Author's Note: as per usual, reader discretion is highly advised.
This chapter is...really dark. On top of being sick, I've been going through some stuff with the lawsuit involving my job and I'm...upset. So I dumped it all into this fic. When I'm really, really upset about things, I tend to write…I guess you'd call it torture porn (which is not the same thing as porn where people are tortured, but I digress). I'm just going through a lot right now. Sorry for the delay, you guys.
These chapters arrive a week early on my Pat. Re. On, by the way. *wink wink*
The chapter title comes from the song "In All My Dreams I Drown" from The Devil's Carnival.
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Once Upon a Moonless Dark
Chapter Twenty-One
In All My Dreams I Drown
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The shadows were deep, despite the midafternoon sun streaming in through the bedroom windows. They pinned Dylan at an angle to the huge bed, bands of gauzy black as strong as iron chains around her wrists and ankles and neck and knees, keeping her splayed out like a dying starfish on the dark velvet blankets. Forcing her to meet Eamonn's gaze as he stretched out beside her, shirtless, his black trews paling his already pale skin until it looked white as old bones. He trailed a light finger over her trembling lips, down her chin, along her throat to finger the ties on her gown.
"I dislike this Briton style," he mused aloud. "Too many layers. Do not wear it again, or I shall be very displeased. Now…" He dragged his finger down, over the neck of her underdress and kirtle, over the lacings on her chest, and down to the swell of her belly. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut tight as he cupped the fullness there, almost caressing. "Have you chosen names yet?"
She didn't answer. In retaliation, he flicked the tip of her right breast hard enough to make her squeak. He repeated the question. Chewing her bottom lip despite the throbbing pain, using that pain to anchor herself, quiet her panic, she shook her head. She had to pick her battles.
"If it is a boy and girl, like you and your wretched twin," Eamonn said conversationally, "name the girl Eileena and the boy after me."
Her eyes snapped open. "Not a chance."
He actually pouted. "You don't like the name Eileena? I thought it was quite lovely. What about Eímh?"
"I will never name any child of mine after you."
She expected him to hit her. Punish her in some way. Instead he gazed down at her with a slightly baffled expression and murmured, "You will absolutely name my son after me, Dylan. I'll not let you take my children and give them to Silverlance. I'll slit their throats in the cradle if you try. Do you understand?" She stared up at him, wide eyed, and he stroked her cheek with a finger. "I see that you do. I may banter with you about paternity and rights, but let me be clear, little harlot. Regardless of the blood you believe flows in their veins, these," and he patted her stomach, "these are my children. Not his, not yours. Mine." He leaned down, slowly, and brushed his lips against hers. "Your body is mine. Your prince is mine. These babes are mine. When you accept that, you'll feel so much better."
Eamonn pulled back and stared down at her, studying her face. He offered her a gentle smile. "Now, let us see if you have learned your lesson. Who do you belong to?"
She clenched her teeth and glared up at him. She couldn't say it. She wouldn't say it. He met her gaze and waited. Waited. She kept her teeth clenched and said nothing. Finally, he sighed.
"Stubborn, stupid bitch." He reached up, took her earlobe between the nails of his thumb and forefinger, and pinched. At first there was an odd, dull throb, but then suddenly fire exploded through the side of her head. Dylan cried out, then snapped her teeth shut. The groan of pain crawled out from between her teeth as he kept pinching. "Who do you belong to?" He demanded. "Say it. Say who you belong to. Tell me, Dylan." Blood was dripping onto her neck now and tears of pain dripped over her temples. "Who do you belong to? Say it."
"You!" She gasped finally.
He let her go. "Say it again. I want to make sure you truly understand. Who do you belong to?"
Fighting back tears, she whispered, "You." She couldn't glare at him anymore. Couldn't meet his eyes. But he gripped her chin and forced her to look up at him. She poured every ounce of hatred in her into her eyes but that was all she could do. He bade her say it again. "You."
"Good girl." He brought his fingers to his lips. The tips were stained scarlet. Never breaking eye contact, he licked at her blood. "Who do you want?" He said it softly, voice throaty. Like the question was supposed to be sexy, seductive.
He wanted her to say it. He'd never stop until she lied and said she wanted him, not Nuada. But if she said it, he would be at her again, trying to drown her in lust. Even if this was only a nightmare—and it had to be; her blood was poisonous to him, with its salt and iron, his tongue flicking at her blood made no sense—she couldn't force the words out of her constricted throat, no matter how hard she tried. To her shame, she started to cry again, babbling at him, trying to shake her head frantically and straining her neck and jaw against the shadow holding her head in place because she couldn't do it and he was going to hurt her again.
"Oh, shhh," he crooned, cradling her face. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin, even her eyelids, shushing her all the while. "I know," he breathed. "I know it's hard. It's so hard to realize, to confess what you really are, I know. Shhh, sweetness. Don't cry. Not yet, anyway. Poor little whore. This is all so difficult for you, isn't it? It's all too much, isn't it?"
And to her distant horror, she found herself nodding, pleading silently with him to please just stop, to please leave her alone, to please go the hell away and leave her be, please!
"Shhh, shhh," Eamonn soothed. He slid his arms under her back and thighs and at first Dylan didn't know what he was doing but then the shadows had let her go and Eamonn was sitting up, cradling her on his lap. "Don't cry. As long as you behave, everything will be well enough. You did well, admitting I own you. I own you," he added in a harder voice, "don't I?"
After a long, tense moment, she nodded silently, hating herself. But Eamonn smiled and kissed the top of her head.
"Good girl. See, that was not so difficult. Was it?" He waited. She eventually shook her head, because she knew if she didn't, he could easily smash her head into the bedpost again. "Let me see...simple steps. Ah. Here. Look at me. Look me in the eye." She hesitated, but eventually tilted her head back and looked up into the serpentine, silver eyes. "Be still," he commanded, and leaned down and kissed her.
It was a kiss unlike any he had given her before. Gentle. Coaxing. A kiss like Nuada's, so tender. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Nuada kissing her, his tongue stroking into her mouth, his low groan of pleasure and approval rumbling against her lips. Eamonn kissed her as if he sipped from a glass of fine, sweet wine—slowly, langorously, as if savoring her. And when he pulled back, there was for once no blood on his lips and her mouth only ached from the earlier punishment, not from this.
If it had been Nuada, she would have slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hungry for him, ready for him. But this was not Nuada and she would have given almost anything in that moment to drive a knife, a knitting needle, her fingernails, anything into his eye.
"Now, answer truthfully, my sweet—was that so very hard?"
She wanted, ached so badly to rip out his eyes with her fingernails. She shook her head, the silent lie digging into her like shards of bone.
"I can be gentle with the right encouragement," Eamonn said softly. "I've made love to you before, don't you remember? When I took you slowly, sweetly, and it was so good you wept against my heart. I've been gentle before. I can be again." He shifted her, taking surprising care, moving her from his lap to the bed again. One hand braced on her other side, he hovered above her. Studying her face. "You revel in the blood and bruises, I know," he murmured, and her fingers twisted in the blanket so she wouldn't go for his eyes, "but you enjoy the gentle taking, too, I know as well. I've seen Silverlance with you. When he is gentle. Seen the way you sigh and moan for him while he torments you. How you beg. I can do that, Dylan. I can do that for you, if you wish it."
He kissed her, another languid kiss without brutality. She didn't know what to do with it. Respond to it, kiss him back? He would want that but the thought made her shudder, made her stomach churn. The kiss seemed to go on and on, his tongue gliding into her mouth with the same silent surety as a poisoned blade through flesh. She couldn't bite him, even though she yearned to do it. It had only aroused him before. It was like he didn't feel pain anymore.
His weight settled on her, but with more care than she'd ever known from him. He kissed her and kissed her as if that was all he could ever want, and she tried to kiss him back so he wouldn't get angry, wouldn't force her to do anything else, but then his hand came up and cupped her breast and she remembered Eamonn would always want, always demand, always take. This gentleness was a mask to make her drop her guard, to make her think giving in was better than fighting, than hating him. He was twisting up her thoughts, trying to make her want him, but it would never, ever happen. Her body might react to him when he deliberately tried to arouse her but she would never want him. She would never belong to him.
As if sensing some change in her, he broke the kiss. Stared down at her. She tried to keep her face blank, empty, but she could tell from his expression that she failed. He bared his teeth in a feral smile.
"So. That is how you wish it. Perhaps my little slut isn't as tired of pain as I thought."
Before she could say anything, to deny or to lash out at him, the shadows had returned, twisting around her wrists, her elbows, her neck, her knees, her ankles, and Eamonn reached up and gripped the twin layers of lambswool-and-silk that made up her dress and underdress.
"I really do hate this dress," he snarled, and tore it down the middle. His cold, silver gaze raked over her black bra and he smirked. "You wore an invitation for me. How thoughtful."
"No-" She began, and his teeth sank into her breast through the cloth, hard enough that she screamed, while he continued ripping her dress open. While he bit her, his fingers hooked into the bands of her underwear and she knew this was a nightmare because all of her nightmares went like this. The rest of it, the kisses and the demands, had been strange but she knew this. She relived it nearly every night.
I'm not here, she told herself as he jerked with Elven strength and the fabric of her panties tore. She stared up at the canopy of the bed, velvety black embroidered in silver and gold and diamonds like a night sky. I'm not here, she told herself as his shadows dragged her legs apart, pulled her knees up. Her eyes traced over the constellations embroidered in the canopy overhead as the dark Elf forced his fully aroused sex into her body with a loud groan, pinning her hips to the bed with bruising hands. She tried to see if there were any starry pictures she recognized. Eamonn hadn't removed his trews completely, and she dimly recognized the fabric rubbing against her thighs as he grunted and strained over her, as her gaze darted from diamond to diamond above.
"Oh, yes," he groaned against her skin. "This is…" He shuddered above her. "You're always so tight. And you missed me, as well, I see. You feel magical, sweetness. For a mere mortal, you feel so good."
Nightmare. Only a nightmare, just like every night. Not real. When he finished, she would wake up, tears on her cheeks, and Nuada would be there to comfort her or she could drag herself into the shower to wash the memory away.
The slap of flesh against flesh tried to pull her down, away from the stars. She ignored it, watching the dreamy afternoon sun light up each diamond against the velvet canopy. This was the first nightmare where there had been no Tears at all, where she could actually block out the Elf raping her and lose herself in the beauty of the stars without the faerie poison forcing her to focus on what Eamonn was doing. They were cold and lovely, dancing with tiny sparks against the black. She stared up at them, refusing to look away, refusing to see anything else, as Eamonn convulsed against her and climaxed with a sharp cry.
"Ohhh," he breathed against her neck. "Ohhh, it has been...too long, my sweet. Too long since I've enjoyed you. I believe I may have bruised those lovely thighs. But don't worry; I can lick them all better in a moment. And you enjoyed every second, didn't you?" When she didn't speak, he lifted his head from her neck and stared down at her. She felt his gaze but it seemed so unimportant, so irrelevant when the diamonds glittered so prettily above her head, almost hypnotic. "Dylan?" She barely heard him. She didn't even blink. Eamonn sucked in a sharp breath. "You bitch."
The hard, hot burn of his palm cracking against her cheek shoved her out of the gorgeous night sky and she plummeted back to earth, back to the leaden weight of him on top of her and his organ, still fully erect, penetrating her flesh. Dylan gasped. Stared at him. Blood trickled from her split lip.
"You bitch," he growled. "Where did you go? Where did your soul go while I was making love to you? Whore." One hand curled around her throat, his thumb hovering over her pulse, and her eyes widened. "Whore! Were you imagining him? Was that what you were doing while I was inside you? Thinking of him? Of Silverlance?" His grip tightened, white spots showing around his fingers as they dug into her neck. The Elf wrapped his other hand around her throat and squeezed. Dylan choked. Tried to grab his wrists, claw at him, but the shadows held her pinned as he strangled her, and he began to move in her again, thrusting hard, and there were no stars now, no lovely velvet night sky. Only the burning in her throat and the fingers digging hard into her neck and Eamonn ramming into her, his hot breath whistling between his teeth. She tried to beg him, tried to speak, but she had no breath, no air, no voice. Black and scarlet spots danced across her eyes and she saw her pulse flickering wildly in the corner of her vision. Her lungs burned.
"How dare you?" He snarled as he throttled her, as he used her. "Your body is mine," every word punctuated by a sharp, hard thrust. "You are mine. How dare you think about him while I'm pleasuring you? He wasn't the one inside you. He wasn't the one flooding you with his seed. He wasn't the one fucking you! It was me, dammit! I am the one in your bed! Me! How dare you? How dare you? You're mine! You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!"
And then suddenly Eamonn gave a choked gasp, his grip around her throat convulsed once and then loosened, and he shuddered, emptying into her again in a poisonous flood that almost seemed to scald her. He let go of her neck and blessed, burning cold air flooded her lungs. She gasped, coughed, and didn't stop coughing and choking and gasping for a long time while Eamonn continued to shiver. She couldn't stop the tears now, couldn't see the diamond stars anymore. Dry, coughing sobs tore at her throat.
Her throat and tongue felt swollen and tears streamed from her eyes when at last Eamonn gripped her chin and forced her to look at him. He stared at her for a long time while she struggled to get her breath back, then kissed her, hard, tearing at her lips with his teeth, growling like a rabid animal. His mouth muffled her scream.
"Mine," he snarled against her lips. "You're mine. Say it."
No. There was no point, no reason, he would just keep hurting her no matter what she did, no matter what she said. She shook her head.
"Say it, Dylan." When she pressed her lips together, his fist came down barely an inch from her head. He shoved his face against hers and screamed so that spittle flew against her lips, "Say it!"
Gritting her teeth, trying to block out the feel of him moving in her, she hissed, her broken voice grating, "I will never belong to you, you pathetic son of a bitch."
He slapped her again, hard enough to bring back her stars—but only for a moment. She blinked the stars away as he began to move in her again, slower this time, drawing it out. Teeth bared, he snarled at her. "You're mine. You'll always be mine, until the day I finally end your pitiful mortal life. You feel it. You know it. You may despise it, you may try to reject it, but you know I'm what you want, who you want. I'm who you need. And that makes you mine, little whore. All mine. I'm your master and your lord. I own you, body and soul."
Somehow she found the strength, the hate, to look him in the eye and say in a voice like ice, "No."
"Oh, ho, you don't believe me? Silverlance does. Look." Eamonn grabbed her hair and yanked hard enough that a few strands of hair parted from her scalp. Because she was sideways, with her arms pointing at head- and footboard, Eamonn yanked her head back and down so that it hung mostly off the bed...and she saw.
Nuada stood watching her impassively while Eamonn raped her. He wore the same clothes he'd worn when he'd left on his errand, only Dylan saw that silky bits of white and russet fur clung to the black silk. A bit of straw chaff stuck to his boots. He stood barely six inches from her face, looking down at her while her head smacked the bedframe with the force of Eamonn's vicious thrusts. He was right there, he was right there. He'd never just stood by and watched the dark Elf hurt her before. What was happening?
"Nuada?" How long had he been there? Had he seen Eamonn hit her? Had he seen all of it? "Nuada, please!" Dylan croaked. The words burned in her raw throat. "Nuada, help me! Help me!" He was right there, why wouldn't he help her?
"Because," Eamonn crooned in time with his thrusts, "he knows just as well as you do. You belong to me. Say it. Say you belong to me."
"Go to Hell!" She half-screamed, because if she didn't scream she would break down. Nuada was just watching. Just watching. Eamonn was using her, hurting her, violating her, and Nuada wasn't trying to do anything. Every word she tried to shriek brought the taste of blood surging up in the back of her throat. "I don't belong to you! I hate you!"
"Oh, do you?" He growled. And then something touched her knee. Not Eamonn. This thing, whatever it was, was cool and smooth. It felt like...like…like the shadows currently holding her down. As the silky bit of shadow slid up along her thigh, Eamonn asked, "Yet you don't hate how I can make you feel?"
The shadow touched between her legs, a slick stroking, and Dylan gasped, arching her back against her will. Eamonn growled his approval and picked up his hellish pace, hammering her, the force threatening to break her but never quite doing it. Eamonn knew, he knew how to make it hurt without damaging her permanently. How did he know, damn him? Shadow spilled over Dylan, stroking her with the same violating rhythm Eamonn always used and she opened her mouth to scream but the shadow-gag was back, the thick dark piece of night thrusting between her lips to muffle her scream. The stroking matched Eamonn's punishing pace and she felt the twisted pleasure beginning to build, hellish heat in the pit of her stomach and she knew it was going to happen and Nuada was watching, just watching it all.
No, no, she didn't want this, didn't want to feel this, and Eamonn leaned in and snarled in her ear, "You're so close, my sweet. I can feel your body rippling around mine. You're so very close, and so am I. Shall we fall together this time? Will that please you? Shall I spill my seed in your body while you come undone beneath me? Or shall I let you come first?" He dragged his slimy, warm tongue over her cheek and her bruised, swollen throat convulsed. "Ohhh, Dylan, don't you see? You were made for me. I did not see it until that night in your cottage after I let Silverlance have you, until that first moment when I sank deep inside you. Every part of you welcomed me. You remember it. You remember me. You know I speak the truth. Your entire existence is for me, sweetness. That's why I can bring you to climax just," the stroking intensified and Dylan's eyes widened in desperation, it was going to happen, he was going to do it, "like," his tongue laved the bruises at her throat from his hands as she began to shake, the muscles in her bound legs spasming, as a whimper built in her raw throat, and in her mind he breathed, this.
The orgasm ripped through her like claws and she screamed around the shadow in her mouth as she bucked under Eamonn, desperate to escape him, the sickening pleasure, the violating shadows, and Nuada's stony gaze that seemed to condemn her. But Eamonn didn't stop moving in her and she realized he'd done this on purpose, forced her body into a state of sensitivity to prove his cruel point. Every time he made her climax, it would become easier to do it again. The shadows didn't stop their violation and Eamonn didn't slow down as she broke under him again, her cries stifled by the gag and sweat dewing her body and she prayed for it to end, for him to go away, for someone to kill her, please just kill her. He broke her and then broke her again, and then again, again, and once more, seven times for curses and dread magic, and she was sobbing, trying to beg him to stop, begging him to just kill her, but the shadows flooding her mouth murdered her pleas.
"So good," Eamonn groaned, "I've been so good to you, my sweet, but now," and he hissed out a breath and sucked in another, "now...oh, gods, Dylan, sweetness, that's right...feel me taking you, you love it so much, and I love the sounds you make...take it all, take it all, take all of me...oh, gods, gods, once more for me, little whore, with me, you want to, you need to," an eighth time, to punish, to humiliate, and she screamed because the pleasure thundered down on her like an avalanche, threatening to shatter her bones, to splinter her spine and crack her ribs and grind her to nothing but powder and pain and self-loathing and despair, and the dark Elf snarled something obscene as he arched his back, thrusting deep, and finished with a guttural cry.
Nuada just stood there. Dylan tried to reach for him, pleading, but her wrists were still bound. She whispered around the gag, "Nuada, please...help me." This had to be a nightmare because he would be helping her if it wasn't. But even in her nightmares, he tried. He wasn't even trying…
"Because he knows the truth, sweetness," Eamonn muttered to her breasts, as if he could read her mind. He hung his head above her, still shuddering with the aftershocks of his release. He kissed the scars there, gentle as a lover. "He knows you want it. He knows you're a filthy human slut who needs a fae blade sheathed between your legs to make you happy. He thought your favors were for him alone but now he knows he's just the means to scratch your itch." He nuzzled her breasts, the mound of white scar tissue over her sternum. "He knows now that he was merely the substitute for me. Why do you think he looks so disgusted?"
Was it disgust on his face? She couldn't tell. Couldn't feel him through their link. Didn't that mean it was only a dream? But it didn't feel like a dream. She stared upside down at Nuada, begging silently with her eyes, pleading with him to do something. Even just to free her so that she could fight Eamonn herself. But he only stood there, staring at her. It was the dark Elf that finally spoke.
"You ought to sit down so that you can watch the show in comfort, Silverlance," he said while nuzzling her breast. His tongue flicked out and she squeezed her eyes shut as tight as she could. Black starbursts exploded across her eyelids and she bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood so she wouldn't react, either at the unwelcome pleasure of his tongue or the anguish clawing at her throat. "Unless you want a turn with her? I'm feeling generous."
Dylan's eyes snapped open and her gaze shot from Nuada to Eamonn and back to Nuada, who sighed and shook his head.
"I've work to see to. Reports to read. I've no time for this."
No. No, that couldn't be. She'd heard wrong. This was a trick. If he just didn't see them, then maybe that was the answer, but he'd answered Eamonn's question. He'd dismissed her. And she saw there were papers stacked on the window seat. Nuada went to them as Dylan cried out, "Nuada!"
Eamonn snarled. The shadow bonds loosened and Dylan tried to wrench free, but she'd only managed two jerks of her arms before Eamonn was yanking on her, flipping her over. The bonds tightened once she was on her knees and elbows. Eamonn flipped the skirts of her torn dress over her back and she knew what he was going to do. She turned desperate eyes to Nuada, but he'd sat down at the window seat and was doing his paperwork now. Reading his reports.
"Nuada," she moaned as Eamonn moved into position behind her. "Nuada, please…"
"You should be begging me, little slut," Eamonn growled, and gripping her hips to hold her still, shoved into her. A startled cry of horror and revulsion squeezed out of Dylan's throat before Eamonn leaned over her, his chest to her back, and cupped one hand around her neck. He didn't squeeze again, but the bruises on her neck twinged at the brush of his fingers as he moved in her, his hipbones stabbing into her flesh. How many more times was he going to use her? He was an Elf, so this could be the last, or he might not finish with her for hours. She remembered that it had taken both Elves hours to sate themselves with her in the cottage, and Nuada had made love to her more than a good half-dozen times on their wedding night. When would this end? When would Eamonn stop?
"I'm the one who deserves to hear you beg like a harlot. Not him. He doesn't care. Look at him. He doesn't care what I do to you. He knows you both belong to me." When she closed her eyes and tried to block out the sight of Nuada just sitting there while the dark Elf had his way with her, the thick fingers tightened a fraction around her neck. "Don't you dare try to leave me now," he hissed in her ear. "Not again. I want you to feel every second of this. I want you to know who is deep, deep inside you, whose pike spears you right now. I want you to know whose seed will flood your womb. Ohhh, feel me, Dylan." He licked her neck and she couldn't stop her harsh cry of disgust. His other hand, the one not at her throat, slid up over her hip to cup one vulnerable breast, squeezing hard. "Feel me. My hands on you. My body in yours. It's so good, isn't it?" He licked her again. "Who do you belong to?"
Images flashed through her mind: Eamonn pushing her down onto broken glass so that blood burst from her torn skin, Eamonn's fists colliding with her face and ribs and belly as bones splintered and cracked until she could only lie in her own blood and spit and tears, Eamonn's hands gripping her throat until she began to black out while he raped her, Eamonn practically chewing on her lips as he kissed her. And the words echoing in her brain: who do you belong to? Say it. Who do you belong to?
Help me, she prayed silently. Someone help me. Nuada, please...Becan...Wink...someone, please, please…
"Say it, Dylan," Eamonn breathed. "I want to hear you admit it while I'm touching you like this. While I'm fucking you. Say it, my sweet."
No, no, no. No. She couldn't, she couldn't, it wasn't true, it was a lie. She didn't belong to him, he was a monster, she hated him, wanted him dead. And in that moment, while Nuada flipped through papers and Eamonn shoved into her body with bruising force, she hated Nuada, too. He was just sitting there, just ignoring the cries of pain and disgust coming out of her, just ignoring the vicious things the dark Elf snarled at her. How could he abandon her like-
She screamed, a sharp shriek of sudden agony, when Eamonn reached around, gripped her little finger, and snapped it sideways. She nearly fell to her stomach on the bed but his shadows kept her in the position he wanted. Pain blazed through her hand, through her broken finger, and she struggled to swallow the rest of her scream as Eamonn hissed, "Say it, Dylan. Or I'll break the next one." Another thrust, and another, and he demanded, "Who do you belong to?"
"You," she sobbed, trying to cradle her broken finger against her chest. She balanced precariously on her elbows, and every vicious thrust threatened to knock her over. If she fell again, would he break more bones?
He groaned. "Oh, yes. Say it again. Louder. Who do you belong to?"
"You." Her hand burned with pain, a hollow sick pain that radiated from her finger across her hand and up into her wrist.
He picked up his pace, slamming into her, and it hurt, it hurt. "Louder. Louder!"
"You! I belong to you!"
"And it's good, isn't it?" Eamonn demanded. "This feels good, yes? Say it! Admit it, Dylan!"
"Yes," she wept.
He squeezed her breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he hissed in her ear, "Yes, what, whore? Yes, what?"
The words tasted like vomit when she whispered, "It's good."
"Yes? Tell me."
"It's...it's so good," she gasped as he raped her, her broken finger screaming at her, his fingers bruising her breast. "I...I…" If she didn't say it, he'd break more bones. Or something worse. "I love it," she choked out. "It feels so good."
"Feels good? It feels good when I fuck you?"
"Yes," she wept. "Yes, it…" She couldn't say it, she couldn't...but she knew what would happen if she didn't. "It feels so good when you f-fuck me, E-Eamonn."
Please, someone kill me. The words echoed in her head. Just make it stop. Make it all stop. No more pain, no more fear. Just let it end. She would beg him to kill her if that's what it took. He wanted to, she knew he did. She couldn't do this again. It was just getting worse and worse, she couldn't do it.
"Eamonn…" Kill me. Why won't you just kill me?
"Say my name."
The words hit her like fists. Nuada said that to her sometimes, when they made love. He would beg her to say, to cry out, to scream his name. So many things Eamonn did, that Nuada did as well. Kissing just under her ear, tapping the tip of her nose with one finger, saying some of the things Eamonn wanted her to say about him...it was too much. She sagged into the grip of the shadows and Eamonn's hand at her throat, letting her head hang, and wept even as the tendrils of shadow moved between her legs and brought her to the final end, even as the dark Elf finished within her in a hot flood of poisonous lust. She simply sobbed and pleaded, "Eamonn...Eamonn…" His name. His name like poison on her tongue, like snakes in her belly. She'd sworn never to say his name again and until this nightmare, she hadn't, but now...now…if only he would just slit her throat...
Dylan wept silently as Eamonn's shadows released her and the Elf pulled away, letting her drop to the bed in a heap of exhaustion and bruises. She felt him, the slime of his lust between her legs, smearing her thighs. He stretched with a groan and popped the bones in his neck, then grinned down at her. Smacked her on the behind hard enough to sting.
"That was rather exceptional. Very good, my sweet. I'm quite pleased with you." He dropped a kiss on her mouth. She could only think of her poor finger, the hollow throb of bone grinding against bone. "You should rest now, unless Silverlance wants a turn." He nodded at Nuada, who had turned and now watched Dylan sob while Eamonn straightened and relaced his trousers. "As I said, I'm feeling generous today. Did you enjoy yourself?"
She curled up into a ball, tears rolling down her cheeks and filling her mouth and dripping off the end of her nose to wet the mussed blankets. His hand smoothed lightly over her buttocks before dipping between her legs. She jerked, squeaked, and he held her down with his other hand while he stroked over her, delving into the wet. When he raised his fingers, they were slick. He grabbed her face with his free hand and jerked her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him.
"Answer me, Dylan. Did you enjoy yourself?"
One last spark of defiance, once last blazing star of hatred, and the hot pain in her hand made her snarl, "No."
Eamonn shoved his fingers into her mouth. She screamed, tasting his pleasure, tasting her body's response to it. His fingers tasted of cold lust, nightmares, and faintly, the blood he'd gotten on them when he'd pinched her ear earlier. Dylan tried to shake her head, dislodge his fingers, tried to bite him, but he shoved them to the back of her throat and she nearly gagged. She bucked, trying to get free, and he shoved his knee into her solar plexus, deliberately avoiding the slight swelling of her pregnant belly and knocking the wind and strength out of her. His weight threatened to crush her lungs.
"Do not ever lie to me, little whore," Eamonn whispered, pinching her tongue, slathering her tongue with the taste of what he'd done to her. "Now, the truth. You enjoyed being fucked today, did you not?" When she didn't move, he thrust deeper with his fingers. Dylan choked, desperately trying not to vomit. When the convulsions in her throat and stomach subsided, Eamonn leaned over her and raised an eyebrow. He kept his fingers hovering over her tongue, a silent threat.
The scars at her elbows, thighs, and over her heart tingled as she shut her eyes tight and nodded. He pulled his fingers out of her mouth and wiped them on her hair. Dylan bit back a sob.
His breath was hot against her lips when he whispered, "Tell me you want me to come back tomorrow." She stared up at him, horror-stricken. "Beg me to come back tomorrow."
Her chin quivered. Her mouth was desert-dry when she whispered, "P-please come back...t-t-tomorrow…"
Somehow he slithered closer to her, his lips brushing hers now. "Say, 'Please, Eamonn, come back tomorrow and give me the fucking I deserve.'"
She barely felt the tears now as she croaked, "Please...Eamonn...come back t-tomorrow and…" The words stuck in her throat like jagged bones. She could scarcely see through the pain of her broken finger. But his fingers stroked along her neck and she knew what would happen if she kept him waiting, so she finally managed to croak, "and g-g-give me the f-fucking I deserve.'"
"Oh, I will, sweetness." He kissed her, licked the salt-tears from her lips. "And you'll love every second of it. Now, you should put something on those bruises when you wake up," Eamonn said, climbing off the bed. "The finger will be fine once you've woken."
Dylan, teary-eyed, blinked. "W-wake up?"
"Yes. You're sleeping." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Chuckled when she flinched. He slapped her butt again. "You've been asleep this whole time."
It was a dream! She almost wept again with relief. Nightmares would tell you that you were awake, but rarely did monsters in the waking world tell you that you were asleep. Her mind must have realized she could bear no more and given her this one sop of solace. It was a nightmare. Nuada hadn't abandoned her, hadn't just watched while Eamonn hurt her. None of this was real, none of it. The words meant nothing, it was only a nightmare!
"It's the only way my curse can reach you right now," the dark Elf added. Dylan's head jerked back. She stared up at him. "My phantom can find you in sleep and use you to my heart's content, and soon...oh, soon enough, I won't need you to be asleep."
Her mouth tried to form the word what, but she couldn't.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Soon I'll have the strength to come to you, both of you, during your waking hours. I'll have the strength to take control of your prince, or possibly even of you. And soon after that, I'll have a physical form again, and we'll be one lovely ménage, hmmm? You'd like that again, wouldn't you? It's been so long since Nuada and I shared you." She knew that he knew when the memories of the three of them filled her mind: Dylan on her knees between them, servicing one with her mouth while the other used her; Dylan held in strong Elven arms, her legs spread wide to accept invasion by one while the other used her from behind. She couldn't stifle the whimper or her tears. Eamonn chuckled. "I'll be back later tonight to work on training the fidgets out of you, my little harlot, but until then, get some rest. And just so you are aware—this was a dream, but he was not." Eamonn gestured to Nuada. "When you wake up, you'll see. He was right there all this time while I fucked you."
She flinched, knowing he only kept using the human word because it made her feel sick and wrong and ashamed, because it frightened her. With a chuckle, Eamonn kissed her one last time before sauntering out of the room.
Dylan curled up into a ball again, pulling the edges of her torn dress around her to cover herself, cradling her broken finger to her chest, and sobbed.
She didn't know how long it was before a hand reached out from behind her—Nuada's hand, she knew instantly without having to look—and touched her shoulder.
"Dylan?"
.
Nuada had been skimming reports from the provinces he held in the north of Bethmoora when a soft, hitching sort of sob caught his attention. He looked up to see Dylan curled up on their bed, arms around her knees and her back to him, shoulders shaking. She'd been asleep when he'd returned from the kennels and she'd been so tired lately, he hadn't wanted to wake her, but now...
Her eyes snapped open when he murmured her name, when his fingers touched her shoulder. An awful, terrible tension whipped through her body, muscles going taut as razor wire, and she sucked in a breath. Blinked. There was no sleep fog in her eyes this time, and she did not scream. She only swallowed audibly. Then, she looked down at her hands. Nuada realized she'd been clutching one to her chest and now she stared at it, her eyes darting frantically over it. The prince frowned. The frown lines deepened when he realized Dylan's little finger was bruised pale blue around the middle joint and slightly swollen. Had she sprained it?
"Dylan-"
He touched her shoulder again and she made a sound, a sound of utter revulsion and denial, that sliced him to the bone. She didn't jerk away from him. Didn't speak. Only held herself so very still, it was as if she were trying desperately to turn herself invisible or sink down and disappear into the blankets. She clutched her slightly bruised hand to her chest and panted for breath, eyes wide, staring at nothing. What was happening here? Every time she'd had a flashback or a nightmare, she'd reacted vocally. Screaming, crying, babbling, pleading, wailing. Never this unnatural, panicked silence.
Dylan, he ventured into her mind. Little witch, you're safe. I'm here now. I'm with you and we are both safe. We're safe now-
No! The scream never touched her lips. It only echoed in her skull, in his skull, shoving him out of her mind, slapping him back into his own head. He staggered back from the bed. Instinctively, he raised his sleeve to his nose when he felt wetness trickling from one nostril. His sleeve came away stained with a drop of blood. He stared at the blood, then dragged his eyes up to her. Nuada hadn't known she possessed the mental and psychic strength to do such a thing.
She didn't roll over, didn't look at him, didn't apologize. He wasn't even certain she realized she'd done anything. She simply gulped shallow breaths, whimpering almost silently, and stared at nothing. When he came around to the other side of the bed, she didn't raise her eyes to his face...but he could see her now, fully, and his stomach churned.
There were fresh bruises marring her skin. A necklace of shadows darkening her throat, the bruising on her little finger, but also faint gray-blue smudges on her wrists and ankles, on her lower jaw. The one that disturbed him the most, however, was the bloody-colored smear dusting her cheek and running down in splashes of fading color almost to her chin. As if someone had struck her.
"Dylan...little one…" He hadn't done this. It was not possible. She hadn't borne those marks when he'd left for the kennels, there was not the slightest chance he'd done this to her while he slept. And by the stars, he would never, ever strike her across the face like that. "What happened?" He'd thought she was asleep when he arrived but now he wondered, what if she hadn't been? What if she'd been so deep in herself she'd only seemed asleep, cut off from the waking world by her own desperate wish to flee whatever had left those bruises on her? "Who hurt you? Who did this to you?"
Whoever it was, whoever had come into this room and left those marks on his wife, they would die. He would let her oversee their torture and execution herself. It would be a gift to remind her of what she meant to him. But he needed to know who had done it all, first.
She didn't answer. Only blinked. Teardrops clung like heartbroken jewels to her spiky lashes.
Nuada sucked in a breath. Held it. Heart hammering in his throat, he reached out oh so slowly and laid a hand lightly against her unbruised cheek.
Dylan flinched. Whimpered. Blinked. Then her eyes focused on his face. She stared at him, and something filled her eyes for just a moment, a shadow, a dark flame. He'd seen it in her gaze only twice before—when she'd killed the dark Elf who'd hurt them, and when she'd met his father. Surely his father had not...the king could not have…
"You." Her voice rasped in her throat, as if she'd been screaming. But he'd spoken to Wink and the brownie when he'd returned; there had been no sound from the royal suite while the prince had been gone. Which begged the question how anyone had been able to do her any harm in silence. Only the king and his glamour could have done it. "You."
Nuada swallowed. Licked suddenly dry lips. "Yes, Dylan. It's me. I'm back now. I've come back. What happened here? Who hurt you?"
Her gaze drifted back down to her hand. She touched the bruised digit with careful fingertips before brushing her fingertips over the band of light bruising around her wrist. Her lips trembled when she whispered, "Shadows."
"What?"
"The shadows," she whispered. "They came...they held me down, they gagged me, they touched me, and he...then he...and you didn't…you just...why didn't you…" Glassy blue eyes fixed on his chest and she reached out a shaking hand. Caught a wisp of something on the tip of one finger. Nuada stared at it: a tuft of milk-thistle fur, like from a white hound. "Hhn…" He did not recognize the odd sound she made, only the horror in her eyes. Her throat convulsed, she clapped a hand to her mouth, and then suddenly she was up, on her feet, racing for the bathing chamber and privy. He followed at her heels and got through the door in time to see her drop to her knees and vomit into the commode.
Helpless to do anything else, he carefully moved her hair off of her cheeks and forehead to avoid any mess and laid a careful hand between her shoulderblades as she retched. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edges of the porcelain and hurled up her guts again and again until the only thing left was bile and then, eventually, even that was gone and she only dry-heaved for what seemed like hours. Nuada stayed by her side until at last her stomach calmed and she sagged against him, tears running down her face from the effort and the pain.
He slipped careful arms around her and laid his chin atop her head, as he'd so often done in the cottage and in the sanctuary. With his closer hand, he lowered the porcelain lid and pulled the chain to erase the mess and the stinging reek of sickness. A few muttered words in Gaelic turned on the shower and lit a half dozen rose-scented candles throughout the room.
After what seemed an eternity, Dylan lifted her head from his chest and looked down at his shirt, at the wisps of fur from the kennels. Her gaze strayed to his boots, to the legs splayed out on the floor around her. She touched the bits of straw chaff clinging to the worn, black leather. Her breath began to wheeze, sounding thick and strangled.
"Dylan?"
She opened her mouth, made an odd, harsh gurgling sound, and scrambled painfully to her knees to wrench up the lid and heave again. Nuada held back her hair and tried to soothe her. Finally, gasping, coughing a little, she fell back to the floor and just stared longingly at the water pounding down in a cleansing torrent from the shower-mouths. After a long moment, she pulled away from Nuada, and he let her go. Watched with an unease he couldn't quite explain fully as she staggered fully dressed into the shower and sank down to the marble floor, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them. She dropped her face into her knees and let the water pound down on her, a hot and soothing spray that would ease the pain in tortured diaphragm muscles and throbbing knee.
Nuada undressed somewhat—removing his boots, socks, tunic, and trews, leaving him in his undergarments and loose black shirt. He didn't want to get all of his clothing soaked but he didn't want to frighten Dylan by coming before her nude, either. He had no idea what had happened and if he was going to find out, he had to make her feel at ease. And he couldn't simply leave her in there to suffer alone.
The last thing he did was fill a crystal glass with water and, with a flick of his fingers and a flexing of his magic, flavor it with mint and cherries. It would calm Dylan's stomach and help cleanse the taste of sickness from her mouth.
At the frosted glass doors to the shower, he knocked softly. "I'm coming in, Dylan."
She replied by scooting over a touch. He wasn't certain if she meant to make room for him or if she was trying to get away from him. He prayed it was the former. Stepping into the already-steamy chamber, he shielded the glass with his body and tapped Dylan's knee. She wearily lifted her head. He offered her the cup. She stared at it for a long moment, then took it and brought it to her lips. A few wary sips offered her the sweet, sharp taste, and she drained the cup. Then she set it on the black marble floor of the shower against the wall and hugged her knees again.
"Little witch," Nuada said softly as the spray soaked his hair and shirt. He laid a gentle hand on her back. "With so many clothes on, you could catch a chill, even with the water so warm." She didn't say anything. Didn't look at him. "May I help you?"
After a long moment, she nodded without lifting her head from her knees.
Deft Elven fingers went to the knots at the neck of her underdress and the short set of laces at the back of her kirtle. Once those were undone, he dealt with the ties at her elbows and the embroidered, jewel-studded, ocean-green girdle she wore at her waist. He moved slowly, giving her ample time to protest. She simply sat as she was, without moving. Not even a twitch of a muscle or a flicker of an eyelash. Only when he reached around her to try and untie the lacings at the front of her overdress did she jerk, her head snaking back from him, eyes wide and almost glassy.
"No," she moaned, clutching her bruised hand to her chest, "no, Eamonn, not again, please. Please, Eamonn, I can't…"
Nuada's heart knifed sideways in his chest. She...she thought he was Eamonn? Oh, gods...shades of Annwn, no. Swallowing, somehow he managed to whisper, "Dylan...little darling, it's Nuada. Do you know me? I am Nuada."
Her eyes darted all over his face, taking in the royal scar and amber eyes and starlit blond hair. Her chin quivered. "Nuada...Nuada…" She glanced down at herself and shuddered. Then, with hands that shook violently, she yanked the laces undone and then wrenched off girdle, kirtle, and shift, leaving her in black underthings. She yanked them off as well and threw the bundles of fabric out the shower door to land in a sodden heap on the floor of the bathing chamber.
Nuada stared at her naked body, fighting the urge to be sick. Her skin was mottled with bruises of varying shades, but all of them were recent. There was a black bite-bruise on the inside of her thigh, identical to the one at the slope of her shoulder and on her collarbone. Another bite-bruise, this one dark purple instead of black, marred one bare breast, stark even against the bands of burgundy-bleeding marks he'd noticed earlier that day. Blue and violet fingerprints smudged along her hips, her thighs, her wrists, her throat. A bruise darkened the lobe of one ear and when he looked closer, he saw a long cut marred the skin at the center of the bruise. And she was so terribly pale. Paler than she'd been in the sanctuary, and how was that possible when they'd come to a place where the sun could touch them? But her blood flowed along blue-gray rivers of veins and arteries beneath her skin, the same color as her bruises.
"Dylan," he breathed. And even with all of this, with the pain written in shades and shadows across her delicate, almost translucent skin, he wanted her. Ciarán's words hissed in his skull: you're addicted to Branwen's Tears. To the Tears? No. To this woman. To his wife. But even more than the lust, there was the overwhelming desire to enfold her in his arms and rock her back and forth, soothe her, shield her. "Little one, what happened?"
She stared at her hands, cupping them so they filled with warm water, before she let the water trickle through her fingers.
"I think it was a dream," she whispered at last, and he stared at her, "but I...I keep waking up with marks on me. Not as bad as in the nightmare, but...he keeps coming back, Nuada. I know we killed him but he keeps coming and it's different now."
"Different how, little one?" A dream had not done this to her.
Her lips trembled and she whispered, "He keeps talking about...about how he m-made love to me in the cottage, how I'm made for him, how he knows I want him, how you're just a substitute for him," her voice was picking up speed now, edged by hysteria, "how he owns us both, how he wants both of us, how we're cursed, how he'll never stop, we'll be his forever and how he owns me, how I belong to him, he kept making me say I belonged to him-"
"Dylan-" Nuada began, but she couldn't seem to stop now.
"And he kept touching me, making me...and I didn't want to, I didn't want him, but he kept saying my body wanted him and it felt so good, and he keeps saying the babies are h-his, that I'm his, and he raped me right in front of you and you just watched him-"
"What?"
"And he wouldn't stop, he wouldn't stop, and the shadows were touching me and he b-b-broke my f-finger and he h-hit me and it hurt so bad but he was inside me and it felt good and I wanted to die and he made me invite him back and I just want to die, I just want to stop dreaming, no more dreams, please, Nuada, just kill me, kill me, make them stop, make it stop, please!"
Nuada grabbed her then and dragged her against his chest. She didn't cry, didn't let any tears fall, but she kept pleading into his drenched shirt, "Make it stop, Nuada. Make it stop. I can't do this anymore. Kill me, please kill me." Oh, gods, no, no, no, she was having a relapse, breaking, her sanity on the verge of splintering. He had to do something, had to help her, or she might very well try to take her own life again. "You just let him," she whispered, "in the dream, you just let him and I can't, I can't. You let him have me…"
"Never," he whispered, rocking her, stroking her hair. "Never, oh gods, never. Never, Dylan. I swear to the Fates, by the stars, by all the gods both old and new, I will never just stand there and let him hurt you. I'm sorry, so sorry if I ever gave you reason to doubt me, forgive me, but I swear I will always fight him any way I know how. If you ever see someone you believe to be me and I do not do everything in my power to protect you, it isn't me, little witch. It's a nightmare or a glamour, a filthy trick, a lie, because I will never," he was weeping himself now, he couldn't seem to stop it, "I will never just let him hurt you. I will never let anyone hurt you, I swear it, I swear it.
"I would walk barefoot through Hell for you, crawl over broken glass and iron shards. I would die for you, Dylan. Die or kill. I will slaughter everyone in this castle, everyone in this city, everyone in this kingdom to keep you safe." He caught her face between his hands and looked into her bloodshot, exhausted eyes. "Do you understand? I will butcher anyone, butcher them like meat if they try to harm you. I will wash the streets with their blood. Eamonn is dead, but if he ever had the audacity to come back, I would put an end to him again and again until he finally stayed dead. Until you were safe. I swear."
And without realizing what he meant to do, he kissed her, his lips trembling as they covered hers. She tasted of sweetness but also the salt and iron of mortal tears, mortal blood. He almost pulled back, afraid she'd bitten her lip in her sleep, but she pressed in with a soft whimper and he surrendered to her. "I swear it," he murmured into her mouth. "I'll kill every last one of them for you."
He cupped her head with one hand and touched his brow to hers, breathing hard already, and she was sliding her hands along his chest, his neck, his jaw. "I'll carve out their hearts and bring them to you in jeweled boxes if that is what you wish, what you need. I will make you a throne of their bones. Build you a palace upon their graves. They will be carrion if they threaten you, I swear to the gods," and she was moving against him now, knees on either side of him, hands grasping at the hem of his shirt, pulling at it. He broke away from her mouth long enough for her to get the sodden shirt over his head and then he'd cupped her face again and was kissing her while her hands roamed over his wet chest, over every muscle and scar, his hands tracing the delicate column of her spine, and he was mumbling into the kiss, "They'll all die if you wish it, my princess, my queen. I'll kill them all for you, every last one who would even dare to think of harming you," she was tugging at the short, thin black trews he wore beneath his clothes and he shifted, letting her peel them from his body as he kissed her, as he promised, "Eamonn is dead. That monster is dead. And if he ever comes back, I'll gut his ghost and feed it to demons, I'll shred his soul to dust and scraps, I swear to you, I swear. I'll never stand by and let him harm you, never."
"Nuada," she gasped, "I can feel him, I can feel him, he hurt me, it hurt so much, make him stop. Make it stop. I don't want to feel it anymore. Please."
He looked down at her pale, bruised face. Kissed the very tip of her nose. Her lashes fluttered and he touched his forehead to hers again.
"What phantoms would you have me slay, my princess?" He whispered, the water pouring down on them both. Hot rivulets ran over his back and shoulders, soaked his hair. The water ran down her cheeks like tears. "I can...if you wish it, I can take you in all the ways he did, so that the memory of me drowns him out. Do you wish that?"
She shook her head. "A different way. Some other way. Drown it all out. Erase it. I don't want to dream like this anymore. I'm so tired. I'm so tired but I'm so…" She dropped her head to his shoulder. "Sometimes...he's right. I wake up wanting so much…it hurts. Like the Tears, but I'm here and I can't make it stop and I won't...I won't let him force me to...to do things to myself, I won't let him make me fantasize about him, it's what he wants and I won't but it hurts and I'm so tired..."
Oh, how well he knew that. The Tears still saturated their blood. He'd looked into the matter, done his research. There were some human narcotics that behaved the same way, the symptoms vanishing but the chemicals seeping into the body, staying there for months, years at a time. When the pair of them woke in the night, aching for release after nightmares of the cottage, the Tears burned in them again, though with less of a terrible grip than in that sennight from Hell. Of course it hurt her. And of course she would ignore the hurt and instead try to push it out of her mind rather than submit to the yearning when he, her prince, was not there and awake to ease her.
"Always wake me," he murmured, kissing her forehead. She sniffled and he hugged her. Simply hugged her while she trembled in his arms. "I will always help you, Dylan, in whatever way you wish, with whatever you wish. With this, with anything. I will always help you, always protect you." He looked down at her. Felt himself falling into the rainswept lakes of her eyes, drowning in them. "I'll keep you safe, I swear to you." And then, as if offering up a precious secret, he whispered, "I swear to you, my love."
Dylan's eyes widened. My love. When he had said such things before, told her he loved her, she'd oh so innocently spurned his love, his truth, his confession. But not so now. Now she leaned up and kissed him, a kiss like hot silken fire, and he gripped her thighs but carefully, carefully, cautious of her bruises. He hoisted her up into his arms and her legs came around his hips and she undulated against him like a mermaid, every lush, delicious curve pressed to the sharp planes of his body. Holding her to him, he slowly rose to his feet, hands flexing against her slick skin.
She cried out when her back touched the marble wall, because it was cooler than the warm air around them and she knew what he meant to do and she wanted it, wanted it. She cried out when he gently nipped at her bottom lip, but this was a sound tinged with pain, and Nuada pulled back and saw in the bright lights of the shower that her mouth was swollen, tender, the bottom lip raw. The source of the salt-copper taste.
"Oh, my lady," he breathed, and flicked his tongue against the raw part of her lip, ignoring the sting of salt. The warm stroke of his tongue bathed her lip with soothing magic and she sighed. He still didn't know where the hideous bruises had come from—was it possible they'd manifested in her sleep because of her nightmares and her psychic gift? He wanted to believe that because otherwise his only suspect was Balor—but he would sooth them for now and think on the rest later. So he did, sliding his lips and tongue over the bruises at her throat, the one at her shoulder, letting soft soothing magic whisper over her skin. She cried out again as he kissed and sucked gently at her pulse and he teased her, stroked her, caressing, and oh he loved that sound. Dylan writhed like an undine, like a naiad, like a dream of water and warmth, her soft kitten cries falling on his ears like rain, trying to to entice him to enter her, but not yet, not yet.
She thunked her head against the wall when she arched her back and cried out as his mouth closed over her breast, the stroke of his tongue and his magic soothing the pain of the bite-bruise there, the soft hunger of his mouth slowly driving her mad as she tried to urge him on. Nuada gently, carefully brushed his thoughts against hers then, and she opened her mind to him, and he slid into her, their thoughts merging so he could ensure he didn't hurt her, frighten her. To ensure he only gave her pleasure, driving out the nightmare. So he could feel what she felt, and she could feel him.
Yes, yes, yes, Dylan thought, writhing under his mouth. Gods, her skin was so soft, tasted so sweet. Nuada, please, please...Different, he saw in the part of her mind she was trying to silence, different from when she'd said the same words in her nightmares. When he'd stood there, watching as Eamonn rutted over her, pounding himself into her, grunting like the pig he was. But now Dylan wasn't thinking of that, only thinking of Nuada's mouth so deliciously hot, his tongue flicking against her breast, his strong and gentle hands holding her open for him, his hips sliding against her inner thighs in little teasing movements. Thinking of how much she wanted the teasing to end, for him to simply take her. Please, Nuada, please...
"Look at me," he rasped, reluctantly letting go of her breast. She looked at him, panting, the shower dazzling her cheeks with droplets of water like tiny diamonds. Gods, she was so beautiful, so strong, so brave. "Listen to me. I know I am a monster, I know you hate it here, I know you're tired—listen to me, little love," he commanded when she opened her mouth to protest. "Listen to me. I know you're tired and you want to go back to the sanctuary and I'm so sorry, but I swear to you, by the Darkness That Eats All the Things, that I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe. I love you. I love you." And he thrust, hard, and Dylan cried out and shuddered, dropping her head forward so that their brows touched. This. This was what she wanted, needed, she thought. Her prince. Her tender lover chasing the nightmares away. Nuada. Prince, warrior, husband, protector.
He kissed her, so very lightly. Dylan nearly wept at his tenderness. How had she ever lived without the velvet touch of his mouth? Without his arms around her? Without the sound of his voice in the dark? Without the knowledge that he was there, watching over her, her sword and her shield?
"There is no price I will not pay," he breathed as he moved inside her with excruciating slowness, exquisitely gentle, as her breathing came in soft little pants that made him burn. His words fell on her like soft rain. "I swear it, my love. I swear it. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," she gasped, and he felt the truth in her mind. Saw it in her impossibly beautiful eyes. "Yes...Nuada...Nuada!"
"Tell me what you want," he commanded gruffly, straining to keep his pace slow, slow, slow. "Ask me, beg me, tell me what you wish of me, and I will always give it to you." And he kissed her collarbones, the long column of her throat, the creamy swells of her breasts, her cheeks, her chin, and so carefully, her lips. "I'm yours, yours alone. Always. Ask me."
She threaded her fingers through the dripping strands of his silvery-blond hair, the catch and tug of her grip making his breath hitch in his throat, and she locked her gaze with his. There was something impossible and devastating about looking into her eyes, those beautiful eyes, when they were locked together like this, joined and in perfect rhythm. Her gaze stripped him bare. He had no armor, no shield, no glamour when she looked at him this way, and he found it both beautiful and nigh unbearable. So did she; he felt it in her.
"Make love to me in the sun," she whispered, voice catching. She would purge the filthy, terrible words Eamonn had shoved down her throat with these, with soft wishes, with sweet things asked of someone who would always give her what she wanted, needed. "Soft grass under my back and birdsong in my ears, warmth and light and your hands on my skin. Make love to me under starlight and moonbeams, the roar of the ocean in my head…!" She shuddered, moaned as the steady rhythm began to work on her more strongly, building and building toward the peak. Dylan pleaded, "Get me out of here, even if it's only for a little bit. Run away with me, Nuada. Run away with me and we'll go somewhere we can be safe and let me just be with you like this, nothing else. Nothing but you. Please. Even if it's just a day. Take me somewhere else. Drown out my nightmares with sunlight and starshine, with the sea and the forest. With you, with this." And she kissed him, sweet velvet slide of lips and tongue and desire and hope and pain, and begged, "Please. I can't bear this anymore."
"I promise," he said without looking away from her. He shifted, and she gasped, whimpered. There was no pain, no fear in that sweet sound. "I promise, my queen. Now say my name." He begged it, softly, as he moved with sure, unhurried strokes and her body opened to him fully, like a blooming rose. As he soothed her, loved her, caressed his promise into her body with every roll of powerful hips, he gazed into her eyes and he pleaded, "Say my name, Dylan."
"Nuada," as she tightened her thighs around his undulating hips, as she slipped her arms around his neck, "Nuada," as her breathing quickened, as she began to gasp for air, and it was good, so good, no sickness or shame, only relief, only safety, only wanting, only love, "Nuada," as he angled his hips and shifted her so that there was only pleasure, only fire, only golden delirium, only perfection, and she chanted his name breathlessly in his ear, "Nuada, Nuada, Nuada…" Wanting, wanting, wanting. Needing, craving. "Please, Nuada, please, please…"
And he breathed in her ear, "I love you." Not, if I could love anyone, I would love you. Simply I love you. "I love you more than I will ever love nearly anything, Dylan. I love you, I love you, I love you. It is a hollow, broken thing, a mere shadow of what you deserve, but it is yours. I am yours. I will always be yours, my princess, my queen, my love, my heart."
He felt her tense, her back bowing and her head falling back against the wall, her arms tightening around his shoulders and her legs tightening around his hips, and he felt every muscle in that lovely body quiver when at last he found the perfect spot and he struck, and Dylan moaned as the exquisite waves rolled through her, and she crested, striking the peak of her pleasure with a gasp and a long shuddering cry and every muscle trembling, and he felt when she tumbled over into the afterglow and he followed...but he wasn't finished yet. He was an Elf, with the stamina that entailed, and he would give her whatever she needed. She'd asked him to make her forget, and then to run away with her to sunshine and sweetness. By the time he finished with her in here and it was time to run from this castle that offered him only heartbreak and gave her only nightmares, she likely wouldn't even be able to remember her own name.
No doubt he would have to see to the packing himself. It was a small enough price to pay.
.
"Kill her?" Lord Ciarán echoed, staring at his prince.
Prince Bres nodded. He was grinning now, as if he'd just discovered all the precious secrets of the universe. "What if we just kill her? That would cure him, surely? Free him of the whore's clutches."
But Ciarán shook his head mournfully and leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against his pale, thin lips. "It's too risky. Not politically," he added when Bres opened his mouth to protest. "That's not what I mean, although do keep in mind she's a princess of Bethmoora now, as disgusting a thought as that is. No, the problem is, killing her would drive him mad, like as not. If we don't mean to kill Nuada—and if I'm right, it would be dishonorable to kill him—we'll have to tolerate the whore and her spawn for his sake. He needs her, and there is no cure for it."
Bres stared at Ciarán for a long moment, the sapphire eyes shadowed and the cruelly handsome face stricken. If Ciarán was right—not about the shadow of the Tears, the Fomorian prince trusted his friend's judgment on that; no, he was unsure of just how Nuada had been poisoned with gancanaugh venom, but if Ciarán's theory about it all was correct—then this whole damn situation was partially Bres' own fault. He'd known Eamonn for a few centuries and should have realized the Star Elf wasn't objective when it came to Prince Nuada. Bres should've done his own intelligence gathering before trusting what the other Elf had to say on the subject of Nuada rutting with some human slut. Whether Ciarán's theory proved true or not, that was true—Bres had been too quick to accept Eamonn's word of Nuada's perfidy. And if Ciarán was right...the Fomorian prince and king's support in Eamonn's mission to prove Nuada's betrayal had created this whole situation.
And now they were stuck in it. Elatha wouldn't like that. The Fomorian king didn't care about Nuada, didn't consider him or Balor any sort of friend. Elatha didn't have friends. He had his heir, his tools, his minions, and a single surviving (and in his opinion, useless) daughter, although she was off in the kingdom of Orang, far to the southeast where the king wouldn't feel compelled by the shame of her existence to try assassinating her. No, Bres' father would not like that Nuada had not only lain with a human, but seeded and married her. He might very well demand Bres and Ciarán execute the bitch, her unborn spawn, and Nuada himself.
But no, Bres would not do that. This was likely at least partially his own damned fault. That meant it would be dishonorable to punish his old friend.
"Then what in the thirteen hells are we to do?" Bres demanded, slamming himself back against his armchair, hard. "Tolerate her? You can't be serious."
Ciarán shrugged, but there was nothing flippant or insolent in it. Bres saw the same defeat and dread reflected in the gancanaugh's face that he himself was feeling in that moment. "There's a one-in-four chance the children will be pure Elven, not mongrels or humans, so we should wait to pass judgment on that score, at least. As for the whore herself, if Nuada needs her...he'll sicken for her attentions if we take her from him. He could very well die of it. It is the same as when a gancanaugh entrances someone."
Bres swore. Tolerate the slut. Tolerate her. This was quite probably the worst thing to happen to him since he'd slit his youngest sister's throat two-thousand years ago. The king would have to be told, then persuaded not to take action. And Elatha wasn't the only one who needed to know. They would have to inform Zhenjin, King Arawn of Annwn, Kamaria of Nyame, Günther of Álfheim, Asterion of Mytikas. Every member of their cadre, every royal who planned not only to make war on the humans, but who'd thrown in their lot with Prince Nuada and his quest to restore the ancient and mostly lost or sleeping enchanted armies of the different fae kingdoms. They would have to be told as well. They might decide killing Nuada was the only way to salvage the situation.
Bres couldn't let that happen. He owed his old friend better than that. But if he were to offer Nuada his protection, he would need allies in that. The first person he would speak to was Arawn of Annwn. King Arawn was the oldest of the monarchs and other royals that were part of Nuada's cadre. They would need his backing to protect Nuada...and, Bres supposed, the human whore and her spawn, as well.
"Fetch me some stars-cursed paper," Bres commanded his valet. Ciarán got to his feet without a word of protest and obeyed.
Standing up for a human. The thought made him so wretchedly ill, he had to fight not to vomit.