-mad shriek of utter rage, Dylan lunged for the dark Elf, who laughed as she tackled him to the floor.

.

Nuada hadn't realized there were envoys from other kingdoms in Findias until Crown Prince Bres of Ciocal, the kingdom to the south of Bethmoora, stepped up to him on his way back from the kennels. Bres was a big man, strong and muscular and rather tall, with a mane of flowing golden hair and eyes like sapphires. Across his stern, handsome features was written a history of battle and political backstabbing. A history he'd navigated beside Nuada and a few other close friends, such as Zhenjin of Dilong, for a great many centuries.

When Nuada started to smile in greeting, Bres drove his fist into his face. Nuada staggered back, the pain throbbing sharp and hot through his jaw, as someone shouted, "Bres, no!"

Ciarán, Nuada thought through the pain ringing in his skull. Bres had always had a vicious left-hook. As Nuada rarely went anywhere without Wink, so did Bres rarely go anywhere without Lord Ciarán mac Aengus. The Fomorian lord was a tall, slender man, far paler than was usual for the Fomori. His black hair hung long enough to curl at the nape of his neck and his eyes were a green so dark they were almost black.

Clearing his vision, Nuada saw Ciarán had thrown his arms around Bres' shoulders in an attempt to hold him back from the Tuathan prince. Nuada probed his mouth with his tongue. None of his teeth were loose, thank the stars. He'd cut his lip under the blow and now he spat a small gobbet of golden blood on the floor—off to the side and not at Bres' feet.

The import of this was not lost on the Fomori prince or his valet. Though Bres stll glared hotly, sapphire eyes smoldering, he did not move to strike Nuada again. Ciarán watched both men warily.

Nuada wiped a bit of blood from his chin on the back of his black sleeve. Cleared his throat.

"You heard I had married." There could be no other reason Bres would strike him like this. They had been friends, nearly brothers, for thousands of years. Since they were mere princelings. Since before Queen Cethlenn's murder and the beginning of Bethmoora's slow destruction. They were united in their hatred of Balor's cowardice and their hatred for humans. Nuada had aided Bres in executing all of his murderous siblings centuries ago.

Bres snarled, "A human? You married a gods-forsaken human? How could you?"

Nuada let out a small sigh. He should've anticipated this. Should have done something to prevent it. "It is not what it appears, brother."

"Oh, no?" Bres clenched his fists. The golden-blond Elf was an imposing figure, standing nearly at Nuada's height and sitting at two stone more than the other prince and almost ten inches wider. "I was there, Silverlance. Don't try to tell me your blasted father forced you to do it; I was there when you brought that whore before him. He had no idea who she was!"

Whore. His word. He'd claimed both Nuada and Dylan were nothing but whores, to be used for his twisted pleasure. Hearing it made the blood pound in Nuada's temples. Made the hate writhe in his gut. He had not forgotten in the months since what the Elf of Zwezda had done to him, forced him to do. Parts had been obscured by the haze of Branwen's Tears but as time passed, more and more of it became clear. Just last night, he had had a dream that ripped his hazier memories into startling, crystal-sharp clarity…

Take it all, Silverlance. Take it deep. Whore, don't act as if you despise this. You may hate me, but you crave me using you again. Take me, Nuada. It feels so very good, doesn't it? You want it so badly. As badly as you want her.

Nuada shuddered. Tried to shake away the memory. Eamonn had used him hard in the nightmare, used him and used him until the Elven warrior had been left in a quivering, defiled heap upon the bed and then that cruel, vile mouth had found him and he had tried so hard not to let the pleasure take him but-

Thinking about me again, my lily prince? That disgusting voice in his mind. Nuada shuddered again. You felt so very good last night. We'll have to play some more tonight.

Shut up!

Aloud, struggling to keep his voice even, Nuada said, "No, my father did not force me. Honor forced me."

Incredulous, Bres demanded, "How?"

He did not want to tell his old friends this. Loathed the thought of sharing what had happened between him and Dylan with anyone. But Bres could not be allowed to believe that his old friend had betrayed them on a whim. So he opened his mouth, unsure what words might escape him, when Ciarán made a sharp sound.

Bres and Nuada turned to him as the other Fomorian studied Nuada's face, peering at him as if searching for something. His malachite eyes widened.

"By the gods…you're addicted to Branwen's Tears."

Nuada jolted. Bres stared. Ciarán continued to stare at him, the utter incredulity on his face almost too much for Nuada to bear. How had Ciarán come so close to the truth? It wasn't the Tears he craved, but Dylan. Did the gancanaugh poison leave some shadow behind on its victims? Balor had seen nothing; he'd needed it practically spelled out for him before he'd understood even a fragment of what had happened to his son. Bres had seen nothing in the brief moments before his strike, and judging by his baffled expression, he still saw nothing.

But Ciarán looked positively stricken. How had he even known Nuada had drunk of that loathsome poison?

You act the part you've always inhabited, now, that voice hissed. A royal successor to the throne? Hardly. A royal strumpet to that black-hearted mortal bitch who controls the bit and bridle to make you yield.

The Tuathan prince shoved that voice to the back of his mind, refusing to acknowledge it, give it any power. It slithered like tapeworms along the curves and creases of his brain, but he would not heed it just now. He opened his mouth to say something—he knew not what—to his old friends when Ciarán's face suddenly lit up as if from some epiphany, then went blank. He turned to Prince Bres.

"Sire," with perfect politeness, as if Bres' knuckles weren't bruised and Nuada's lip remained unbloodied, "we have taken up enough of His Highness Prince Nuada's time, surely."

Both Bres and Nuada blinked at him, neither one quite sure what was happening. Nuada was still too shaken by Ciarán's near-to-the-mark observation about gancanaugh venom to be quick enough to stop either the Fomorian prince or nobleman before Ciarán had grabbed Bres by the arm and dragged him away, the prince still sputtering his outrage.

What in the thirteen hells was that about? He'd thought Bres had been angry about his marriage to Dylan—indeed, he had said so himself—but if so, then why allow himself to be led away like that? Surely outrage strong enough to compel the prince to hit his old friend square in the jaw was worth hashing things out. If being in the middle of a hallway where any servant or guard could happen by was an impediment, Bres wouldn't have punched him in the first place. The Fomorian prince had always been rash like that. In truth, it was one of the things Nuada loved most about him.

He would think on it all as he walked, he decided, and hurried along the corridor. He had been from Dylan's side for far too long. No doubt she was as anxious for his return as he was to be by her side once more, unless she'd fallen asleep after he'd gone.

But he could not shake the question: what had Ciarán seen in him that told the other man that Nuada had been poisoned?

.

Bres snarled and raged until he and Ciarán were safely back in the rooms set aside by the king for the royal visitors from Ciocal. Then he rounded on Ciarán and backhanded him. The fae lord went sprawling to the floor and did not try to rise. He had pushed Bres too far in too short a time—first defending Lilé and Fiona, his sweet little hob maids, from the crown prince's temper when they'd brought the news that Nuada's new wife was in fact pregnant with his babe, and then now, dragging him away from Nuada when the other man had craved to unleash that monstrous temper on the Tuathan prince.

"Why?" Bres hissed. Ciarán's refusal to try to squirm away helped calm him a little. If the other man had run, or tried to run, Bres would have been on him in a trice, fists flying. It had happened before. Deirdre or one of the others of the prince's inner circle had always been there to prevent true disaster, but now Ciarán and Bres were alone. "Why did you drag me back like some recalcitrant puppy?"

"Nuada has been poisoned with Branwen's Tears," Ciarán said calmly around a mouthful of blood. To anyone else, the blood would have been the amber of the Fomori. Because Bres was a prince, with a crown prince's power, the blood shone black through the glamour disguising its color. "I have a suspicion of how."

Bres growled something profane under his breath. "What care is it of ours, whether he'd been poisoned? He's a traitor. He deserves to be repudiated, cast out, destroyed! And his bitch, too! Torture and kill them both, and make their deaths last, by the gods."

When Ciarán took his life in his hands by shaking his head, Bres bared his teeth in something too savage to call a smile and took a single step toward him. Ciarán held up his hands, propping himself up on his elbows. "He may not have betrayed us as badly as we think." He did not protest killing the mortal, though the thought of butchering a woman with child turned his stomach, regardless f her blood. Bres had always called him squeamish because he would only slay children or pregnant women with the utmost reluctance.

"He's rutting with that human bitch!" Bres roared. "How is that not a betrayal? He's plowing her every night, betraying us for the sake of his own lust!"

"Because of the Tears!"

Bras fell silent. Stared at Ciarán for so long that the nobleman began to sweat, great beads of perspiration slipping down along his temples and the nape of his neck. Eyes still locked on Ciarán, the prince moved to the velvety sofa and dropped down onto it. Ciarán, who'd narrowly avoided landing on a footstool when Bres backhanded him and possibly snapping his neck, did not move. He knew better.

Bres propped his booted feet on the stool Ciarán had so narrowly avoided and leaned back against the lush, emerald velvet cushions. He stared long and hard at Ciarán, and the other man knew the prince was quite possibly deciding whether or not to kill him.

"Explain," Bres said at last.

"Eamonn brought the first whispers of rumors to us, remember?" Ciarán said. "All those months ago, more than a year and a day ago now, he came and asked your father for the tools to prove his words. Do you remember what he took?"

The prince scoffed. "Merely a few servants."

Ciarán shook his head. He still had not moved from the floor, and he was starting to get a crick in his spine from holding his head up off the carpet, but a crick was better than Bres kicking him in the face for moving without sufficient justification. He didn't want to have to explain a broken nose or cheekbone or eye socket to a healer.

"He also took two bottles of gancanaugh venom—one from me, one from Deirdre." Because Ciarán was not actually a Fomorian Elf, and neither was Dierdre mac Aengus, Ciarán's twin sister. She had come with them to Bethmoora, but she was not with them now. She was busy playing the virginal coquette with the king. Her disguise as a scarlet Fomori—silvered emerald eyes, blunted teeth instead of fangs, and spun-garnet hair—as well as Ciarán's disguise as a Fomorian lord had been crafted by King Elatha Redtongue, Bres' father and the king of Cíocal. Boosted by Bres' own magic, there was no chance anyone could have broken the glamour. "Your father deemed it a reasonable request," Ciarán added. "I thought you knew."

Bres dismissed that with a sharp wave of one hand that told Ciarán that King Elatha had not, in fact, seen fit to inform his son of the request. "And?" Bres demanded. "What of it? So Eamonn had Love Talker poison. There is no guarantee that is what you saw on Silverlance."

Ciarán risked giving his prince a disgruntled look. Abruptly, he dropped his glamour. The king had crafted it, but Ciarán controlled it. Now instead of a pale-skinned, green-eyed Fomorian lord, he was a gancanaugh—black eyes without sclera, the scarlet pupils slitted like a venomous snake's; skin as gray as a fresh corpse; and three rows of serrated, needle-thin teeth slicked with saliva and poison. The message was clear: Ciarán was gancanaugh. He was not mistaken in what he'd seen on Nuada.

Branwen's Tears were not addictive the way a narcotic drug was addictive. No, the Tears simply spiked a victim's sexual appetite. But it also left them open to suggestion, manipulation. If someone had been poisoned and then given only one partner to slake their lust, it was possible the one who'd been poisoned might imprint in some fashion on their plaything, becoming addicted to them.

"And you believe this is what happened to Silverlance?" Bres demanded when Ciarán had explained everything.

He shrugged and finally sat up. "It is possible. Possible that such a thing happened to both of them. In fact, the effects would be stronger on a human victim. If Eamonn was reckless enough, rash enough to use Deirdre's poison on Nuada and my poison on the mortal in his attempt to furnish your father with evidence of a betrayal that may in fact not have been there…it would explain why Nuada would be with her now. He would crave her. Even having her near would help soothe the addiction. And if she got with child while Nuada was under the effects of the Tears…" Ciarán offered another shrug.

Bres sighed. "He would feel responsible for the harlot and her brats, that fool. He was always so soft when it came to babies. Human or not, he would feel responsible for her get if he sired them." Bres dropped his face into his hands and laughed almost helplessly. "That stupid son of a bastard." It was the Fomorian's policy never to call Nuada's mother any foul name; Queen Cethlenn had been instrumental in keeping Bres alive as a child, protected from the siblings that wanted to murder him as a little lad. Balor, on the other hand, was a rutting coward who deserved a knife in the back. But aloud, Bres only asked, "Are you certain?"

At this point, Ciarán felt safe enough to roll his eyes. "Certain? You want certain, hire yourself a witch or something. I'm just your valet and torturer. But he has the look of one who's had a long drink of the Tears. The hunger leaves its mark, Bres. In many ways, he remains the same, but in others he is much changed."

The prince nodded. Pursed his lips. "Is there a way to save him from this?"

Ciarán raised one black eyebrow in sardonic inquiry. "Did my prince have something specific in mind?"

"Let's just kill her."