Author's Note: as per usual, reader discretion is advised. I've been having a bit of a rough time emotionally lately, especially the last few days (my roommate has a rotten tooth and didn't tell me until yesterday so I had to scramble to deal with it somehow and it's expensive to yank a tooth out...ugh...and also other things) so the next few chapters may be more vicious than you guys are used to. Trigger warnings for violence, sexual violence, blood, torture, all that stuff.
Let me know what you think!
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Once Upon a Moonless Dark
Chapter Twenty-Two
Your Mouth Is Poison, Your Mouth Is Wine
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Dylan slept, peaceful at last on the sofa Nuada had had brought into his bedroom from his study. Dylan had told him she couldn't possibly sleep in that bed again, after Eamonn had violated her so many times upon it. Nuada had already scribbled a hasty note to the head housekeeper, Jenny Hob, that the bed was to be replaced while he and his wife were gone. He didn't know how long they would be away but when - if - they returned, Nuada would not force Dylan to welcome his attentions while that bed remained in the room.
She hadn't been able to bear touching it, even when awake. After the shower, after smoothing ensorcelled cream scented with aloe blossoms onto the bruises painting her poor, pale skin, she'd come to him again, begging him to continue what he'd begun under the pounding spray of the shower. He'd whispered promises of freedom and sunshine into her mouth while he'd moved inside her, temporarily stroked away dark memories with his fingertips and tongue while she moaned under him. A vague, distant part of him had wondered if Wink and Dylan's brownie could hear her moans of pleasure, Nuada's own groans, or the rhythmic thudding of their bodies against the wall, but he hadn't stopped because so long as he was was making love to her, his sorceress wasn't thinking of anything but what he made her body feel.
He hoped, with the soothing scent of the cream, the fragrance of lavender and apple from the lavender twigs and applewood logs burning on the hearth, and the exhaustion he'd induced at last with his attentions, that Dylan was at last getting the sleep she needed. True rest. No nightmares and, he hoped by the stars, no fresh bruises when she woke. He kept an eye and an ear out for any sign of distress while he packed.
They didn't need much. Dylan had packed her scriptures, her journal, and everything else associated with her faith herself before collapsing on the sofa and curling up under the warmth of Nuada's coat (she'd refused any of the linens from the tainted bed, as well). The prince had offered to pack any clothes she might need, and she'd let him. Now he folded the last of his shirts and pushed it into his pack, wondering what his father would say when Jenny Hob informed the old Elf that Prince Nuada had taken himself and his young mortal bride off somewhere without so much as a by-your-leave. Jenny had sworn she would't tell Balor until he and Dylan had been gone for at least a day. He knew the old woman wouldn't get into any trouble; she'd been Head Housekeeper since before Nuada's birth. She'd helped raise him.
But then...if Balor was the source of the hideous bruises on Dylan's body...perhaps, Nuada thought, he shouldn't have been so certain of Jenny's safety.
It couldn't be his father, though. It could not. Balor had always vehemently condemned any such violence against mortals. Nuada had been flogged for killing humans in defense of another mortal, in defense of Dylan...but Balor hadn't known the deaths were in defense of a human. Perhaps Balor's hate during the so-called trial and flogging meant nothing in this instance. Who else possessed the power to sneak past not only Wink and Dylan's brownie, but Nuada himself? Very few other heirs to fae thrones outranked Nuada's own power, and no kings were near Findias save the king of Bethmoora himself. So who, by the Fates, could have left those marks on Dylan except Balor?
Nuada let his head hang down until his brow touched the large pack. Gods and stars and shades, he was tired, too. So tired. Every time he closed his eyes, exhaustion dragged at him. He had no doubt part of it was the passion he'd shared with Dylan before she'd fallen asleep on the sofa, but the rest? He didn't know why he was so tired. He hadn't felt like this in the sanctuary.
"Taking your harlot off for a little tryst, Nuada?"
Nuada stiffened, then forced himself to relax, though he lifted his head from the lumpy pillow of his pack. He needed to keep pushing down the clothes in his leather pack so he could fit a few other things: some books he meant to read to his lady in the evenings, his violin, an extra knife. He knew that loathsome voice. Usually, he only heard it in his head but when exhaustion clawed at him, desperate to drown him in sleep, he actually heard it with his ears. And sometimes, he did more than hear it.
"Ignoring me now? I'm hurt."
Gritting his teeth, Nuada kept rearranging the contents of his pack. He would not look. He would not look up to see if that bastard's ghost was in the room with him. He would not-
"She does seem to take almost sluttish delight in being forced against a wall, doesn't she? The way she screamed for you...mmm!"
Nuada's head snapped up and he bared his teeth in a feral snarl. There he was. Standing just over a sleeping Dylan, no shirt so as to show off the sleek, lean muscles and death-pale skin of the Elves of Zwezda. The curtain of his long black hair hid his face as he studied the slumbering mortal. The Elven prince swallowed back a thousand responses and dropped his gaze back to his pack. He didn't dare attack the phantom. It was no true ghost, no true enemy, only a trick of his own fevered, battered mind. His father had suffered from such haunts after the few wars Balor had fought in before Nuada's birth and during the prince's childhood. Suffered them, and because of that suffering, Nuada knew that it was entirely possible to lash out at the ghosts out of one's past and hurt an innocent instead.
He'd hurt Dylan enough. He didn't want to risk - couldn't bear to risk - hurting her further by attacking his hallucinations of their old, dead enemy. She was mortal and he was Elf-kind; it would be hideously easy to truly harm or even kill her and their babes.
"Once she's ripe with child, are you going to keep rogering her like that?" Eamonn continued in a conversational tone. "Might damage the babes. You've always been a...passionate man. I saw that well enough in the whore's cottage as well as here." When Nuada said nothing, only focused on keeping his hands from shaking with rage, Eamonn chuckled. "Still so shy, my white flower? After all we've shared? Her body. Your body. Mine. Do not pretend you don't remember, it was only last night that I enjoyed you last."
Oh, gods, he remembered. He hadn't shared the new nghtmares with Dylan because she'd been looking so pale, so tired, so uneasy since they'd arrived in Findias, but Nuada remembered. He remembered the previous night, Eamonn's mouth and his tongue and his hands and his flesh-proud sex. He would have given nearly anything to forget how the other Elf had used him, raped him again and again...just like in Dylan's cottage. He hadn't told Dylan about that, either. About the memories beginning to surface, coming harder and faster every day, of what Eamonn had done to him. Of what Eamonn had made him do.
Soft footfalls alerted the tense prince to the phantom's approach. Nuada did not look up, did not speak. He simply finished rearranging his clothing and got to his feet, moving toward where he'd set his violin case on the nightstand beside his now-tainted bed. Eamonn's ghost followed him, but Nuada simply pretended the shadow wasn't there as he reached the nightstand and picked up the goldenwood case. Usually - nearly always - if Nuada ignored the hallucination, it went away quick enough.
He turned to go back to where he'd left his open pack on the floor and there he was, Eamonn, the dark Elf, grinning at him, less than six inches from Nuada. A gasp strangled in Nuada's throat as Eamonn's slitted pupils dilated, the black maws widening until they nearly swallowed the icy iron-gray of his eyes. Nuada's brain froze for a split-second, confronted by the face of his nightmares, before the violin slipped from his hand with a clatter and his shaking hand flashed down to the sword he nearly always wore at his hip. But no. No, this was an illusion and if he attacked it, someone - Dylan - might get hurt. He forced his hand to relax and moved to step around the phantom.
Eamonn's palm swiped up and slammed hard against Nuada's throat. Pain blossomed like a dark flower under the skin. The prince choked, stumbling back from the unexpected blow, and his back smacked into one of the bedposts. And then Eamonn was on him, pinning the Tuathan Elf with his own hard-muscled frame, their faces less than an inch apart. Hot, disturbingly moist breath that stank of iron and salt blasted into Nuada's face. Nuada lifted his hands to strike at the Elf, hesitated, and thick bands of cool, silky shadow twined like serpents around his wrists, yanking them back to his sides. More bands of shadow gripped his boots at ankle and knee.
"What-" Nuada began, and Eamonn grabbed his chin with one hand. Grinned at him. He raised his other hand and in it, Nuada saw with dawning horror, was a crystal bottle filled with an iridescent, milky fluid. "No-"
"Drink up, lover," Eamonn crooned, and forced the bottle's opening between his lips. He tipped the bottle as Nuada tried to thrash, tried to dislodge it from his mouth. More of those cool blots of shadow wrapped around his neck, molding to his jaw, holding him still. Holding him captive. Eamonn poured the Tears into Nuada's mouth and then, when he pulled the bottle away, a band of darkness slapped across the prince's lips, sealing them shut. The dark Elf sighed and pinched Nuada's nose closed.
No. No, no, no, this could not be happening again. This was impossible. Eamonn was dead, he was dead, this could not happen again. No, Nuada prayed as his lungs burned, aching for a fresh breath. The shadows smoothing over his throat began to pulse, caressing the muscles of his neck, encouraging him to swallow out of reflex. No, he couldn't, he couldn't.
But in the end, he had to.
Once he'd swallowed the poison, the band of shadow that had stopped him from spitting it out fell away from his lips and Eamonn let him breathe. Nuada's belly clenched but he knew vomiting would accomplish nothing. The poison didn't reach the belly in liquid form. It began to be absorbed through the thin, delicate flesh of the mouth immediately, seeping into the blood. By the time a normal drink would've hit his stomach, most of the venom would have been absorbed into his system. Already, his skin prickled and itched. His clothes, the softest and thinnest of Elven silk, felt thick and heavy as the worst-made mortal wool. He licked his lips reflexively and tasted Branwen's Tears.
Nuada's eyes darted to Dylan, who lay vulnerable and sleeping on her back on the sofa, oblivious somehow to what was happening. Sheer panic crawled through his guts like icy, carnivorous worms when the sight of her - the dark curls caressing her face, the way her thin shift gaped to offer him a glimpse of the curve of one lush breast, the slim ankle peeking out from beneath the cover of his greatcoat - sent lust ripping through him.
He could smell her. His nostrils flared as the scent of her, of his own scent on her, touched his nose. She smelled of him. Of sex. Of his own hunger, his own body, his own need. He could smell her on his own skin. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, no, he was going to hurt her again, the poison would drag him to her, force him on her, he couldn't, he couldn't-
Eamonn patted his cheek. "Don't worry, my white flower." Nuada bit his tongue hard enough to send fey-sweet blood flooding his mouth. The taste of blood eased some of the ravenous need suddenly raking at his belly and groin, but not all of it. He fixed his gaze on Eamonn. On the monster who should have been dead, damn him. "Do not worry," he said again. "I didn't give you this so that you could turn your attentions back to the whore. I simply wanted you to...relax a little. You've been so cold to me today. It made me lonesome. I thought I might surprise you."
"I," Nuada growled low in his throat, "will gut you if you lay one finger on me."
Eamonn sighed. "Just alike, the pair of you. So much more difficult to break a pair of thoroughbreds than a single beast." He laughed a little. "You can't kill me, Silverlance. I'm already dead." Nuada stared at him, and the Elf grinned back. "Shocked? I knew you would be. But all of the chitchat and questions can wait. You do not wish me to lay a finger on you? Then I shall not...for now. If that is what you truly wish. But you seem to be a bit uncomfortable, Nuada. Is all well?"
Uncomfortable. The word did not begin to describe the brutal, all too familiar ache throbbing through him, centered between his legs. Eamonn slid his hand over Nuada's bare chest and down, past the quivering belly, to cup him through his trews. He chuckled as Nuada closed his eyes against the pain and the pulse of pleasure as Eamonn massaged him. It was bad, that terrible dark burning, and it would only get worse if he didn't do something. But not this. Shades, anything but this.
"My poor lover-"
"I am not your lover," Nuada snarled, straining at his bonds.
"Oh?" Eamonn crouched in front of Nuada so that his silver eyes were level with the other Elf's navel. Eamonn snapped his fingers and two needle-thin tendrils of darkness slid up Nuada's legs in a viciously gentle caress and curled around the laces of his trews. Eamonn gazed up at Nuada with a somber expression as the shadows untied the laces, allowing the trousers to fall open. They were sleeping trews, because Nuada and Dylan had planned to leave just before dawn, so he wore nothing beneath them. Nothing protected him from Eamonn's ravenous gaze as his sleeping trews slid down to catch on the bones of his hips. Nuada's breath came in hard, shallow gasps as Eamonn leaned closer. The Elf whispered his fingertips along the curves of Nuada's hip bones, the soft flesh of his lower belly. "Your mouth says no, but your body begs for pleasuring, Nuada. You can hardly keep still."
Nuada clenched his teeth. He could feel Eamonn's breath, hot and damp against the painfully sensitive skin. He knew what the other Elf would do because it was what he'd done that very first time Dylan had fallen into exhausted half-unconscious sleep in the cottage and Eamonn had still been hard and ready. He would force twisted pleasure on him, pleasure he hadn't consented to, pleasure from someone he loathed with every fiber of his being. Jaw aching from gritting his teeth, Nuada squeezed his eyes shut. He would not react. He would not react to this, to him. He did not want this, he didn't.
"An Elven warrior at full cry is truly a magnificent sight," Eamonn breathed. "I had never considered it before until the Tears made us so hungry but now...now I cannot put the sight of you from my mind, Nuada. I crave you and your bitch constantly, just as you crave her, and crave me. Just as she craves both of us."
"You are a liar," Nuada snarled, then bit back a whimper as Eamonn breathed, long and slow, against him. Oh, gods...oh, gods, it hurt…
Eamonn made a soft sound of disappointment. "Who is the liar, my white flower? I've seen you," he added softly, voice breathy. Every word sent a gust of warmth against Nuada's body and a shiver down his spine. His hands convulsed into fists at his sides and he tried to distract himself by fantasizing about gutting the Elf in front of him - slowly. Watching him choke and gurgle on his own blood, die in his own filth. "Seen you both in the dark, when one of you hungers and the other sleeps. It would be easy to wake her, to have her service you, but you don't. Instead I've watched you, watched the way you gasp and moan while you satisfy your own hunger because I am not there to do it for you." Eamonn's tongue flicked out then, and Nuada gasped, groaned half in need and half in despair at the exquisite torture. Another flick of his tongue, and another, and then a long, slow, wet caress. "You still taste wonderful. You're in such pain, Nuada." Eamonn's hands braced against Nuada's thighs and the prince swallowed another sound as that mouth came closer. "You're so hungry. All three of us, we're so hungry. I feel your pain, prince of whores. I will help you, if you ask nicely. I can make it so very good for you. Would you like that? Would you like me to ease your pain?"
Somehow Nuada managed to work up enough saliva that when Eamonn lifted his head to look into Nuada's eyes, the prince spat in his face.
Eamonn sighed and wiped the spittle off of his cheek. "So," he said, "that is how you wish it, then. All right." He gripped the band of Nuada's sleeping trews and yanked so that more of his skin was exposed to the cool evening air. "Fine. Have it your own way, prince of whores. I shall rape you of your dignity, your pride. I will make you beg me to end your suffering. I will prove you want this."
Eamonn's mouth was a weapon, and he used it well. Nuada's knees buckled as the Tears seared through him, as sick pleasure scalded him. His hips moved in time with each flick and stroke of the dark Elf's tongue and he groaned, "No, no, no, no," as Eamonn serviced him with cruel thoroughness. Sweat dripped from Nuada's temples, rolled down the prince's spine as Eamonn's mouth moved over him, forcing his response, demanding his surrender.
Golden eyes slashed to Dylan's sleeping form and he closed his eyes, tried to pretend she was the one using her exquisite mouth to pleasure him. She always looked so beautiful on her knees in front him, those silvery blue eyes lifted to his face to watch his every reaction to her perfect mouth, one eyebrow usually arched in challenge. Strong, commanding. His queen. So mortal, so human, but his lady now. Dylan loved him. She loved him, and she gave herself to him because she loved him and needed him, and she never used his need for her to hurt him. She soothed his need, always. Loved him. Made love to him. Not this. Not this twisted, violating corruption of lovemaking.
He tried to imagine her, tried to think of her and her alone as Eamonn raped him with his cruel mouth, as Eamonn growled in approval while Nuada practically chewed his tongue and dug his nails deep into his palms to keep from crying out, from letting the disgusting, delicious sensations break him...but then the dark Elf's voice oozed like poison into Nuada's brain and the image of Dylan pleasuring him disappeared like smoke.
She tries to pretend me away, too, Eamonn growled. I won't have it. While you pillage her, while you fuck her, think of her if you must, but when I'm with you, you're mine, prince of whores. Your body is mine. You are mine. Both of you are mine. Stop pretending to hate this, he added, and his voice became a throaty purr. You want this. You're so ready, Nuada. So hard, so hungry. If I stopped now, if I left you, you know you'd be on your slut in a trice, ramming yourself between her thighs. You wouldn't even care if she wanted it, would you? You would take her anyway.
"Shut up," Nuada hissed through gritted teeth, then swore viciously when Eamonn changed his pace. "I would never. I would never."
Are you trying to convince me, or yourself, Nuada? The dark Elf chuckled around Nuada's flesh. You know you would. You wouldn't be able to stop yourself. Think of it. I walk away, your bonds break, and then what do you do? You go to her, you run to her. You rip that coat from her, you tear open her shift because you want to watch the way those soft, creamy breasts bounce when you take her-
"You're disgusting," he snarled, hating that the Elf knew even that one thing, knew that yes, by the Fates, he loved to watch the way Dylan's breasts taunted him whenever he made love to her. She knew it, too. Sometimes she tormented him with all that soft, sweet flesh, and he reveled in the torture. Reveled in how she made him crave her. And Eamonn knew, damn him. He knew.
So are you. You'd watch them, watch her breasts, slapping one hand over her mouth so she couldn't scream, and then you'd fuck her. That is what the humans call it - fucking. You would pound into her over and over while she screamed and begged you to stop, the salt of her tears stinging your palm, and she would feel so good, wouldn't she? Tight and wet and lush? You know it. I know it. We remember what it feels like to fuck her. Did you know your little whore actually begged me to fuck her earlier today? She said it felt so good when I did.
Nuada jerked at his bonds, fingers twitching, desperate to wrap around the other Elf's throat. He could just imagine it, the way his eyes would bulge from their sockets. The way his vile, despicably talented tongue would protrude from his mouth while Nuada throttled the life out of him. His body would convulse, his heels drum helplessly against the floor. The Elven warrior strained to reach Eamonn, but the shadows held him fast and Eamonn's mouth was...poisonous pleasure.
Don't be envious, lover. I'll give you a good pounding, too. Make sure to take the edge off before I leave. Mmmm. You are close, with a swirl of his tongue.
"You son of a bitch," Nuada moaned. Eamonn laughed again, a chuckle that vibrated through his throat and into Nuada's skin.
Perhaps, but at least I'm not a slut. You want this, Nuada. I can tell. You know what humans call this? Another chuckle. Blowing. Sometimes they call it sucking cock. An interesting phrase. And when you reach your peak and cannot hold back anymore? They call it coming. I do like these human words, you know. Blowing. Fucking. Sucking cock. Coming. I'm going to make you come for me, Nuada, and then I'm going to take you like one of your hounds taking a bitch, and I'll make you come again while I'm inside you, while I'm fucking you the way I fucked your whore of a wife.
"No...no…"
You won't be able to help yourself, Eamonn said into his mind. You're so close even now. So close. You're practically fucking my mouth all on your own, you want it so desperately. You want this almost as much as you want to snap my neck right now. You're half-mad with this. So hungry for release, prince of whores. You're aching for it. Surrender to it. It feels so good, doesn't it?
Nuada clenched his teeth on something that might have been a sob, shaking his head frantically as the pleasure spiked and spiked but it was true, it felt so good, the heat and the wet, so good, oh gods, he couldn't stop, it was happening, damn it, damn it, no, he didn't want this, he didn't want this. His legs shook and white mist began to creep across his vision.
Now, Eamonn commanded. Come for me. Do it now.
And it was now, right now, he couldn't stop. His head fell back and his hips bucked and he hated himself, hated Eamonn, hated his own body for betraying him like this but it was still good, still delicious, still twisted, still so very good as he finished, as the pleasure spiked through him like knives and his cry of release strangled in his throat. He sagged, and the shadows held him up, and Eamonn drank him down.
When his vision cleared, he blinked and looked at Dylan, still sleeping. Eamonn must have glamoured them somehow or she would have awoken. What would she think if she knew? Eamonn had done this to her, too. What would she think? Would she hate him? Despise him for being so weak?
How was any of this even possible? Eamonn was dead.
The dead man stood and kissed him, all hard lips and teeth, and Nuada nearly threw up when he tasted himself in the other Elf's mouth, on his tongue. Eamonn gripped Nuada by the throat and shoved his tongue deep into the prince's mouth and deeper, forcing him to acknowledge the taste and the truth. Eamonn had serviced him, enjoying it immensely while Nuada had been helpless to stop the hot flood of his own release. Eamonn had raped him again, and now...now he would do it yet again, Nuada was sure. Just as he had before.
"Do you want the whore, or do you want me, my white flower?" Eamonn stroked Nuada's chest, caressing over the pounding heart. Dug one short, manicured fingernail into the flesh so that amber blood welled up. Nuada suddenly realized - Nuala. Had she not felt his distress, his rage, his fear? Even if not, she would have felt the wound, felt Eamonn's fingernail carve into his flesh. But there was no brush of her against his mind like moonbeams on ice. When he reached for her, shoving through his own tangled mind and the metaphysical dust and cobwebs of a mental path he hadn't taken for months upon months...there was nothing.
She wasn't shielding from him. She simply wasn't there. Which meant…
This was all a nightmare. When had he fallen asleep?
Nightmare. Only a nightmare, by the Fates. This wasn't real, which meant he could endure. He would endure until he awoke.
Eamonn lightly slapped his face. Nuada fought not to snake his head forward and sink his teeth into Eamonn's throat. The shadows still bound him; the only thing he would accomplish was straining a muscle in his neck.
"None of that, Nuada. I will not be ignored. Not by that bitch, and not by you. Now, which of us do you want? Shall I take you here, now, or leave and let you fuck your poor little mortal while she begs you, stop, no, not again? What shall it be, Nuada?"
The Tears still burned in his veins, nightmare or not. Every inch of his skin was on fire, even now. If Eamonn left, if he unbound the prince and disappeared...gods, what would he do to Dylan? It was only a nightmare, but the worst of his nightmares was always when the Tears were on him and he was on Dylan, using her and using her while she wept and begged him to stop. She had never done that to him in the cottage, of course. Even without the poison in her blood, even during those times when Eamonn had forced her to perform without the numbing effects, she hadn't screamed liked that when Nuada had been the one to take her. Hadn't done anything except, occasionally, weep in silence or, more often, cry out at the pleasure of him. But his nightmares were filled with her screams, and they were brought on by himself as often as they were by Eamonn.
He couldn't bear to hear her scream. To see her weep. Not after that time in the shower earlier, when she'd sobbed and begged him to kill her. This was only a nightmare. Here, Eamonn was stronger than he was, but the legendary Elven warrior could bear whatever this monster did to him. It was only a bad dream.
Nuada swallowed. Stared at Eamonn. Somehow, belly twisting into cold, leaden knots and the disgusting taste of his own seed still in his mouth, Nuada managed to croak, "You."
Eamonn smiled. "Oh, lovely. Now, don't struggle."
The shadows pulled him, twisted his limbs, forcing him to lie on his belly on the bed. Eamonn's cool, callused hands smoothed over his neck, his shoulders, his back, tracing every scar, kneeding the muscles with deft fingers so that Nuada had to bite back a groan as Eamonn massaged him, forcing his muscles to loosen. The ropes of darkness yanked Nuada's hands over his head, pinning them to the blankets. More shadows slipped hooked tips into the waistband of his trews, pulling them down to bare his buttocks to Eamonn's perverse, cruel gaze. But Nuada couldn't bite back a gasp of shock and sickened pleasure as shadow slid up his legs to wrap around his fully aroused sex, the coolness of the shadows warming quickly to heat his skin.
"What?" He rasped. "What is this?" This had never been part of his dreams before. The shadows had entered his nightmares that first night in Findias, but not like this. They had been bonds, ropes to tie him with, and nothing more. But now the warm, slick, silken shadows gripped and massaged him, caressing, stroking. Pleasuring.
Eamonn caressed his buttocks, molding them and squeezing them the way Nuada had seen Eamonn do to Dylan's breasts in the cottage, before the rapacious Elf had used them - briefly - as a substitute for her mouth. He massaged the firm flesh with quick, clever fingers. Chuckled when Nuada shuddered. Even the prince couldn't tell if the shudder was from revulsion or desire.
"It's for you," Eamonn said simply. "Something to stick your cock into while I fuck you, prince of whores."
"Stop using those words," Nuada snapped before he could stop himself. Even in a nightmare, he couldn't let Eamonn see that anything he did affected the prince. He was stone. Ice cold marble. He would not be moved. He would not let Eamonn move him.
The silver-eyed Elf chuckled. "What words?" His hands smoothed up Nuada's bare back, along his spine. Eamonn's slick, warm tongue followed the path mapped out by his hands and Nuada bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood. "You mean 'cock?' Or did you mean 'fuck?' Because to be honest, sweet prince, I love the way you flinch when I say either one. She does that, too, you know."
Do not speak of her, Nuada wanted to roar at him. He stayed silent. He would give nothing away.
"I find such words are one of the only things humans have created that I am pleased with. They use such interesting words, sometimes, don't you find?" He pressed a wet, slimy kiss to the back of Nuada's neck. "What's the matter, sweet prince? Did your cock miss me?"
"I'll see you in Hell, Eam- hn!" Nuada bit back a cry as Eamonn suddenly rammed into him without warning. The air exploded from his lungs as the dark Elf filled him, tearing through him, raping him. Again. It was happening again. Damn it, damn him. Nuada's fingers twisted in the blankets as the other Elf grunted and thrust into him again, then again, fighting to slam deep. Oh, gods, it hurt, it hurt, the tearing, the burning. Nuada knew such things required potions or creams to prevent pain but Eamonn used nothing except brute force to rip him open. Nuada bit down hard on the thick, velvet blanket to muffle his cries as Eamonn pounded into him, grunting and groaning with twisted pleasure.
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Nuada. Oh, that's right, take it deep. Take it all. You feel marvelous. I've missed this, you know. Oh, gods, yes, yes."
You bastard, Nuada growled silently, fingers spasming and teeth clamping down on the velvet with every thrust. Soon he would bite through the blanket. I'll kill you. I'll kill you, you son of a bitch. I'll see you in Hell. I'll kill you.
"I'm already dead, sweet prince," he said, as if reading Nuada's mind. "You're being fucked by a dead man. You have a dead man's cock inside you. How does it feel?" Eamonn grunted and strained over him, pounding, pounding. His rough, cruel hands roamed over the prince's back, his ribs, his shoulders, the short nails scraping his skin, drawing thin trickles of golden blood. "Think of it. You're a corpse's whore. No Elven pike, but a graveyard worm thrusting into you. How does it feel? How does it feel to be fucked by a corpse?"
Eamonn's chuckle rasped in his ear as the hellish pace increased and it hurt, gods it hurt, but the Tears made it feel so good, as well, so very good despite the tearing, burning pain. Despite the vicious words Eamonn hissed in his ear. The poison worked its alchemy in his blood, transforming the pain into a sick, excruxciating pleasure. Nuada bit his lip to stifle a groan as the dark Elf sank his teeth into Nuada's shoulder and convulsed, spilling his seed into Nuada's body. Fucked by a dead man, the other Elf had said. Shades of Annwn...And Eamonn chuckled, licked the circle of dented flesh where he'd bitten the prince, and murmured, "And a dead man just came inside you. Feel it?"
Nuada swallowed - swallowed saliva and that foul taste of himself from Eamonn's mouth and the horror and the shame and the lethal, brutal rage- and whispered, "You did what you wanted. Now go." It was only an ill dream. Only a nightmare. It meant nothing. The pain, the words, the humiliation, the revulsion...it was all just a foul nightmare. He would endure.
"Not finished, lover," Eamonn crooned, and began to move in him again. Nuada gritted his teeth, cursing fae stamina, but the pain was much less now, and Eamonn moved slowly, leisurely, instead of the punishing rhythm from before. Nuada pressed his forehead to the blankets and tried to block out the thick length of hard flesh and ruthless demand pushing into him. He focused on an image of a leaf embroidered on the velvet blanket and traced it again and again with his eyes, forcing his mind away from the invasive, unwanted pleasure and the echoes of pain.
Eamonn snarled something obscene and yanked on the spill of long, silver-blond hair, jerking Nuada's head up.
"No," Eamon snarled, and the next thrust was brutal, sharp. Nuada cried out. Strained against his hold. "No. Stop it. I won't let you escape this. Feel it. Feel every second, Nuada. Feel my pike as it spears you. Feel me deep, so deep inside you. You'll never get me out, Silverlance. Not ever." Nuada tried to jerk his head free and Eamonn's fingers tangled in his hair, yanking cruelly. "You'll never stop feeling me inside you, sweet prince. Feel it. It feels good, eh? Bet you've never had any man but me like this before. Feel me. Feel me inside. My cock in you. Feel my hands on you." And Eamonn's thick but nimble fingers slid around Nuada's bare thigh to brush his aching ballocks. The prince hissed a breath. Cried out when Eamonn bit down on his shoulder again, hard enough to punch through flesh. Amber blood dripped from Nuada's shoulder to the blankets. Eamonn dug his teeth into Nuada's shoulder and cupped him, stroking and massaging. Nuada tried to break loose, jerk his head away again, but Eamonn gripped his hair at the nape of his neck and held him tight. "I fucked your wife like this," Eamonn murmured in Nuada's ear as he pushed deep, as he squeezed the flesh between his legs. "So many times. She begged me for it."
"Liar," Nuada hissed. "Stop…" He couldn't not beg him to stop it, to leave him be. The Tears scored his veins like shards of glass and Eamonn thrust deep and stroked carefully and the pleasure was coming, spiraling down his backbone, settling between his legs. "Stop, please…"
"No," Eamonn whispered. "I won't stop, and I'm not a liar. You were there. You saw how she wept at the pleasure when I sheathed myself between her legs. You were there when I held her, when I buried myself in her this way and you pounded into her from the front and she moaned like a wanton little bitch. I remember and so do you. I remember how she rode you like a stallion," moving faster now, picking up speed, and now the shadows sheathing Nuada began to pulse harder, to throb around him, and he couldn't stop the pleasure, couldn't stop the moan low in his throat.
"How she rode you and I rode her and she begged us for more. Remember? Remember how it felt when she rode me and you took her from behind, ramming that prime bit of meat into her? You remember," Eamonn hissed when Nuada barely managed to stifle a groan, half of yearning and half of self-loathing. "Shall I wake her when I finish this time? Shall I wake her so we can fuck her together?"
"No," Nuada whispered. "Leave her alone."
"But you want her, don't you? And she's always wet for you, my sweet flower. For us. Our mouths, our tongues, our teeth. Our fingers, our cocks. She'll always ache for us. Don't you see? Only together, the three of us, can you finally escape the pain of your own desire. Remember? Remember us together?"
Oh gods, yes, he remembered. He remembered how Dylan had ridden him, her hair cascading around her and his own hands cupping those lovely breasts, her hands covering his, and Eamonn on Nuada's thighs, rogering Dylan from behind in rhythm with the prince, his own hands on Dylan's hips, fingers biting into her flesh. He did remember. Remembered especially how Dylan had begged, "Don't stop, don't stop, please, please, please! Nuada...Eamonn...please, don't stop!"
She'd begged them both. Nuada had begged her and the dark Elf. Had Eamonn ever begged them? He hadn't been under the sway of the Tears, so he couldn't have, and yet...
"Shall we all enjoy each other?" Eamonn demanded as his hips pushed against Nuada and Nuada's hips pushed forward. Nuada sank into the shadows, and they gripped him the way Dylan's body gripped him when he sank into her depths. He gasped at the unexpected pleasure without pain. Eamonn's hips snapped hard against Nuada's buttocks and Nuada surged into the hot, damp, silken shadow. He moaned and Eamonn laughed. "That's it. That's it. Take your pleasure. Give yourself up to this. You know you love it."
"No," Nuada moaned, but he couldn't stop pushing into that shadow, thrusting, and every thrust both assuaged the pain between his legs and stoked it higher, and Eamonn's fingers continued their vicious, violating caresses. Heat began to pulse rhythmically at the base of Nuada's spine and he knew the twisted pleasure was going to find him again, sweep him away, drown him. "Oh, gods...oh, gods…no...Eamonn, stop...please, do not...you cannot..."
"Shhh, shhh," Eamonn crooned. "Just enjoy it. It feels so good, does it not? Me inside you, you inside the shadow? Like paradise. It feels like her, doesn't it?"
There was something cruel and sharp in the question and Nuada demanded without thinking about it first, "What have you done?"
"Look for yourself."
A jerk on Nuada's hair twisted his head around to see Dylan on the sofa, head fallen back so that the long column of her neck caught the light, shadow-bruises and pale skin. She lay on her back, knees up. His coat had fallen to the floor so she lay in her shift. Thin tendrils of shadow had untied the laces at the front and now stroked over her bared breasts. Nothing bound her because...because, Nuada saw, she was still asleep. Asleep despite the way her hips lifted to meet the thrust of a thick pillar of shadow moving into her in time with Nuada's own thrusts. And every time it entered her, she moaned and arched her back.
He could smell her, her arousal, her need, and the Tears scraped through his veins like claws, and Dylan gasped, moaned, body going taut and around him the shadows convulsed, contracted, and it felt just like those moments of climax when she came undone beneath him. Then he was finished, lost, and he spiraled into pleasure as Dylan's moans and Eamonn's groans crashed together in his skull and the shadows milked him, throbbing and throbbing until he was empty and above him, Eamonn groaned and dropped his forehead to rest between Nuada's shoulderblades, empty as well.
"All three of us," Eamonn whispered, releasing his painful grip on Nuada's hair, stroking along his victim's heaving sides in a slow, almost loving caress. "All together. As it should be."
Nuada pressed his face into the blankets and tried to block out everything: the shadows still spasming around him, the revolting slide of fluid on his thighs, the blood seeping from the bite on his shoulder, Eamonn's weight above him, those hands tracing along his ribs, his own hammering pulse throbbing through his skull.
A nightmare. Only a nightmare.
Eamonn withdrew from him and stood up, patting Nuada's buttocks firmly. Nuada forced himself not to flinch away from the touch. He would hold onto his pride - by the skin of his teeth if he had to, but he would hold onto it. He would not yield to this monster, not even in a nightmare. He'd cracked for a moment but he was back in control now. He would beg for nothing else, would react to nothing else with his heart or his mind or his soul. Only his body would react to the degradation, the pleasure like iron spikes in his belly.
Then Dylan screamed.
Nuada jerked at his bonds, but the shadows still held his hands and he could only crane his neck to see Eamonn twist his fingers into Dylan's hair and wrench her from the sofa onto the floor. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, no, no, no.
"Eamonn, stop! Eamonn!" Nuada roared. "Eamonn! Stop!"
"No," the dark Elf snapped, dragging a flailing, screaming Dylan by the hair across the floor toward the bed. "I've shown you how it's meant to be. The three of us, together, always. You cannot escape it, and neither can your slut. I am sick to death - haha - of you both denying how things are meant to be. Smell her, Nuada!" He yanked Dylan up to her knees and thrust her toward the prince. "Look at her. Smell her. She stinks of you, of me, of us. She wants us both, she simply won't admit it. She's a human - humans lie. You can smell her need, can't you?" Eamonn pulled a struggling Dylan against his chest and shoved his face against her neck, sniffing her skin, shoving one hand inside her shift. "She's wet from you still, and now she wants more. Now she wants us both. And you! You're still hard, still aching for us."
Wet from…? He thought of the shadows he'd lost himself in, spilled himself in, and the thick shadow sinking into Dylan's body in time with his own movements. Had he...had he somehow…and by the Fates, he still ached, still hungered.
"Deny me while you can, lover, but you'll both come to me in the end. Now, wake up, Silverlance," Eamonn hissed. "Wake up to your lovely little wife."
Nuada? A soft, familiar voice. Gentle, but exhausted. Nuada, are you okay? Wake up, Nuada. Please? You're having a bad dream, wake up. He heard Dylan's voice in his head even over the sound of the dream-Dylan sobbing in Eamonn's grasp. A nightmare. This was only a thrice-cursed nightmare. Dylan was calling him. Waking him. He would be free soon enough.
"Oh, yes, Nuada, wake up," Eamonn hissed. "Wake up to your nightmare."
A slender hand stroked along his skin as the nightmare, the room and the bed and Eamonn with his fingers knotted in Dylan's hair while she wept, all shattered. All the ill dream left in its wake was the stench of musk, of sex. Nuada blinked, lifting his head from where he'd dropped it on his pack, and blinked at Dylan.
Her hair hung in tousled curls around her shoulders and the shift hung loose, the laces lax enough that he glimpsed the swells of her breasts through the gap. She sat on the floor beside him, one hand on his back. When she cocked her head to one side in silent question, those dark curls slid along her neck and shoulder, drifted tantalizingly across the tops of her breasts. The ache between his legs gripped him with a vengeance and before he'd had time to think, to process, to realize what he meant to do, he'd pulled her to him and was kissing her, drinking from her, drowning in her mouth, her lips like hot silk. Her fingers twined through his hair and then she was half straddling him, moaning, and his fingers fumbled at her laces for a few moments before he gave up. Tipping her backward, he caught her up in his arms before she could hit her head on the carpet. Settled her gently on the floor before he covered her with his body.
Dylan moaned his name against his mouth as he shoved the night-shift up around her hips, as she felt him yank the laces of his trews undone. He was frantic for her, desperate, and she seemed desperate as well, shoving his trews down over his hips, whimpering when he touched her, gasping when he found her bereft of undergarments, found her ready for him.
It had been a long time - weeks, perhaps even moons - since he'd been driven so hard by such desperate need. Dylan cried out, mewled, "Yes, yes, oh, yes" when he finally sank into her, and "don't stop, don't stop," oh, gods, he could never, she felt so good, and the way she cried out under him, begging him, her legs coming around his hips...Nuada shuddered, groaned, climaxed once. Kept going, kept moving within her, pleasuring her, relishing the short staccato cries dropping from her lips as sweetly as honey, relishing the long wail of release at the end.
But that hellish dream...he still felt the phantom of his dead enemy ripping into him, burning him with pain and pleasure, violating him. Had to drive it out, scour it away. Had to drown out the feeling of Eamonn's breath hot against his neck, Eamonn's hands gripping his hips or cupping between his legs, Eamonn's fully aroused organ raping him. Had to drown it out, drown it out. Think only of Dylan, so soft, so welcoming, everything he wanted now, as sick and broken as he was. He didn't crave that monster. He only wanted her, beneath him, above him, surrounding him. It was the only thing that blocked out the memories of the cottage, the memories of his nightmares.
"I need you," he growled, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. "I need you, Dylan." So sick, so wrong, so twisted, but safe, safe, safe. A haven, his haven. "I need you."
"Take me," she whispered. "I'm here."
He let out a shuddering groan as her words finished him, as he spilled into her, and he only lay upon her for a long time, panting for breath. But he still ached, and the nightmare still hissed in his head, and he caught his breath and began again, still frantic for her. She arched into his embrace and he took her mouth, kissing her hungrily, drinking in her next cry of release. It tasted of his name.
Time bled away from them as they loved each other, chasing away fear, until at last Dylan lay panting and flushed beneath him, almost purring softly as he nuzzled her throat and kissed her neck, both of them sated at last...for the moment.
Finally, Dylan managed to whisper, "Bad dream?"
"Yes," he panted.
She brushed a kiss across the royal scar etched into his face. Gently stroked his cheeks with her careful hands. "Better now?"
He nodded, pressing his forehead against her clavicle. She hissed once, and he remembered the bruise there, but when he tried to shift away, she cupped the back of his head and held him to her, laying her cheek against his hair. He settled into her again, her heart beating steadily against the bridge of his nose, his lips brushing the mound of scar tissue over her sternum.
"Wherever we're going," Dylan murmured finally, "I think we should just go. Once we catch our breath, we should get the heck out of here. Forget waiting for the dawn."
Yes, he thought as his hands absently cupped and shaped her breasts, as she shifted at the sudden touch, the sudden desire, and whimpered. His lust rose up again, warm now instead of boiling hot, as his mouth found the tip of one lush breast through the thin shift. Dylan cried out and arched her back, offering him more. Yes, they would get out of Findias. After, he added silently, beginning to move in her again, basking in her whimpers of pleasure so that they stifled the memories of his nightmare, after they caught their breath.
.
Although Dylan didn't really need help getting into the carriage waiting at the entrance to the royal stables, she let Nuada help her anyway. The warm pressure of his hand lightly grasping hers as he took just a bit of her weight sent a tingle up her arm. And once it came time to withdraw her hand from his grip, he was slow to release her, letting his fingertips glide over her skin and sending her pulse racing. When Nuada followed her into the carriage, she gave him a look that she sincerely hoped was exasperated and not starry-eyed.
The mortal asked, "Were you doing that on purpose?"
Dark lips curved into a smile that just skirted the edge of self-satisfaction. "Doing what?"
Silver-washed blue eyes narrowed at the prince looking far too pleased with himself. Well, that was a huge, resounding yes. Dylan debated kicking him - all right, it would just be a little bitty nudge with her toe - in the ankle, since no one should be able to look that smug and that attractive at the same time, but decided against it in favor of leaning her head on Nuada's shoulder when he took a seat beside her. It was obvious to her that their impending escape from the shadow of Findias had lifted both of their spirits. Then, just as the carriage slid into butter-smooth motion, she realized something.
"You know…I should've brought a book," Dylan muttered. "You said this trip was going to take a while, and I didn't think to bring a book. Now I'm gonna be bored. Rats."
"I beg your pardon?" One knife-thin brow winged upward. "Bored? In my presence?" He grinned at her, looking much better than he had when she'd woken him from his mid-packing nap earlier that evening. He shifted, slipping strong arms around her waist, leaning her back a little. Dylan rolled her eyes when he added, "Many women find me quite arresting, I'll have you know." His lady's mouth twitched before she smoothed her face to blankness. "Are you laughing at me? Believe me, wife, I can be quite entertaining. You thought so yourself earlier tonight."
The thought of the things he'd done to her after she'd woken him up sent heat curling in blooms of scarlet into her cheeks. They'd been married for six months, but he'd been...different tonight. Almost - but not quite - savage, yet somehow impossibly careful, tender. He'd done things to her she'd never even heard of. Then again, he was thousands of years old. No doubt he'd done a lot of things she'd never heard of.
But he was right: she absolutely had not been bored. However, although Elf women might be insatiable nymphomaniacs, human women needed rest from their amorous lovers occasionally. She put a hand on his chest. Pushed lightly. He winked at her and straightened up.
Yeah, leaving Findias had been a great idea. She hadn't realized how shadowed, how troubled he'd become as the threat of the place had loomed over them.
"Okay, then," Dylan said when they were both sitting up again, folding her arms. "Entertain me."
Oh, she was playing with fire. She saw in his eyes when he wondered, did she not know better? Was she provoking him on purpose? But no, she had made it clear she wasn't in the mood just then for anything amorous. Instead of giving into the desire to seriously play back, to try seduction, he reached up and gently tugged a stray curl that had fallen across her forehead. "Or you could entertain me."
"I could, actually, you're right," Dylan admitted, scootching just a bit closer. "That might be fun." She took his hand in hers. Lightly traced along the length of each of his fingers. Her touch was as light as a whisper. "I'm trying to think of something entertaining to do."
"You know, simply because I make deliriously passionate love to you every night does not mean you're allowed to manhandle me."
"Yes, it does." The light, playful tone of her voice surprised them both. She offered him a smile. "Besides, you love it when I touch you."
Shades, yes, he breathed into her mind. Even the most chaste touch from your hand fires my blood, mo duinne.
Dylan bit her lip and replied, I'm glad. I...I like touching you. Not just for...for when we're in the bedroom. I just like touching you. The warmth of his skin, the knowledge that he was beside her, comforting her, keeping her safe...she adored that.
He cupped her cheek and very gently kissed her mouth, a slow, sweet brush of lips so tender it made her heart ache. Then he returned his hand to her keeping, and she continued stroking his fingers and tracing the lines of his palm. Dylan took her time rememorizing the texture of his skin, mapping out the paths of golden blood flowing beneath the surface.
No foppish nobleman's hand, this. The years of training and war had roughened it with calluses and marked it with a few small, death-white scars. The fingers were long, like an artist's or craftsman's. His knuckles were marked with their own sprinkling of tiny scars. A very light dusting of blond hair covered the back of his hand. A warrior's hand, and an artist's, and a lover's. She'd seen this hand stained with the blood of fallen enemies. He'd wiped away her tears, and stroked her body until pleasure sang in her veins.
She could feel his pulse as steady as a drum at the center of his palm. Could feel the inherent strength in his hand. Could imagine - could remember - the feel of his hand against her skin, cradling with that same gentle strength.
"Are you still thinking of something entertaining?" Nuada asked, his senses zeroing in on each feather-light stroke of Dylan's finger. Her touch seemed to draw along every nerve, sending tiny sparks shimmering through his blood. She was drawing him in despite himself, inch by slow and torturous inch. Oh, he could pretend that each caress did not torment him. He could pretend that this mortal did not seduce him with her every breath.
But pretense was all it was.
"Actually," she said, "I am. I've already thought of something."
The kiss of her fingertip against his palm, following the rough-etched groove of his heart-line, sent fresh shivers of heat darting beneath the skin. Her other hand cradled his, leaving his own hand open and vulnerable to her slow inspection. The slender fingers of Dylan's other hand curled against the sides of his wrist. His blood hummed through his veins, pulsing against the almost-intangible grasp. It took him a moment to ensure he wouldn't stutter when he asked, "Reading my palm?"
"No. Something much, much better." Moonlit blue eyes met gold-kissed ivory, and scarred lips curved into a slow smile as her fingers grazed the sensitive flesh at his inner wrist. A tremor went through him at the brief contact. He was an Elf, and their lovemaking earlier was not enough to sate him. Shades, but he longed for her...
Nuada struggled to keep his breathing even and managed to echo, "Better?" What could possibly be better - or worse - than this torture? She was doing this to him on purpose. She had to be. A silken lock of her hair slid against his outstretched fingers. They twitched just a little, reflecting the sudden urge he felt to tug the ribbon out of Dylan's hair and tangle his fingers in those shadow-soft curls. He wanted her, suddenly, on her knees on the carriage floor, her mouth at his service. Nuada could picture exactly how she'd look before him and-
"Oh, yes." She very carefully curled his fingers into a fist. That mischievous smile widened into a grin. "Rock-Paper-Scissors, let's go."
He blinked, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "What?"
"Oh, you heard me right," she said, still grinning, shifting back a little. "Don't even pretend you didn't. What's the matter, my love? Scared you'll lose?"
Little imp. I cannot believe you did that to me. Firegold eyes narrowed dangerously. "As I have told you many times, Dylan - you should never challenge an Elf."
"And as I've told you, my prince, you don't scare me." She shifted into the proper stance for the upcoming battle and raised her fist. "Ready?"
A challenging lift of one dark brow forced the Elven warrior into a similar position. At least no one would find out about this. Except perhaps Nuala. Which he could deal with, since he and his twin had often played this game as children - though they'd called it something else. Oh, but she would pay for toying with him this way. Yes, she would.
"And what is the winner's prize?" He demanded.
"If I win, you'll owe me an act of service, to be determined at a later date."
It was a sign of his great trust in her that when she said that, he didn't question it, and it didn't worry him. He only canted his head and asked, "And if I win?"
Dylan slowly lifted one eyebrow and then - even more slowly - ran the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, her gaze drifting down his torso to settle for a brief moment below his belt. Then she lifted her gaze back to his face and offered a negligent shrug.
"I'm sure you'll think of something," she murmured. He swallowed hard and inclined his head. She grinned. "Okay, then. Rock, paper, scissors."
.
How many times had he lost? Nuada realized with some shock that not only did he not know, since he hadn't kept track, but he didn't care, either. Sometimes Dylan had won. Sometimes the prince had. It was better than playing against Nuala; almost invariably, such contests had ended in a stalemate. Instead of truly viewing it as a challenge, he'd simply enjoyed the experience. Somehow Dylan made it so easy to simply enjoy things.
Now Nuada brushed back a few stray curls as his lady sighed and shifted in sleep. Though a cushion kept Dylan from laying her head directly in his lap, her hand half-curled against his knee was oddly comforting. The dim interior lights of the carriage cast intriguing shadows across her skin. Every so often her fingers flexed, like a kitten kneading the air in her sleep. The feel of her skin warmed him, even through the silk of his black trews. Her other hand was held lightly trapped between his thigh and the cushion. Her fingers just peeked out from under the pillow. The tips rested against the palm of his free hand. Though that little bit of torment had been a few hours ago, the Elven warrior could still feel the echoes of her fingertips skimming over his flesh like phantom fire.
He still felt the silk of her lips wrapped around him, the velvet stroke of her tongue, and the delicious slide of her body against his legs, as well. Shades of Annwn, she had held him on the edge so long he'd been certain he would go mad with it. His lovely enchantress, his sorceress queen, his wife. And now she slept as they journeyed on through the night toward the royal forest, away from the cruel shadow of Bethmoora's capital city and the glowering, doom-like wraith that was its king.
Nuada drew his fingers through Dylan's hair, a bit surprised that the tangle of curls parted easily for him. Sleep smoothed her features. Left her looking as peaceful as a sweetly-dreaming child. Using Elven skill, keeping his touch as soft as a whisper of moonlight, Nuada let his fingers drift along the scars that covered so much of her face. They weren't like his, rough and rigid and pale. Instead they were exotic stripes of silver, coral, and pearl. Dylan seemed to think that, underneath the scars, she was pretty. Somehow she had yet to realize that the scars only made her more beautiful.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me, mo duinne? My little witch?" Nuada whispered so softly only the wind might hear him. "Can you possibly understand what it is, to love and hate in equal measure? I loathe your entire race…and need you almost past enduring. You are inside my thoughts, under my skin, a part of me. We are bound together, one and the same, forever. Always. You hold what is left of me in your hands, little love. Have mercy on me, I beg of you."
His eyes and his fingertips followed the rose-pale scar that started just at the corner of Dylan's eye and ran beneath her ear. He'd heard some nobles at Bethmoora whispering about how that particular scar dragged at her features, pulling at her left eye more than a little. He'd heard the word unsightly bandied about. Heard the courtiers snickering over their little joke. Yet when he looked at this razor-thin mark, how it affected her looks was not the first thing - or even one of the first things - that came to mind. What came to mind was how close the initial wound had come to the delicate veins and arteries just beneath the scar. A little more pressure on the knife, a little more force, and she would have bled out before he'd arrived that night. He would never have known her. Never have tasted this delirious pain that hurt so sweetly, never have lived through the hell Eamonn had put them through, never have known the half-frightened joy of the babes growing within her now, never have come to understand that Nuala was not his other half, that his other half was this woman.
What would his life have been like without her? Bleak. Joyless. The same empty grayness of preparing for the coming war that so few believed in, day after day after day. No hot chocolate or stories or snowball fights. No faerie tales before a fire or conversations about faith and life and hope or comfort after vicious nightmares. No torturous caresses or impossibly sweet kisses or hours of glorious desire and need.
"I love you, a ghrá mo chroí," he whispered. Each word seemed to etch itself into his heart. Weighed on him like a stone. If only he could have spoken such words to her before the dark Elf had broken them together. If only he'd had the courage to admit to himself that he loved her before their shared hell had wrung the secret from him. But a time would come when they would be wrenched apart, either by time and death or by the cruel fate awaiting her people when he finally raised the Golden Army - one of the things he still had not confided to her. Could he bear to lose her after making her such an integral part of his life? Or would it shatter the Elven warrior as nothing else had? "Would you ever consider standing beside me when the time comes, mo duinne? Could you bear remaining the wife of a monster like me?"
She didn't reply. Only slept on, curled against him as trustingly as a small child, oblivious to the questions that weighed on him so heavily and to which he possessed no answers.