Author's Note: so I'm back! More stuff happens in this chapter than last. Things are going to get rough for our lovebirds over the next couple of months, so I wanted to give them some time to rest before things went to crap. Things are about to go to crap.
There will be a deleted scene written with Silverlance's Blue-Eyed Mortal available on my Pat. Re. On. (and upon request via email if SBEM is okay with that). To avoid getting into MA territory, I cut out that part of this chapter to keep it M.
The title of this chapter comes from a song by the group Savage Garden.
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Once Upon a Moonless Dark
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Chapter Twenty-Six
Break Me, Shake Me, Take Me Over
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It was the phone that woke her. It's low buzz near her head had Dylan's eyes snapping open to the dizzying expanse of a pre-dawn sky. The low crackle of the fire filled her ears and she blinked tiredly, trying to understand what was happening, where she was. The bed—bed?—beneath her was hard, rough and uneven, but covered in something velvet soft. She was warm, except for the edge of one ear, which was chilled. And…there was a weight on her chest.
She looked down and a slow smile spread across her face. Nuada lay with his cheek against the side of her breast, nuzzling her in sleep. He cupped her other breast possessively. They'd fallen asleep on the beach. She'd meant to go back up to the castle, shower again, wash the salt from her skin and hair. Instead she'd fallen asleep, woken up briefly, and…she tried to remember.
Her phone buzzed on the sand. She ignored it. She'd woken up, reached out to Nuada, and then…well, it was a bit of a haze. She'd been so tired. But judging from the delicious soreness in her body, she knew what they'd been doing. Especially since, beneath the cloak draped over them both, they were both naked. When she shifted, Nuada cuddled closer, nuzzling his face into the swell of her breast.
Sometimes her prince would come to her almost completely asleep, barely conscious of anything but her scent, her warmth, her skin. Sometimes she woke up fully, sometimes she didn't quite manage to completely shake off the haze of sleep. They'd talked about it after the first time, to make sure neither of them violated their trust in each other. Dylan was still a bit sleepy, still feeling lazy and languid, so she simply wiggled a little until she could kiss Nuada lovingly. When he was half asleep, his mouth held a softness, a vulnerability she almost never saw when he was fully awake.
Being half asleep also meant something else: when he started to kiss her throat, massage her breasts, he moved with excruciating slowness. She had no idea why and she didn't care. It was wonderful. And despite being barely awake, he was very thorough.
She didn't realize her phone had stopped ringing until Nuada was completely asleep again, curled up against her and snoring quietly, because it started to ring once more. With a frustrated groan, Dylan managed to wriggle out of her husband's embrace and out from under the cloak. Whoever was calling her had better have had a good reason.
Dylan yanked on her long Elven tunic and wiped off her legs with her dark, discarded skirt. She picked up her panties, which had dried after her swim in the cool spring night air. She wrung them out not to squeeze water out of the cloth, but to break up the stiffness from air-drying, and shimmied into them. Finally she picked up her still-ringing phone.
Of course it's Johnny, she thought to herself with a mental head-smack. He's the only one who has my new number.
She clicked TALK. "Whaaat?" The word came out in an almost adolescent grumble. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Uh…here in America it's the middle of the afternoon."
Dylan blinked. "Oh." Of course. Bethmoora was anchored to the middle counties of Ireland, and Elphame was anchored to the continent of North America. The time difference was basically the same. She glanced up at the dark sky spangled with diamond stars. The faintest line of gray tinged with gold had just begun to show at the horizon opposite the seashore. "It's not even dawn where I'm at."
"Oh, shoot. Sorry, D. I know you need your sleep. I didn't think…I thought you'd be at that place in the subway."
"No, we got a summons. Nuada's father demanded we come to see him." Technically, the summons had been for Nuada alone, but only because Balor hadn't known the prince was married and the expectant father of twins. And no way would Nuada have risked leaving her alone while he went off to face Balor.
The expectant father in question made a low noise. Dylan glanced at him. It was dim, the fire burning low, but she saw Nuada's brow furrowing, saw a strained expression pass across his face. Should she wake him? He needed rest, too. He'd still been awake when she'd fallen asleep the night before, stroking a gentle hand over her belly and…listening, sort of, to the babies inside her with his magic. It had felt nice, and the warmth of his power washing through her had helped lull her to sleep.
What if he was having a nightmare, though?
But then his features smoothed out. Not a nightmare, she decided. Probably the sound of her talking was beginning to penetrate his slumber. Slipping on her shoes but foregoing socks, she walked a ways along the beach, keeping the fire in view. If Nuada woke, he would see her, and she would see him.
"So you uh…met your in-laws?" John's voice carried too much forced joviality.
Dylan fought not to physically cringe away from the phone. The warm, lovely glow from lying in Nuada's arms, the firelight so beautiful with its greens and blues and violets from the driftwood, the stars overhead, the joy of it all and the peace was fading because John still didn't know how to handle what had happened to her. Every time he tried to dance around it, he made his discomfort her problem. She didn't want to resent him for that, but it was more than annoying. Sometimes it almost felt like John was hitting her. The one time he hadn't, when he'd bought the pink and yellow teddy bears for her babies, she'd been so relieved that she'd cried herself almost sick when she'd returned to the underground sanctuary.
Her brother continued, "Are they nice?"
"No," Dylan muttered.
To be fair, she hadn't actually met Princess Nuala. She didn't want to. The summons Balor had sent had been because of her; Becan had learned as much because apparently the princess had tapped into Nuada's mind during those two weeks under Eamonn's control and, instead of sending help to rescue them, Princess Nuala had assumed Nuada was the one hurting her and told the king. She'd felt Nuada's rage, his shame, his pain, his despair, and she'd assumed he was doing something terrible to her instead of asking him like a sane person.
She hated Nuala, Dylan realized, almost as much as she hated the king. Everything that had happened to her and Nuada, everything that was still happening to them, was their fault.
"D?" John ventured softly. She blinked, realizing he'd been talking this whole time while she'd been silently seething. "Are you okay?"
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. It was such a John thing to ask and that made him comforting but it was such a stupid, stupid question.
"Just got a lot on my mind," Dylan said. "Anyway, did you need to talk to me about something?"
"Yeah…about that. Petra called me."
Oh, great, Dylan thought sourly, and settled in to hear what her eldest sister could possibly want from her.
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She was gone. Nuada knew it the instant sleep slipped away from him. Dylan was gone and he was alone.
He bolted upright, gasping for salt-stung air with lungs suddenly gone tight with fear. Was she further along the beach? Was she in the water? Had she walked back up the sandy hills to the palace without him? No, no, she would not have done that. And if she was simply walking along the seashore, he would have been able to sense her, surely. So then…the water. She had to be in the water.
The prince scrambled to his feet, his cloak falling to the sand and draping across the other cloak laid out underfoot. Heedless of his nudity, Nuada stepped around the low driftwood fire, moving toward the roaring surf. The rising sun behind him seemed to turn the sea to a mix of scarlet and amber blood.
"She's not out there, my white flower. She isn't here at all. You needn't fear for the sulky little bitch."
He froze. Not alone. There was no mistaking that hideously familiar voice, no suppressing the sudden, gut-churning nausea that swept over him. He was all at once very, very much aware that he was entirely naked and carried no weapons. Where was his spear? His sword? Shades, his knife?
Last night…he'd had them with him. He never went anywhere unarmed, especially not if Dylan were at his side. What had happened last night? He'd walked hand in hand with his wife along the beach under the moonlight. He'd built her this fire while she cleansed her heart in the cruel, cold sea. Dylan had slept while he had kept watch, waiting for him to come and torment him again.
He'd seen Shina'kin—a dream? A phantom? A hallucination born from Nuada's own rising, exhausted paranoia? And when she had left him, Dylan had woken, and drawn him down to her, stripped him oh so slowly of his clothes, and warmed him beneath the shared cloak with her body. Nuada had set aside his weapons, set aside tunic and trews and all, but now he could not see any of his things, only the two cloaks and the fire, and he could feel that monster's hungry gaze practically oozing over his bare skin. Gooseflesh erupted all over his body, as much from the jolt of fear in his belly as the sharp chill of the dawn.
Oh so very slowly, Nuada turned toward where that voice had come from.
Eamonn squatted on his haunches beside the driftwood fire, slowly turning a fresh-caught, field-cleaned fish the length of Nuada's forearm on a spit of cleaned, whittled driftwood. He wore loose black trews hung low on his hips and no shirt or boots. No damp sand clung to his bare toes. His shadow seemed oddly, disturbingly dark lying against the bone-pale sand.
Nuada remembered Eamonn's shadows. The memory of them twisted in the pit of his stomach, stole his breath, and sent a throb of vile heat through his loins. He remembered the moist, almost slick chill of those shadows binding his limbs, forcing their way past his clamped-shut lips to fill his mouth, to thrust deep into his throat. He remembered the sickening pleasure of them, warmed by his body, slipping over his aching ballocks, over his near-agonizing arousal, pulsing around him, and the feel of surging hard into those slick, hot depths again and again until he was spent.
He needed to find a way to kill those shadows. To butcher them the way one might butcher a nest of venomous serpents. Maybe then the memory of all that slippery, sweet darkness wouldn't stir him even now.
"Would you like a taste?" Eamonn asked. Nuada nearly bit his tongue at the words. The dark Elf held up the spitted fish. "It's fresh. Nearly done. You like salmon, don't you?"
Nuada's throat worked for a long moment before he managed to work up enough saliva to spit on the sand near the other man's feet. "I would rather carve out my own bowels with a rusted iron dirk than break my fast with a treacherous dog like you."
Thin, pale lips twisted into a grimace. "That wounds me, lover. One might almost think you didn't like me anymore—ah-ah-ah!" He added when Nuada took a menacing step toward him. "Temper, temper, Nuada. Remember our bargain. Does your word mean so little?"
He stopped, bile surging into his throat. For Dylan. For Dylan, he'd offered himself to this beast for an entire moon. Sworn to obey his lascivious orders, to take what food and drink was offered him, to allow the wretch to make completely free with his body without fight or protest of any kind. He had sworn it. For Dylan, for her safety, for her very sanity. For a moon, he would go to Eamonn, give himself to the nightmare that haunted them both, and the dark Elf would offer Dylan no harm.
And last night, she had suffered no ill dreams. Eamonn had kept his word.
The implications of that were too much for Nuada to deal with just then—because this wasn't actually Eamonn, Eamonn was dead, Nuada had killed him with Dylan's help, the corpse had been devoured by carrion-eaters, this could not be the real Eamonn! And yet the very night Nuada had made a bargain with this dream-haunt, just on the off-chance it would work, it had. Which meant this wasn't only a dream, only a terrible nightmare, this was real…
Nuada shoved the thoughts away before he began to do more than sweat a little. If he started to think of it too deeply, he would begin to scream, and if he began to scream, he didn't know if he would ever stop. He would not let himself think on whether this was really, truly the monster that had held him prisoner for a fortnight in Dylan's cottage and made a slave of him. He would focus instead on surviving the next four weeks.
It was going to be Hell.
"I see we've become a bit more tractable," Eamonn murmured. "Now. Aren't you going to wish me good morning, Nuada?"
He nearly choked on the words. "…good…morning."
Eamonn's smile soured the prince's guts like curdled milk. "Someone seems a bit unhappy this morning. Perhaps you'd like a good morning kiss. Would that cheer you? Feeling a bit neglected?"
The bastard was toying with him. Keeping his voice sere as an arctic wind, the prince said, "No."
"No?" Eamonn echoed, tone mocking. Nuada gritted his teeth. He had no idea what specifically was about to happen, but he knew without a doubt it would be unpleasant and likely disgusting. "Come here."
Every instinct screamed not to do it, but he slowly approached. A pace away from the dark Elf, he stopped, staring off into the distance. If Eamonn wanted anything from him, he would have to pry it from him. Eamonn seemed to understand this, because he wedged the wooden stake with its fish into the sand and shifted onto his knees, cupping the backs of Nuada's calves and exerting just a little pressure.
"Do not play games with me, prince of whores," he said softly when the prince didn't budge. "Or I shall bring our wife into this dream, and drown you in gancanaugh venom, and fuck you both until you're drowning in me. Is that what you want?" He tugged, and Nuada took a small, furious, hateful step. "Is it, Nuada? Is that why you're fighting me? Because you want to feel Dylan beneath you while I take you? Maybe you miss the way it felt, both our pikes spearing into her tight-"
"Éist suas—shut up," he hissed. His fingers knotted into white-knuckled fists. His jaw ached from clenching his teth. "Do not speak of her. Do not use those human words. Stop talking."
Another pull on the prince's calves and he took another small step forward. He had no idea what Eamonn was looking at, what expression he wore. He didn't care. He wouldn't look down at him, refused to give the dark Elf the satisfaction.
"That's it, isn't it?" Eamonn whispered. "You miss having that whore between us while we…made love to her. She was always so tight, so wet. You miss the way she moaned for us, begged us never to stop. You miss the three of us together, as we're meant to be. Of course you do. You miss having her on her knees in front of you, thrusting into her, listening to her cry out at the pleasure, her cries muffled because she was putting that lovely whore's mouth to use servicing me. She has such a clever little tongue-"
"I said stop talking!" The words escaped in a snarl and Nuada's gaze slashed to the dark Elf. One hand shot out, reaching for Eamonn's throat. Teeth bared, eyes bleeding to half-mad scarlet, he slammed the dark Elf to the sand, straddling his belly, hands around his neck. "Éist suas! Éist suas, Damnú ort! Damn you! Éist suas!"
The shock and brief moment of fear flashing in those damnable silver eyes when Eamonn's head thwacked against the hard-packed sand was delicious. Fingers closing hard around the other man's scarred neck, Nuada snarled, growling like a beast as he throttled him. Enough of this. Enough. He would die, die now, die again, he had to die!
And then something snaked up from behind him and wrapped around Nuada's throat, yanking him backward. He went sprawling to the sand, bits of shell and tiny rocks biting into his skin and cutting him. Eamonn coughed and spat something thick and black onto the sand before rolling onto his hands and knees, chest heaving as he dragged in ragged breaths. Even now, no sand clung to his bare skin or dirtied the curtain of his black hair. His silver eyes blazed with rage and…could that be lust?
"Ohhh," Eamonn breathed as Nuada clawed at the thick, cool, dark thing wrapped around his throat, straining to escape its hold. "Oh, someone is very, very angry about hearing the truth, aren't they? Poor Silverlance. Poor Prince Nuada. How does it feel to know you're a monster?" Nuada thrashed at the shadow-serpent holding him by the throat, raking it with his too-short nails. Something cool and rubbery gathered under his nails but it made no difference. It wasn't choking him, but it held him, implacable. He only succeeded in bruising his own neck with his furious attempt to uncoil the damn thing. And Eamonn was coming toward him now, walking on all fours across the sand like a hunting cat, sinuous and menacing. Another shadow reared up and grabbed Nuada's left wrist, slamming it to the ground just when he thought he could fit his fingers beneath the coil around his neck. Another gripped his right foot, then his left knee. "Did you truly think you could swear a vow to me and then try to kill me in this dreamworld? You broke your word, prince of whores. Shall I fetch our wife now?"
Nuada went very still. The bargain. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He'd made that bargain for Dylan, to protect her, protect their children, and now…
"I do believe," Eamonn hissed as Nuada watched him prowl closer, "that I'll leave you pinned here, and go get her. I'll drag her to this beach and make her come in front of you so you can watch her fall apart, so you can see how a real man pleases his wife. She'll scream my name and you'll know which of us she truly craves. Then I'll roger her, take her like a hound with his bitch, and make you listen to her beg me for more. Then I'll enjoy you, make you scream for me while my shadows satisfy her-"
"Please." It came out strangled, hoarse. He despised himself for it but he whispered again, "Please."
Eamonn crawled over him, straddling him, hands braced on either side of Nuada's head. His hair fell like a shadow around them, blotting out the bloody sunrise. He leaned down, black slit-pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the silver, and touched his brow to Nuada's. The prince squeezed his eyes shut. Why was it so very dark here, no matter if his eyes were opened or closed? So dark, save for the odd luminous glow of those silver eyes and moon-white face.
The dark Elf's breath panted hot against Nuada's lips when he demanded, "Please, what?"
"Do not hurt her. Please." He would give up everything—his pride, his crown, his life—so long as she remained unharmed. He had no idea what Eamonn attacking her even once more would do to her. Memories of the blood beading along the shallowest of cuts along her wrists sent fear crawling through his guts like carnivorous worms.
A low chuckle. "You really haven't figured it out yet, have you? I am not hurting her. I'm giving her exactly what she wants. What she needs. You aren't enough for her, I fear. One fae lord's pike isn't enough to satisfy her. I simply make love to her the way she craves." Another chuckle. Eamonn's tongue flicked out, warm and slimy, against Nuada's lips. "Mmmm. Or are you such a greedy whore as well, that you want all of me for yourself, my white flower?" A longer, slower lick across Nuada's lips. He tried not to flinch from it. Shades, did he have to endure this filth for an entire moon? "Which part of me do you miss so very much? My pike in you, spearing you on your knees while you moan and arch that handsome back for me? Or your pike inside me? Do you remember what I felt like? You felt so very, very good inside me, Nuada, and Dylan writhing beneath me, and the Tears scorching my skin. Is that why you're jealous of our wife? Because you want me to yourself? Greedy whore."
Cool, thick bands of shadow kept Nuada pinned, wrist and ankle and neck, to the sand. Sharp bits of seashell sliced into his back and the salt caked on the sand from the sea burned in the cuts. Eamonn was an impossibly heavy heat on his belly, on his chest, constricting his air. His head swam as he struggled to draw breath, to fight the dark Elf with words. He didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to remember rutting in the haze of the Tears, ravenous for Dylan and this monster.
"Is it my mouth you miss?" Eamonn breathed against his lips. Tendrils of darkness drifted up from Eamonn's shadow lying across the sand, sliding back along Nuada's bare skin, caressing slowly over hips and straining thighs and then between his legs, oh gods. He chewed his tongue to keep from begging him to stop. He would not let Eamonn break him. "I miss yours, Nuada. I miss you. Both of you. And you miss me, do you not? Miss the way I made love to you."
He couldn't breathe. Eamonn had settled onto his elbows and he was so heavy, crushing down on him, why couldn't he breathe? Red spots danced across his vision as Eamonn touched his nose to Nuada's, as Eamonn sighed against his mouth. The air rasped in Nuada's throat but the dark Elf either didn't notice or didn't care as he leaned closer and closer, bare chest pressed to Nuada's vulnerable heart.
"You want me all to yourself, is that it?"
"I…" He struggled to force his chest to expand, his lungs to work. The scent of the sea mingled with the aroma of woodsmoke and Eamonn's skin. A low, throbbing ache had settled between his legs as the memory of the Tears stirred to life in his blood and the shadows rubbed against him. "No, I…please…" He didn't want to beg, dammit, he would not beg, but he couldn't think, couldn't focus. His only thought was please, don't hurt Dylan. "Eamonn…please…"
"The mighty Silverlance," Eamonn whispered. "Not so mighty when someone has you by the ballocks, eh? We have a bargain, no? Or we did. You tried to break it, so I'm redefining the terms. You are mine for two moons, sweet prince. You like that, do you not? Two moons of lovemaking. Agreed?"
Oh, gods, Nuada thought, shadows creeping in at the edges of his vision. Two moons of this? Of worse? How could he?
But two moons of peace for Dylan. Two moons where she could sleep, find rest, keep down food, regain her appetite, get some healthy color back into her cheeks. It was worth it, surely. He owed her a terrible debt, and this would help repay it. He was her husband, the father of her children; he had to protect them. He'd sworn it to her.
"Agreed?" Eamonn repeated, and licked a long, slow line over his cheek.
"Yes," Nuada whispered. "Agreed, damn you."
Eamonn chuckled, a low violating sound. "Good. One moment." And then he shifted his weight, leaning off to one side, and Nuada could breathe, blessed air flooding his lungs, his lungs expanding as they were meant to, chest muscles flexing to push in desperately needed air. He panted for breath as Eamonn lifted a glittering, hewn-crystal vial with a cork stopper. Something that glimmered like moonlight on water shown within. Nuada froze, eyes wide.
"Have no fear, sweet prince," Eamonn said, "it's not what you think. Not exactly." He yanked out the cork with his teeth. Nuada expected him to force the mixture down his throat, because he didn't believe for a second that that bottle didn't hold Branwen's Tears, but instead Eamonn swallowed a mouthful himself. The prince stared at him as the dark Elf took another pull from the bottle and then set it aside, wedged between two rocks to keep it upright.
"What are you-" Nuada demanded, and Eamonn leaned down and kissed the space between his collar bones. Something warm and wet trickled over his skin where the other man's lips touched. It seared Nuada's skin, first hot, then icy, then so cold it wrapped back around to burning again where the tiny droplets rolled across his flesh. It felt like his skin should bubble and blister, but it only burned. He sucked in a sharp breath at the impossible heat.
"What is-"
Another kiss over his sternum, hot damp lips pressing to the vulnerable skin above Nuada's breastbone and then that frigid burning as liquid puddled and then spilled along his chest, his ribs. Pain speared between the bones, sinking icy talons into him, clawing over his belly toward his groin.
"Hn…hn…" Nuada gritted his teeth, trying to swallow a gasp that wasn't quite agony alone, as the claws of pain scraped over his lower belly, his hips, and lower yet, scalding him. It hurt, gods it hurt, but locked his jaw, would not scream. Only grunted as the brutal pain scored him like claws of poisoned glass. "Gah. Hn!"
More kisses, and more, dripping that warm wetness over his skin, leaving blazing fire that made him want to scream in its wake, why was Eamonn doing this? Why? Nuada swallowed a cry of agony as more of that vile liquid dripped over his raw skin like frigid acid.
"What is that?" He gasped. "What are you doing? What is that?"
It didn't feel the same as the Tears had on his skin when Eamonn had doused him with them but his skin pulsed in time with his heart, the short hairs prickling, gooseflesh pebbling his skin, heat building and building in his flesh, the pain screaming now, agony edged with hot, nauseating need. Eamonn kept kissing his way down Nuada's torso, from collar bones to sternum to belly to navel, leaving tiny trails of wetness dripping over his skin that threatened to sear the flesh from his bones. He thought—feared—Eamonn meant to rape him with his mouth as he had back in Findias, torturing him with cruel teeth and tongue, but instead the dark Elf kissed trails down Nuada's thighs, which trembled with the strain of trying to break free of the shadow bonds, stopping just before his knees and kissing back up again, running his fingertips lightly over Nuada's quivering muscles.
When he reached Nuada's throat, Eamonn picked up the bottle again and took another swallow, then sipped from the bottle, not swallowing this time. He set it down. Braced himself on his elbows on either side of Nuada's shoulders. Eamonn's body lay heavy and implacable, the exposed skin suddenly blisteringly hot, crushing the air in his lungs again. The silver eyes roved over Nuada's face as he leaned down, slowly, so slowly, and touched his brow to the prince's.
Would you like a taste? Eamonn's voice in his head, violating, soft as a spread of mold. It isn't poisonous, my white flower.
"No," Nuada wheezed, trying to shake his head. His voice grated in his throat. "Stop."
I will never, ever stop. Do you understand? You will never be free of me. I will never let either of you go. Never. Besides, you agreed, sweet prince. Now behave yourself. Eamonn brushed his nose against Nuada's, a slow little gesture that should have been sweet, romantic, but made bile flood the back of his throat. Do not fight me, or I'll leave you here and go fuck our wife senseless. Do you understand?
Nuada swallowed hard. Stared into those damnable eyes. "Yes."
Eamonn smiled and kissed him. Nuada clamped his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut. A low growl rumbled in the other Elf's throat.
I said do not fight me. Remember our bargain. Open your eyes and kiss me back.
Oh, gods. Oh, gods, he couldn't. He couldn't do it. But then the shadows began to stroke him again, not just between his legs but along his ribs, over the exposed parts of his chest, his neck. Where the trickles of that strange drink had touched him, needles of red-hot pleasure stabbed into him and he burned. But he would not, he would not open his mouth, he would not.
Then Eamonn dug his nails into Nuada's chest, drawing tiny bubbles of golden blood, before clamping his nipple between one sharp thumbnail and the nail of his index finger, pinching hard enough to leave a bruise and cutting shallow slices in the delicate skin. Nuada gasped in pain and Eamonn's tongue plunged into his mouth, searching, hungry. Nuada tasted whatever had been in his mouth, a sickly sweet taste that stung his lips, the inside of his mouth, his tongue. A few trickles of that last mouthful dripped down his chin and slipped down his throat and Eamonn's mouth was hot and ravenous against his, tasting, devouring. Pain throbbed through Nuada's chest as a few tiny rivulets of blood spilled across his skin, pain scorched him from the pit of his stomach, scored white-hot furrows along his spine.
Oh, Nuada, Eamonn moaned into his mind, this is what I want. Is it so very much? Give me this and I'll give you such pleasure. Kiss me. Kiss me like this, and he was, he couldn't help it as that foully sweet potion soaked into his flesh. His mind clouded, his body ached, and it was just like in the cottage, just like before, a haze of cancerous, agonizing need. Their mouths crushed together, tongues tangling, teeth scraping lips and leaving bruises. When the shadows released their hold on his wrists, Nuada's hands came up and his fingers surged into Eamonn's silky black hair as the dark Elf drugged him with a searing, wicked hot kiss that threatened to flay him alive. He couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel, feel, feel. Everything was pain, everything was fire, he was burning, dying, but Eamonn's mouth was cool, sweet, soothing.
Nuada moaned as Eamonn's tongue thrust deep, as his teeth nipped and his lips caressed. He couldn't remember why he hated this, why the thought had once made him vomit, why he wanted to gut this man, this monster, why anything. He simply needed. Craved. He remembered craving once. Hungering. Remembered the agony of a need that had been sated by this man and one other but she wasn't here and he wanted, needed, gods it hurt so badly he thought his sanity would shatter. Eamonn was black flame and he was a helpless moth; Eamonn was a shark and he kissed Nuada as if the prince were chum, bloody and raw in the water.
My sweet prince, Eamonn breathed into his skull, hands sliding along his damp, bloody chest and along his bruised neck, into his hair. I'll make it all better. Is that what you want? Do you want me to make it better?
Yes, Nuada gasped as Eamonn's teeth sank into his bottom lip. He tasted his own blood, quicksilver sweet in his raw mouth. Please. It hurts. Make it stop. Couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only suffer.
Do you want me? Say you want me, Nuada. Do you want me?
Yes…please…make it stop, please. He only wanted the fire to stop, wanted the pain to go away, wanted to sate this vicious need. He was burning, burning, the fire turning him to bone-char and ash.
Say it out loud, Eamonn commanded, devouring his mouth, ripping the air from his lungs, swallowing every groan of pain. He broke the kiss and hissed, "Say you want me, Nuada. Say it and I'll make the pain stop."
"I…" He shouldn't, a very distant part of him thought, there was a reason he should not but gods, he was going to go mad, he was going to die, he couldn't bear it. Anything, he would say anything to stop the pain, to make it end. Barely understanding the words dropping from his lips, he gasped, "I want you, Eamonn. Please make it stop. I want you."
Eamonn laughed, low and wicked and triumphant, and kissed him again. Good.
.
Dylan hung up the phone and leaned against the boulder she'd eventually found for a seat, staring out at the crashing surf. Petra was going to be a problem. All her family was, really. She was married. She was pregnant. And none of them knew except John. Eventually she was going to have to tell them. She couldn't just disappear from their lives. After the December when she'd met Nuada and the three months she'd been missing then, she couldn't just completely vanish. That would've been too cruel.
She laid one hand on her stomach when she felt that butterfly-flicker under her skin. She was five months pregnant. If they'd been entirely human babies, it would've been the same level of development as about three and a half months. She had six months to go—halfling pregnancies with an Elven parent and a human one averaged about eleven months. At least she wasn't an Elf. She'd be pregnant for a year and a day. She couldn't imagine being that uncomfortable for that long.
Six months until her babies were born. Would she and Nuada stay here, on the island, for those six months? Longer? Was it safe? As the months passed, the king and the princess and so many others would want to find them, would want to control what they could of the birth of the crown prince's first- and second-born children.
Dylan's hands curled into fists. Balor and his bitch daughter could stay the hell away from her and Nuada and their babies. They needed to stay far, far away from her and her children or she'd…she would…
She had no idea, but it would be awful. Maybe she'd contact Moundshroud. Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud was an ancient, powerful fae who called her a friend. If she needed his help against Balor and Nuala and for whatever reason Nuada couldn't protect her, Moundshroud could.
A sudden thought popped into her head. She'd have to discuss it with Nuada, but…what if she asked Moundshroud to be the babies' godfather? How much more likely would Balor be to leave them alone? Something to think about.
Shivers whispered up and down her spine as the chilly sea spray sprinkled her legs. Ugh, she hated the cold usually. Especially early morning cold. There was something dead and empty and crypt-like about it. Sliding off her rock, she hurried back toward the fire, picking up several pieces of driftwood along the way. She built up the fire a bit when she got back to where Nuada lay sleeping on his belly, one arm stretched over his head, the other draped behind his back. Dylan shook her head as she kicked off her shoes and slipped back under the spell-warmed cloak. He slept in the strangest positions sometimes.
Her icy toes barely brushed his ankle as she settled in. It was enough. The body beside her heaved up. Dylan squeaked. Hard, straining muscle hit her in the shoulder, knocking her off-balance so she flopped onto her back on the sand. Moon-whiteness and shadow blocked out the stars overhead and some of the fire's glow. Implacable, almost bruising hands gripped her wrists, pinning them on either side of her head. A hot weight settled against her and she realized he was fully erect, grinding against her pelvis. Above her, Nuada growled, low and feral and not at all human.
"N-Nuada?" She quavered. He'd never reacted to her like this before. Was he awake? Dreaming? Caught in a flashback? The fingers digging into her wrists tried to drag her into a flashback, into memories of Eamonn pinning her to her bed, forcing himself into her, but she bit her tongue and forced her gaze to fix on the glazed, scarlet eyes glaring down at her with insane rage. "Nuada! Nuada, it's me." And in his mind, she breathed, Nuada, my love, please. Please, my love-
"Éist suas," he snarled. Shut up. She jerked her head back from him, almost straining a muscle in her neck. He'd never spoken to her before with such hatred. Not even in the sanctuary when they'd first met. He slammed his pelvis against hers and she gasped at the discomfort just beginning to approach pain. "Is this what you want? Is it?"
For the first time since that fortnight in hell, Dylan felt a twinge of fear flutter in her chest. Fear ofNuada. She'd never feared him before, but…but this wasn't him. This was…she had no idea what this was. "Nuada-"
His breath was hot on her face when he snarled, voice low and full of loathing, "Want me to fuck you again, you sack of filth? Is that what you want? Bastard…I'll kill you."
"Nuada!" He didn't talk like that. He didn't say things like that, ever, especially not to her. This wasn't him. Was this…was she dreaming? Was this her nightmare? Slip into bed with Nuada, only to hear him snarling Eamonn's vile words?
Eamonn…was he dreaming of Eamonn?
"Nuada, wake up! Wake up, please!" She couldn't keep the panic out of her voice, or the tears. "Please, please, wake up! You're scaring me!"
The growling stopped. The grip gentled. Nuada pulled back a little, blinking. He shook his head as if to clear it. His spidersilk hair tickled her cheeks and stuck, glued to her skin by the tears spilling down her face. Very slowly, Nuada laid a hand against her cheek. His fingertips touched the teardrops on her skin.
"Dylan?" He whispered.
She hated herself for the tears, for the fear, for the quaver in her voice when she begged, "Please…please don't, Nuada." She didn't even know what she was asking him not to do. "Please don't, please."
He flinched. Drew a shuddering breath. "Oh, gods…" He let go of her wrists and fell onto his side, shaking. "Oh, gods, Dylan, I'm so sorry. Are you all right, little witch?"
With a sob, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed close to him. He wrapped his arms about her. Pressed his face into her hair. "I…I was asleep, I was having a nightmare, I…I didn't mean to hurt you. Gods, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you all right? By the Fates, I never meant to hurt you, forgive me, are you all ri-"
"You didn't hurt me," she sniffled. "You just scared me to death. I'm not hurt."
He pressed fervent kisses into her hair, to her forehead. "Thank the Fates. I thought…oh, little one, I'm so sorry. I was trapped in a nightmare, I would never hurt you on purpose, Dylan. I'm sorry. I couldn't seem to wake up. Even when you called for me, I heard you, but my mind was trapped in sleep, in the dream. Are you all right?" He pulled back so he could look into her face. He kissed her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her lips, murmuring against her skin, "I'm sorry, I am so sorry, little witch. It will never happen again. Forgive me, I am so sorry."
There were tears on his cheeks, too, she realized. Only a few, but they glimmered in the firelight. She touched his cheek. Traced the royal scar with fingertips that trembled. "I'm okay. But you're not." After a moment, he shook his head slowly. "What kind of nightmare would make you act like that? You sounded so…angry. When you talked to me, it was like you were talking to…" She stopped abruptly. Stared up at him.
I fucked your prince…
Want me to fuck you again, you sack of filth? Is that what you want? Bastard…I'll kill you…
Stay away from her! I'll kill you if you touch her! I'll kill you, Eamonn! I'll gut you with my bare hands if you touch her! Eamonn! Eamonn!
"Dylan?"
She sat up, hugging herself. When Nuada sat up too, she folded herself against him. Clutched at his bare arm. In a voice eerie in its tranquility, she said, "You were talking to him, weren't you? Dreaming about him."
Nuada pressed his face into her hair again. He shuddered. His voice was empty as a deserted tomb when he rasped, "Yes."
"Was it…bad?"
Want me to fuck you again, you sack of filth? But Nuada didn't say those things, those were human words, or some of them. He wouldn't use them. It didn't make sense. What kind of nightmare would drag something so cruel and vicious out of him?
His indrawn breath was almost a sob. "Gods, Dylan, it…it was so…" His grip on her tightened fractionally. "He…he was…" Nuada swore, then swallowed audibly. "I thought it would never end. It felt like an eternity of him using me, hurting me, taunting me. Everything was fire and flesh. It was…agony. Worse than the last time. So much worse."
The last time, just before they'd left Findias, when he'd fallen asleep packing their things because he was so very tired. When she'd woken him up with a gentle hand on his shoulder, he'd looked at her in her half-open sleeping shift and it had seemed like he'd been drugged with the Tears again. He'd grabbed her, dragged her onto his lap, kissing her, caressing her, and then he'd spent hours running from the nightmare by making love to her there on the floor. They'd left the city only after he'd finally run out of steam.
A random thought flitted through her mind: what had the maids thought when they'd come to clean the prince's suite after they'd left? She suppressed the hysterical laugh that tried to bubble up in her throat. Pressed her face into Nuada's chest. He hissed and jerked back. Her head shot up.
"What's wrong?"
"I…that hurt," he said, sounding bewildered. "Yet you barely touched me."
Frowning, Dylan grabbed her phone. "Hold still." A few swipes of her fingers turned on the flashlight app and she aimed the thin beam at Nuada's bare chest. Her eyebrows shot up and she whispered, "What on earth? You're hurt."
"What?" He looked down at the patch of flesh she pointed to. Dylan made a point not to touch him there again. There were five small, crescent-shaped bruises, so dark they were almost black, in a wide semi-circle on his right pectoral muscle, and a black bruise the size of a dime on the purple-gray nipple. Nuada stared at the marks, then reached up to cover the spot with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut. "Impossible."
"What?" Dylan asked. He didn't speak. A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Nuada, what? What is it?"
He blew out a long breath. "In my nightmare…he demanded that I kiss him. I would not…would not open my mouth to him, so he cut me with his nails, just there. And now I bear bruises where he hurt me."
Dylan's own hand crept up to cover the black bruises like imprints of teeth on her breast and collar bone. She'd woken with bruises in Findias but no marks in the meadow after that horrible nightmare and she'd had no nightmare last night. Nuada had had nightmares, but no bruises until now. What was going on?
Softly, as if speaking the words might make them true, she said, "In my nightmares…sometimes he talks about how he cursed us when we killed him. Do you think…do you think he did? What if we're…I don't know, being haunted by his ghost or something?"
Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't a ghost. Ghosts didn't have the power to directly harm the living. Neither did demons—at least the kind you could dispel with prayer or an exorcist. Sure, a ghost or a devil could possess a person, but whatever harm they did would heal instantly. That was how you got those stories of possessed children with spinning heads but no kids dead from shattered spines. And if it had been a ghost or something before the bruises had started to appear, it would have fled from her own divine authority. She'd kicked out plenty of devils in her time; it was fairly common for members of the Church. That…was not this.
Nuada shook his head. "It is no spirit. And he could not have cursed both of us. I am the crown prince of my kingdom; he was a minor noble. In fact, he could not have even cursed you. When we slew him, you already carried our babes. Their blood in your veins would protect you."
"Then what's going on?" She cried, feeling tears threaten. Not a curse from their dead enemy, not a ghost, not a devil, so what was it? "Are we…sleep-hurting ourselves somehow? What?" A tear spilled down her cheek and she felt like an idiot. Another joined the first, and another, and then she was sobbing into her hands, rocking back and forth. "What's happening? Why won't it stop?"
Nuada gathered her up and pressed her face to his chest, heedless of the throb of pain from the bruises. He stroked her hair and rocked her, kissing her forehead, shushing her gently.
"We will discover these things together, little love," he murmured while she wept into his chest. "Hush now. Hush. It's all right. So long as we are together, we will be all right. We will see this through. Shhh. Shhh. I'm all right, Dylan. Truly. Everything will be well in the end. There, now. It is all right. Everything is all right."
But it wasn't, and they both knew it.
.
Wink Ironfist arrived on the island of Renvyle at midday, the mortal princess's brownie on his shoulder and a letter tucked into his belt-pouch. He'd taken great care to leave the city of Findias without being seen, exchanging a quick tryst in the woods with a hamadryad for her special brand of tree-magic to get them through the countryside quickly without anyone paying them the slightest attention, no matter how strong their power or how keen their interest. It was a tree-spirit's gift. The famous silver cave troll had then paid pleasure to a selkie widow for passage across the small bit of sea between the coast and the island so they wouldn't have to risk the ferry.
Unlike Prince Nuada and his bride, Wink had not had a Welsh fae king's chariot at his disposal. He'd used what tools he had. No doubt the brownie's companionship—and the command from his human mistress to return to her side quickly and without being seen by any enemies, including the king—had helped as well.
Brownies and other household sprites could be commanded by fae monarchs in direct contravention to their master or mistress's commands…but it required effort from the monarch, and that monarch had to be able to catch the brownie first. Dylan had ordered the wee sprite to stay away from the king and avoid his notice. Her command had bolstered the brownie's magic so Balor couldn't have pierced his glamour to command him even if the brownie had flicked him in his royal nose.
The girl was clever, Wink had to give her that. And she'd been good for the prince in the wake of all of…this. She'd stood her ground against Balor the Coward in Nuada's defense. She'd tried to save the prince from that dog that had dared call himself fae. And while Nuada seemed to still feel some shame over the babes she carried, Wink had the sense the girl wasn't some featherhead who had no idea the position she was in. Nuada would not have married a featherhead, babes or not. He'd have found some other way to shield her and provide for his blood.
The massive cave troll stopped in the entry hall of the Renvyle estate and looked around. Gods of hammer, stone, and crystal, he hadn't been in this place since Nuada was a boy. Not since the king had packed up his children and fled the place where they'd been born. The golden stone walls and fawn-colored furniture in the entry hall made him feel both nostalgic and out of place. Unlike his prince, Wink preferred the cold gray stone of Findias. It reminded him of his own childhood home. But the entry hall seemed almost to echo with the sounds of long-ago conversations between a shadowed Elven princeling and the troll that guarded his back.
"Many fond memories?" The brownie asked softly.
Wink shook his head. "Not fond, exactly." He had met Nuada as a little boy, battered and broken and bleeding into the dirt, when the child's mother had been brutally murdered. He'd killed the humans that had done it. And he'd offered his service to the young prince once the boy had regained consciousness for more than ten minutes at a stretch.
"Oh?"
"I was flogged here." Wink didn't quite know what made him confess it, but it was true. He'd been a young troll. Barely into his adulthood. When Nuada had run away as a little boy, only Wink had had the sense to know where he would go first. Only Wink had been able to find him. But Wink hadn't forced the traumatized child back to the haunted Renvyle estate right away. It had been clear to anyone with wits and a soul that the boy needed some time. Wink had given it to him. Two weeks in the forest, protected and sheltered and fed by the troll, and then escorted back when the child was ready to come home and face his father.
Nuada had been lectured and confined to the royal nursery for a month. Wink had been given four-thousand lashes for not returning him immediately. Only being a troll and not an Elf or some other smaller, weaker fae had saved him from death or maiming under the lash.
The brownie didn't ask why he'd been flogged. He only said, "The false king is a right bastard, isn't he?"
Wink snorted in agreement and went in search of his prince, while the brownie used his hearth magic to locate the princess.
Wink found Nuada, lips dark and eyes sunk deep into shadow, face even paler than it had been when last they'd seen each other, behind his desk in his study. A stack of reports sat on the goldenwood desk beside a ledger and a flagon of…
"Is that troll beer?" Wink demanded as he stepped into the room.
Nuada nodded and took a hearty drink, grimacing at the aftertaste of sulfur. "I needed something stronger than whiskey."
"You walk a dangerous road there, my prince," the troll said, and took the reinforced chair Nuada offered him. "See you do not rely too heavily on such tonics."
The prince sighed and set down the report he held, massaging his temples. "I know," he said. "I…had a long night."
"Ah. The princess?" When Nuada shook his head, the troll leaned forward and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I am here, should you need someone else to speak to, or merely to drink with."
Nuada drew a breath that seemed to hurt and nodded. "Thank you, old friend. I know it. I shall be fine. Like as not, I shouldn't try to fulfill my princely duties while drinking that swill." He offered a wan smile. "Dylan sleeps in our sitting room. She seems to be doing well enough here. She loves the sea, as it happens. I may go into the sitting room and join her for some rest."
Wink snorted. "Rest. Is that what the youngsters are calling it these days?"
"I don't know what you mean," Nuada said, but he was smiling for real now. "I said 'rest' and 'rest' is what I meant. I have to let my wife sleep sometime." He sighed then. "I know you've only just come, but I have an assignment for you, if you're willing."
"Of course."
"I need some research done, but I've little enough to go on. Dylan and I…" Nuada hesitated, but when Wink squeezed his shoulder again, he blew out a breath and nodded. "Dylan and I have been having nightmares. Understandable, of course, given…given what has happened to us. But on some occasions we have woken up…injured. Bruised," he hastened to add, "nothing more. Yet we have no idea where such bruises could come from. I thought at first that I might have inflicted some of them by accident when we lay together but further instances disproved that theory. I want to ensure that there is no possible magical cause of these bruises."
Frowning, the troll leaned back in his seat. "Have you reason to believe someone is using magic against you?"
"I do not know what to believe, Wink. For a time, I even suspected my father, but for what purpose? I do not know what is happening, whether anything even is happening. But if there is a threat to me, to Dylan and the babes, I must know." Twining his fingers, Nuada rested his chin on his hands. His eyes were distant cold topaz, tinged with despairing gray. "I know what you will say to this, but…I have no honor left, save what I hold in protecting my wife and our babes. Eamonn raped me of everything that mattered, and all I have left is the three of them. Nothing can hurt them, Wink. I will butcher every last being that stands as a threat to them, even the king. If there is a threat here, I need to know."
Pressing his fist of goblin bronze to his chest, the silver cave troll bowed his head. It wasn't true, of course—Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora was the most honorable man the troll had ever met, and he had lived for more centuries even than the prince. But he also had seen the broken pieces of Nuada's spirit in the wake of what had happened to him and the human girl. Nothing Wink could say would make the prince believe he still held onto his honor.
"As you command, Sire. I am your servant." Lifting his head, Wink added, "She is your wife and the mother of your children. She and those bairns mean the world to me, as well. I hope you know that. I hope you know that when your children are born, I will love them as if they are my own."
Nuada blinked rapidly and looked away. Nodded. "Thank you, Brother."
Wink rose to his feet. "I shall see what I can find out about this problem of nightmares and hurts. Renvyle has a decent enough library; I shall start there. In the meantime, I have brought a letter from Findias, from Crown Prince Bres of Ciocal, that was left on your desk. I thought you would not want the king to find it." He withdrew the missive from his heavy belt-pouch and gave it to his prince. "Try to get some rest. And do not drink that stuff, it isn't meant for willow-slim lily-white Elven princelings."
Nuada waved him off and Wink left for the library, troubled in his heart.
.
Dylan stared at herself in the mirror in the bathroom. She liked this bathroom; she liked every bathroom Nuada had shown her since they'd met, including the bathing room in the sanctuary that had a pool-sized bath carved into the shape of a tree. This bathroom was done up in creamy marble and soft amber and pale green abalone shell. There was something soft and soothing about the colors, something about that room that made her forget the ticking of time passing outside its walls. The huge shower and bath tub were great, too.
But at the moment, she just studied herself in the wall that was a full-length mirror. She'd been about to slip out of her thin robe—it was warmer in the Renvyle manse than in the castle in Findias for some reason—and step into the shower for a bit, to make absolutely sure she and Nuada had washed the salt and sand from her hair that morning. And then she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, so she'd stopped and looked.
The bruises weren't a new sight. She'd seen them the previous night after her first ocean swim and her first shower, and before, in Findias, after the shower where she'd begged Nuada to get her out of that horrible castle, that horrible city because she couldn't stand it anymore. It wasn't the bruises she noticed now, but her stomach.
She was starting to show. Really show. She wasn't huge, she didn't look like she'd stuffed a pillow or a watermelon under her robe. But her belly stuck out just enough that there was no mistaking it. Turning to the side, she pushed her breasts flat with one arm and held the robe out of her way so she could study her profile in the mirror.
She'd known she was pregnant, of course. She'd missed five periods and had a few months of awful morning sickness and of course Nuada's magic sensing the innate magic in their babies. When she looked down, she could see the swell. But knowing wasn't the same as looking at herself in the mirror—something she'd avoided for the last five months, since Nuada had fixed the damage Eamonn had done to her hair—and seeing. It made her feel…she wasn't sure. It wasn't a bad feeling at all. Warm? Reaffirmed? Happy? A little worried? Proud that she'd made it this far?
All of those things. She was all of them.
"We're stronger than we thought, huh?" She whispered, covering her stomach with both hands. "We can do this. We can handle this. The three of us, together."
No, not the three of them. She thought of Nuada. The four of them. They had this. Nuada was right, as long as they were together they would be all right and everything would be okay.
"Thirteen hells, you're beautiful and it's infuriating," Eamonn said from behind her. She whipped around, snatching her robe closed and backing up against the mirror.
He leaned against the marble counter, barefoot and bare-chested in black trews. His mouth…Dylan frowned. He looked like someone had bitten him. Hard. His bottom lip was puffy and she could see the scabbed teethmarks in the flesh. There were scratches on his hips and along his ribs and…was that a hickey on his neck? And another on his chest and another on the other side of his neck.
She couldn't speak. She didn't dare. Eamonn sighed.
"Relax, sweetness. I'm not going to hurt you. I was coming in to check on you and saw you looking…very pretty in that little robe you're wearing. Fire and rain, I detest how beautiful you look sometimes. Human bitch. Sometimes I think you do it to me on purpose. Well, if you're going to play the dirty little slut, I don't suppose you would come give us a little kiss?" He pursed his lips in an exaggerated pucker.
She clamped her lips together and pressed harder against the cool glass.
Eamonn pouted. "Just one kiss? No? Very well. Come here." She didn't move and something darkened in his gaze. "Dylan. Do not make me come after you. Come here and I promise you, you will not be hurt. Make me chase you? I will hurt you for it."
She swallowed hard, but stepped away from the mirror. She kept the thin, silvery-white robe closed tight around her body as she walked slowly toward him, stopping a few feet away. He gave her an exasperated look. She closed the distance until their knees touched. Her head felt fizzy from lack of air and she realized she hadn't taken a breath.
"Be still," he murmured, and tugged her robe open. Dylan couldn't stop the tiny squeak the escaped her as she covered her breasts with her arms. Eamonn rolled his eyes. "I've already seen them, sweetness. Hell's teeth, I've had my hands, my mouth, practically my everything all over them. You're being silly."
But he didn't make her put her arms down. He simply laid his hands on her belly. Beneath her skin, Dylan felt that tiny flicker like wings. An odd look passed over Eamonn's face.
"What…was that?" He murmured. "I…what…" His eyes widened and he looked into her face. "I felt them," he whispered. "Our babes. I felt them." He smoothed his hands over the swell of her belly and sighed. Chuckled. "Well, you all seem to be doing well enough. The sea air seems to have helped dispel your sulks a bit. Good. Be good while I'm not here to mind you, aye, pet?" Pushing off the bathroom counter, he caught her chin between thumb and forefinger and smirked. "Be very good or I'll have to give you a spanking."
He kissed her, a soft, viciously gentle kiss that made her knees tremble and her stomach churn. Dylan waited for the rip of teeth in her lip, the cruel violation of his tongue, his fingers to press bruises into her or snap her bones. He only kissed her slowly, as if that was all he could ever want.
"I miss you already, lover," he breathed against her mouth. "Just one of you is never, ever enough." He kissed her again, a press of warm lips that shouldn't have sent terror singing through her blood…
.
And Dylan bolted upright on the sofa in the sitting room, fully dressed, gasping for air, alone save for the brownie that had just come into the room.