Once Upon a Moonless Dark: A Once Upon a Time Variation

by LA Knight

What if Dylan had never found out about Nuada's so-called trial? What if he remained unrescued? What if a madman didn't intend to kill Nuada until he could seek proper revenge? What if two very special children were weighed in the balance? How would everything change? A variation of the Nuada fic Once Upon a Time, starts at ch10. Updates once a month. Tw: sexual violence, torture.

27. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

Author's Note: sorry for the delay, guys. I got a bitch of a sunburn on my arms at the beginning of March (it left a scar?) and had to keep my arms swaddled in aloe-soaked gauze for almost 3 weeks, hands almost all the way up to my shoulders. Typing like that was suuuper difficult, with me and my mummy arms. Anyway, I'm all better now! But I had to let my Patrons see this chapter before I let you all have it. That's why they're Patrons. Also I almost never get reviews on here so I thought maybe you guys were bored with this.

Hope you enjoy! And check out Silverlance's Blue-Eyed Mortal, they've done some "deleted scenes" for this fic and Once Upon a Time. Love you guys! Enjoy...if that's the right word.

Trigger Warnings: this chapter contains sexual violence, foul language, self-harm, alcoholism, blood, sexual coercion, nonconsensual sexual situations, starving oneself, consensual sex, and depression.

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Once Upon a Moonless Dark

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

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Nuada stared at the envelope for a long moment. A letter from Bres. Did he want to open it? Just thinking of his old friend - former friend - reminded him of the hard fist to the jaw Bres had given him back in Findias, the insults spewing from his lips, the hatred in his sapphire eyes. And Ciaran. Nuada had been friends with Ciaran mac Aengus since they were both young men, and there had been disgust written all over the other man's face when he'd first seen Nuada.

How could he blame them? They didn't - couldn't - understand. Dylan was human, yes, but she was so different, good and loyal and honorable and strong and courageous. He would never have been in a position for the dark Elf out of his nightmares to drag them into that hell if she hadn't been so impossibly fae-like. Before they'd become companions in adversity, they had been friends, though Nuada hadn't quite thought of it that way at the time. And now...how could he not love Dylan with everything left in him? It felt right to love her. It was the only thing that did feel right.

But Bres...one of his oldest friends. He'd never understand that. And even Ciaran, who'd somehow understood that the poison of Branwen's Tears had played a part in all of this, had still sneered at him when Bres had struck him. How many more friends would he lose? Zhenjin? Gunther? Kamaria and her brother Kagiso? How many comrades would turn against him for holding to what remained of his honor?

He ought to open the letter. Only a coward would refuse. Yet surely it was only a repeat of the insults Bres had hurled at him before. In truth, he ought to burn the damn thing and have done. Bres had made himself quite clear, and rightfully condemned Nuada for marrying one of the enemy. If not for what had happened in the cottage, wedding Dylan would've been unthinkable, friend or not. Yes, he would burn it.

The prince snatched up the letter and shoved to his feet. Took a step toward the hearth, where a fire crackled and the scent of lemon drifted up from the bits of dried sweet grass the servants used for kindling. This letter would be another bit of kindling, then another bit of ash, and nothing more.

But he hesitated. Mayhap Bres was not condemning him. What if there was news of some kind? Something he needed to know?

Nuada turned back to his desk and set the letter back down. No, he wouldn't burn it, but he could not bring himself to read it just yet. Perhaps after talking it over with Dylan. Speaking of such things to her often bolstered his tattered courage. For now...what would he do now? He was too restless to work, and far to restless to lie beside Dylan and rest without disturbing her. He could perhaps sweat through his restless energy in the salle, but he didn't want to go off without his wife just yet. What if she had a nightmare? And he was too tired, despite the restlessness, to lay alert spells around her that would bring him running back to her if a dream turned ill.

With a sigh, Nuada went to the fireplace and braced his forearms on the mantle, dropping his brow against his arms. He stared into the dancing flames, letting his thoughts chase themselves around and around like hungry sharks in his skull. He didn't want to think of his nightmare or waking to find a tearful Dylan beneath him while he ground his hips against her, flesh-proud and furious. Shades of Annwn, she'd been cryng when he woke, he'd frightened her so.

I am so sorry, my little one, he murmured in his mind. He wondered if she could hear him in her sleep. My little witch, forgive me. If it happened again, he'd have to do something. Sleep in another room, away from her? Magically seal the doors or some such, so that she couldn't reach him when the nightmares were on him? Drink himself catatonic every night so that if he did have another fell dream, he would be in no shape to offer her harm?

"I do not know what to do, Dylan," he mumbled. "I cannot bear to be parted from you, and you could not bear to be parted from me. To slumber in your arms is a joy and a relief, but...shades, I do not wish to hurt you, mo duinne." Perhaps he could take some potion to help him sleep, to keep him under. But then...if she had nightmares, he would be unable to wake and help her. "Stars curse it all, anyway."

A pair of lean, well-muscled arms wrapped around his waist in a casual embrace and Nuada jerked, back going ramrod straight, as if someone had stabbed an iron spike through his spine. The embrace tightened slightly. Clenching his teeth so hard he feared he might crack some of his back teeth, Nuada scrunched his hands into fists on the mantle while Eamonn fitted his chest against Nuada's back, resting his sharp chin on the prince's shoulder. It was a mockery of an embrace. Nuada did not dare shrug him off or attack him. The same arguments swirled through his mind: it might be illusion, it might be Dylan shrouded in hallucination, it might be a dream, it might be, it might be, it might be…

"You're upset," Eamonn said. His breath was warm and slightly damp against the side of Nuada's neck. It stirred the hairs at his nape and he had to fight a shiver. "About this morning? Did I hurt you?" He gave a quick, tickling lick at Nuada's earlobe. "I'll be more gentle next time, lover."

"Leave me be," the prince said softly, and in his mind, You have had me twice, then thrice more after. Can you not leave me in peace?

I will never have my fill of you, Nuada, Eamonn murmured in his skull. One large hand flattened against his belly, too hot through the silk. Nuada sucked in a breath and the dark Elf nuzzled his neck, almost purring as he slid his hand down past Nuada's hips to slip beneath the hem of his tunic and press a scorching palm against Nuada's groin. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut as that touch, and the memories it conjured, both sent his stomach roiling and blood pooling between his legs, half-rousing him. I can never be sated. I will need you, and her, always. And you will never have enough of either of us. Otherwise why would you be hard already, simply from the touch of my hand? So responsive, sweet prince. But I am not here only for that. You're upset. Why?

"Leave me alone," he snarled. "Do not touch me."

Eamonn's grip around his waist and around his manhood tightened. An involuntary pulse of warmth surged in Nuada's blood. He felt that heated blood rise into his face, adding a golden flush to his cheeks.

No, Eamonn replied softly as he began to slowly stroke him through his trews. I am trying to go gently with you, you ungrateful beast- be quiet, Eamonn snarled when Nuada opened his mouth to roar at him, curse him, drown him in loathing. Be quiet, or I'll bend you over that desk and fuck you quiet. Hmmm? Good. As I was saying, I am trying to be gentle. I sensed your disquiet and came to see if I could help.

I do not want help from you.

Eamonn sighed. The stroking paused for a moment. You wound me yet again, Nuada.

Why are you even here? What do you want? And do not lie to me, Nuada growled, pressing his clenched fists against the marble mantle. Eamonn's warm palm still pressed to his groin, and the slow friction had begun to work on him against his will. You do not care if I am upset. You care about nothing but your own ends.

Is that what you tell yourself to justify your coldness toward me? Eamonn asked, nuzzling his ear with warm, soft lips and hot breath. Nuada swallowed back a vicious oath and forced himself not to shiver at the gentle touch. That I only care about myself? Perhaps that is true, but my sweet prince, if I am to be happy, if I am to live again, I must take care of you and our precious wife.

"There is no spell in your power that can raise the dead," he breathed. His nails pierced the callused flesh of his palms and the first warm wetness of blood seeped between his fingers. "You're dead and devoured and done, traitor. This is no more than a nightmare."

A soft kiss just under his ear, another against the vein in his throat over his hammering pulse, and another at his nape. They were the kisses of a lover, the kisses of someone who knew his body, knew what pleased him. Eamonn nuzzled against his neck and Nuada couldn't stop the revolted shudder this time. The stroking began again, slow and deliberate caresses along the half-hard length of him. The next shudder was a mix of revulsion and sickening desire.

I am no nightmare, my white flower. The sooner you understand that, the easier all of this becomes. Bolder now, moist kisses against the side of his neck, trailing from his ear to his shoulder and back. The scrape of sharp teeth against his pulse made his heart knife sideways in his chest. Nuada was panting for breath now, panting with the need to pick up his lance where it lay on his desk and drive the silver, leaf-shaped blade through Eamonn's chest even as the dark Elf pushed his own heavy arousal against the curve of Nuada's hip. We are cursed with each other, the three of us. We should make the most of it. I offer you no harm.

At that, he couldn't bear it anymore. Nuada wrenched away. The air was cool against the damp skin of his neck. He wiped one hand against where Eamonn had kissed him to erase the feeling of heat and caress. Stared at the dark Elf with eyes the color of human blood as Eamonn sighed and folded his arms across his chest, making no move to hide his blatant desire.

"No harm?" Nuada echoed. "You call what you did 'no harm?' You bastard-"

"I have offered no true harm since you damn well disemboweled me with a dirk while that sulky, selfish, human bitch strangled me with a stars-cursed nightgown," Eamonn snarled, fists bunching. "So I've seduced the pair of you a few times since then. What of it? You were willing enough-"

"We were not-"

"You begged for," Eamonn snapped. "And even when you didn't, your bodies did. I've never seen a pike stand that straight before in my life." He sneered and nodded at Nuada's groin. It was the Tears, mixed with muscle memory and nightmare logic, that had kept him hard, so hard after Eamonn had stopped touching him. His body expected what Eamonn likely intended after this conversation - pleasure, and pain. It was always both. "And our little strumpet, mmm," the dark Elf added, licking his lips. "Every time I rogered her, she was slippery as water weed and keening for me."

Through gritted teeth, the prince snarled, "You broke her finger, you monster." Dylan had told him of that horrible nightmare, of Eamonn raping her on their bed while Nuada sat at the window as if he didn't care that their enemy was hurting her, violating her. Eamonn had demanded Dylan say filthy things while he was inside her and when she hadn't, he'd broken her little finger to force her. "You call that no harm? You call that willing?"

"Aye, I call it willing when the bitch is practically gushing for me," Eamonn snarled. "She can try to lie and say she wasn't but it's still a lie. And the finger wasn't permanent. She disobeyed me, tried to hurt me with falsehoods, to make me jealous. But I'll not be toyed with. She had to be taught a lesson. I did her no lasting hurt."

"The bruises-"

"Bruises heal," Eamonn said. "Besides, our girl likes it a bit rough sometimes. You know that as well as I. Remember how she begged you to force her? She likes the blood and the bruises often enough."

Nuada snarled something obscene and turned his back on the apparition. Yes, Dylan had occasionally asked him to use force, but he'd never drawn blood and he'd never left the sorts of bruises this monster had. A few love bites, a few shadows on her inner thighs from the force of his thrusts, but those had come after she'd kept begging him harder, please, Nuada, harder. Those came when their lovemaking was all teeth and desperate hands, her nails dragging slowly down his back and leaving lines of delicious fire, her legs tight around his hips and Dylan, lithe as a wood-nymph arching beneath him. He shuddered at the memory and Eamonn sneered.

"I've had her that way, too," he said softly. "So soft and sweet and wanton." He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. Groaned. "Ohhh, and isn't she absolutely delectable? Who would have thought a mortal whore could catch both of us by the ballocks and bring us to our knees?"

Nuada pressed his bleeding palms to his desk and did not speak, only ground his teeth until his jaw ached. What was the use of responding? This...phantom or nightmare or curse or whatever it was had him by his oath, and even if he hadn't, the legendary Elven warrior couldn't fight back. Not against this...creature. He could beg, perhaps, but what good would it do?

Warm, callused fingers alighted against the nape of his neck. Smoothed down his back in a slow caress that seemed as if it was attempting to be comforting.

"Things are different now, Nuada. I don't want to be your enemy."

The prince scoffed. "Too late." A living person would have choked on the bitterness in his voice. "You think you can do what you did to me, to her, and then try to take it all back with mere words? You would have murdered us both in the end. Dylan nearly died. She was half-starved, dehydrated, wounded-"

"Would it matter if I apologized?" He demanded. Nuada's teeth snapped shut with an audible click. Wide-eyed, he stared at nothing, for once completely dumbfounded by the words. Apologized? Apologized? But Eamonn shook his head. "I doubt it. My...perspective has changed since you murdered me, Silverlance. The longer I spend in that….emptiness...the more I consider my past actions, and the more I regret them." With a gusty sigh, he dropped into the chair Wink had vacated. The reinforced wooden chair dwarfed the Elf. "I should have accepted my death and let go of life without trying to bind you."

"That's what you regret? Dying?" This was firmer ground now. This was easy enough. He could spar with the apparition all day, so long as it didn't accuse him of being the monster he tried so hard not to be, so long as there were no more attempts to offer false aid. "You had it coming. And what does any man with no spine do but run from death?"

"Oh, I had it coming, did I?" Eamonn's thin lips twisted back into a sneer. "I wasn't the one fucking a human."

"I did not-"

"No," he snarled, "no, you did something worse. You turned your back on your people, your kingdom, your throne, your crown, and fell in love with the whore."

"I wasn't-"

He scoffed. "No? You murdered one of your own people, one of my leman, for her. You courted her for months. Kept her in one of your underground lairs, where no one but your troll has ever gone. I saw the way you handled her more than once. You've loved her since before I confronted you in the mortal tunnels. You were a traitor even then. Abandoning your people to death-"

Nuada brought his aching hands slamming down on his desk. The meaty slaps of flesh on wood silenced Eamonn. When the prince turned, the dark Elf only watched him from his seat.

"If not for you," Nuada said, "I would never have understood what was between the two of us." Eamonn flinched. "I would never have known I loved her. Never have known we were friends, known we were destined for each other. If your servant hadn't been there when I came to see if Dylan had been fulfilling her vow to me, I never would have revealed myself to her. Never would have stepped back into her life. What you condemn me for was wrought by your own hand, wretch."

One raven brow winged upward. "I know," he drawled. "I could just kick myself." His gaze flicked to Nuada's hands. "You're dripping blood on the carpet." Instinctively, Nuada pressed his bleeding palms against his legs, letting his trews absorb the blood. Eamonn muttered something obscene and got to his feet. "Where do you keep the bandages?"

"Go to hell," Nuada snapped, rolling his eyes and moving around his desk to take his seat once more. "I'll accept no help from you."

Silver color flared under Eamonn's skin, turning his pale skin oddly gray. Fists clenched at his sides, the dark Elf strode toward the desk. When Nuada opened his mouth to shout something vicious, Eamonn dared to backhand him hard enough to split his lip. Nuada tasted blood in his mouth. Felt it drip slowly down his chin. He slowly flexed his aching hands, then curled them back into fists, focusing on that to hold back the rage at being struck, being bloodied by this phantom dog. He could not attack, could not fight back. For Dylan's sake.

"You are my hound to command, by your own vow, you pig-headed brat. You gave me your oath." Eamonn grabbed him by the jaw and a tremor shivered through the prince as he fought the urge, the need to punch him in the throat, to thrust his thumbs into the cruel silver eyes. "Whatever I command, you will do. If I tell you to slit the tips of your fingers so I might taste your blood, you will do it. If I tell you to pleasure yourself while I watch, you will do it. If I tell you to press red-hot iron to your flesh, you will do it."

A flick of his tongue against the drip of blood on Nuada's chin from his seeping lower lip. Saliva stung in the wound. "If I tell you to get on your knees and service me like you did this morning, slut, you will drink my seed to the last drop until I'm sated. But I am being very generous just now. I only command you this: you will sit there in that comfortable-looking chair and I will heal your damn hands, do you understand? Do not fight me on this. I command you to do this."

Damn it. He had sworn to obey. He could not fight outright. Drag his feet, try to squirm around a command, yes, but not defy directly. It was physically possible, but if Nuada broke his vow, Eamonn was free to break his, and go back to Dylan's nightmares where Nuada could not protect her from him.

"You-"

"Yes, yes, I'm a son of a bitch, a right bastard, a traitor destined for the deepest pit in the thirteenth hell, put your damn hands on the desk, palm-up."

Reluctantly, fairly vibrating with rage, Nuada obeyed, laying his hands on the golden wood. They were smeared with blood from the bite of his short, uneven nails. He hadn't realized he'd been clenching them that tightly, tight enough to split the flesh. No wonder they ached so. Almost as much as his throbbing mouth.

Eamonn lifted Nuada's left hand, studying the blood. He flicked out his tongue and dragged it across the seeping crescents. Nuada sucked in a breath and shuddered all over. He opened his mouth, tried to speak. Realized he couldn't find any words to snarl or roar. He was rooted to his chair while the dark Elf licked at the blood on Nuada's palm and some color filled his moon-pale cheeks, as if he were some sort of vampire. Then he pressed a soft kiss to the center of the palm. A spear of ice slashed through the center of the Elf's palm, followed by a wash of warmth.

Nuada tried to take his hand back once the warmth faded, certain the healing was finished. Eamonn's long fingers shackled his wrist, holding him still. His pulse hammered against the other man's fingers as Eamonn leaned forward, opened his mouth slowly, and - never taking his cat-slit eyes from Nuada's face - wrapped his lips around Nuada's long middle finger and slid it into his mouth. All at once Nuada could feel the ghost of that mouth on other parts of him. He sucked in a breath with a hiss.

Eamonn sucked the prince's finger deep into his mouth and Nuada couldn't suppress the inane thought that a dead man's lips should not be so soft, nor his mouth so warm. His tongue should not feel like velvet.

"I hate you," Nuada managed to gasp. Eamonn merely chuckled and dragged his tongue along the length of the finger, a promise of what else he might caress with that tongue. "I will never want this."

Then why does your pike stand at such fierce attention just now, my sweet prince? Perhaps some...fond memories? Very slowly, Eamonn drew Nuada's finger from his mouth, lightly scraping the skin with his teeth. Nuada felt that mouth, those teeth, and wanted to cut his own throat so he would't have to feel them anymore. I had fun this morning. You were wonderful. My lovely white flower.

"Begone," Nuada said. But he knew it was pointless. He could not repel this nightmare. Eamonn was going to take him, rape him again. It would hurt, and it would feel sublime. Eamonn would make sure Nuada found release and then leave him to drown in sickness and shame. All he could do to resist was drag his feet and not give into the desire warming in the pit of his belly. Memory was an insidious, powerful poison. "Leave me alone. Leave both of us alone."

"I have to heal your other hand." He took it without asking and lapped at the blood smearing the palm like a cat with cream. But after the kiss, after the flash of ice and fire to heal the small wounds, Eamonn slipped around the desk and knelt with his forearms braced on Nuada's knees, still grasping the prince's hand. His pupils dilated until they almost eclipsed the silver as he sucked on Nuada's finger, humming a low laugh as Nuada squeezed his eyes shut again and turned his head so he would not have to see.

I've seen her do this to you, Eamonn breathed into his mind. Kneel before you like a little slave and take one of your fingers into her mouth. She sucks it with that sweet little mouth, bathes it with that wicked clever tongue. How do you stop yourself from ravishing her like an animal right here on this desk?

He didn't want to think of the way Dylan sometimes would do this, the way she'd watch him with one brow arched in challenge while she gave him a glimpse of everything she might do for him with her mouth once she decided to get around to it. He did not want to think of the way she could hold him on the edge of ecstasy with her tongue, her lips, once the bedroom games truly began, because if he thought of it now, he would-

Eamonn palmed his arousal and Nuada nearly bit through his tongue. He had to endure this. He had to...he had to not care what would happen next. Even though he knew it would be glorious, revolting hell. He had to find a way to endure it without losing his mind, without falling into the fury Dylan has seen this morning. It wasn't safe to let himself feel that rage, that hatred. He could have hurt Dylan when he woke this morning. Only luck had kept her safe from him. He had to…

Gold-kissed ivory eyes landed on the nearly full flagon of troll beer. Stared at it as those clever, devilish fingers moved over him.

"Wait," Nuada whispered.

The dark Elf's fingers stilled. Out of everything the prince had ever told him, wait had not been one of those things. No and stop and I'll kill you with my bare hands, you bastard, but never wait. So Eamonn waited, watching him, head cocked to one side.

Realizing his nightmare had paused for just a moment, Nuada reached for the flagon. Steeling himself, he put the flagon to his lips and guzzled the contents in a series of rapid gulps, trying not to taste the sulfur. On a normal day, he'd have nursed that drink for at least an hour, summoning a page for food at some point to help offset the alcohol. But he wanted to be drunk and he wanted to be drunk now.

He slammed the flagon on the desk and nearly choked on an almost-toxic belch. Eamonn's dark brows lifted nearly to his hairline. Frowning, he picked up the flagon. Sniffed it. The look of amazement and disgust on his face would have been comical if Nuada hadn't been busy trying to keep his belly calm while the alcohol melted into his blood. It took very little troll beer compared to other liquors to intoxicate him. He hadn't been drunk since near the end of his twentieth century. Had never let himself become that intoxicated since an unfortunate incident with a barmaid. But now, he needed the muffling shield of alcohol.

"Drink this, too," Eamonn commanded, setting a glass on his desk. Nuada stared at the dark purple liquid in the crystal vessel. "It's plum wine. I'll not kiss you when you taste like a troll's arse."

What, Nuada wondered, would Eamonn do if he decided to bathe in the stuff before the dark Elf came back the next time? Leave him alone? By rights, he would have to still refrain from going to Dylan, from hurting her, because Nuada wouldn't have broken his word. But aloud he only scoffed, already beginning to feel just the slightest buzz from the potent magical alcohol. "Why not? You force me to kiss you when you taste worse." Eamonn's startled face made him laugh darkly. "But well enough, beast. I'll drink your potions. Did you drug this one?"

"Do you want me to?" It seemed like a genuine question. Nuada blinked at him. "Would that make it easier for you to accept what you truly want?"

Without hesitation, Nuada snatched up the glass and dashed the contents in Eamonn's face. He watched, forcing himself to smirk, as the dark Elf squeezed his eyes shut and swiped a hand over his face, wiping away some of the dark, sweet wine. Sucking a few drops from one finger, he looked up at Nuada from beneath his dark brows and bared his teeth in something too feral to be a smile.

"Not nice, lover," he growled. In a movement too quick even for the prince to see, Eamonn lunged up and dropped onto Nuada's lap, straddling his legs and pinning him in place, one hand at his throat. Silver and bronze eyes locked and both men bared their teeth. "Not nice at all."

"I. Do. Not. Want. You." Each word was bitten off as if Nuada tasted something foul.

Eamonn smiled and kissed him.

He expected ravenous teeth, a tongue driving into his mouth, hard lips, his breath sucked from his mouth as Eamonn sought to dominate him. Instead it was soft, a viciously gentle exploration of his lips, strokes of warm silk against his mouth, a few laps of the disgustingly warm tongue. Eamonn sucked Nuada's split lower lip into his mouth, between his teeth. Nuada braced for pain but there was only the slow sucking and the stroke of tongue.

Caught off-guard, Nuada tried to shake his head, tried to push Eamonn away, but that mouth, though careful, was implacable. It demanded a response. Eamonn's teeth sank gently into Nuada's lower lip, a soft bite, and tugged almost playfully. A few drops of the wine still on his lips slipped into Nuada's mouth. He tasted plums and honey and knew he would never eat another plum again.

"If I am nice to you, will you be nice to me?" Eamonn breathed against his mouth. "If I give you potions and poisons and sweet, sweet wine to ease your conscience, will you be good for me, my love?"

Nuada looked away. "Don't." My love. Eamonn had called him that this morning. It made him ill to think of it. And how did the dark Elf let such lies drop from his lips despite being fae?

With a sigh, the dark Elf conjured a damp, black towel from nowhere and wiped the wine from his face and neck. Squeezed it from the hair framing his pale face. Another glass thunked onto the desk, a bit larger, filled with plum wine. This wine looked a bit thicker, more syrupy, and slightly less dark, as if it had been mixed with some light-colored fluid. Eamonn lifted the glass and took a mouthful. Then he tilted Nuada's chin, forcing the golden gaze to meet his.

Do not fight me, Eamonn breathed, and kissed him again. He hated himself, loathed them both, but when his attacker ordered him to part his lips, Nuada obeyed. Eamonn let the sweet wine spill into Nuada's mouth, and he drank. It tasted of plums and sweetly poisoned magic and desire and Eamonn. One mouthful at a time, kiss by kiss, Eamonn drugged him with the poisoned wine. Better this, better the poison and the alcohol, than to be aware and despairing when his enemy violated him again.

It took less than half an hour for the wine and the troll beer and whatever potion was in the wine to warm in Nuada's belly, to begin fuzzing his thoughts. The world grew blurred at the edges and when Eamonn kissed him again, warm lips and seeking tongue, Nuada opened his mouth, uncaring. What did it matter? Nothing mattered. If he didn't fight, it wouldn't hurt much. If he surrendered, it would hurt scarcely at all. And Dylan would be safe, because there would be no anger, no rage, no pain. Everything was all right because nothing mattered.

Eamonn moaned, cupping his face between surprisingly careful hands. He pressed his mouth to Nuada's. Sighed when Nuada didn't turn his head, didn't snarl obscenities at him. Instead, the drunk and drugged prince kissed him back.

It was not the sort of kiss he would have shared with Dylan. It held a dull sort of desire, but no love. The sort of kiss one might share with a paid woman on a cold night after a bit too much ale. Eamonn didn't seem to notice. He only reveled in the surrender. Nuada forced his fogged brain not to care about anything but what his body told him felt good. He would think of nothing else but the demands of his sluggish body until this was over.

You taste so good, Eamonn whispered. I love how you taste.

Nuada said nothing.

At last, the dark Elf rose to his feet and held out a hand to the prince. Nuada waved the hand away. Stood up. The room tipped a bit. He blinked hard and shook his head. Ah, gods, a mistake. When he staggered, nearly went down, Eamonn's arm came around him. Held him up so he could look into Nuada's face.

"Is this truly what you need so you will stop fighting what is between the three of us?" Eamonn asked.

Nuada still had enough of himself left to snarl. "There is nothing between the three of us. What happens next is between you and I. No other. Do not bring my wife into this."

"Our wife- oh, shut up, Silverlance," he said with a smile and a roll of his eyes. "She's our wife and you know it. As the humans say, deal with it. But if you want me to yourself today, well enough. I shall happily oblige you, my pet. I like my sluts greedy for me."

The next kiss was long and slow and deep. Nuada didn't fight. It didn't matter. As long as Dylan was safe, as long as the alcohol numbed his brain, as long as the venom in the wine heated his blood so that there would be no pain, none of it mattered. And when Eamonn slid his free hand down to glide between Nuada's legs, stroking him back to full hardness, Nuada didn't hold back the groan of pleasure.

"I hate you," he mumbled into the kiss. It was true. Even drunk, he knew it was true.

Eamonn chuckled and said, "I despise you, as well. Both of you. Sometimes when I'm inside you, I want to wrap my hands around that handsome throat and watch the life fade from your eyes. But I still want you. Do you want me? No lies, now."

Nuada blinked at him. Sighed and dropped his swimming head to Eamonn's shoulder. The venom was a hot weight in his guts, a delicious heat creeping along his spine and settling at his groin. Want him? His body did. The sick, twisted legacy of the Tears still at work, making him want the monster that had nearly killed him. But though royal blood allowed him to lie, he didn't have the patience for it. It didn't matter anymore.

"Yes, damn you." The confession was soft and tired. "I hate you and my body wants the pleasure of what you do to me. You poisoned me with that potion again; what did you think the result would be?" The prince remembered, suddenly, that one reason he'd stopped letting himself drink heavily was because his tongue would sometimes run away from him. Ah, well, no matter. He would let nothing matter.

He shuddered as Eamonn kissed his temple and began leading him toward the study door. "You did this to me," he mumbled. "Trained me like...like some dog. Taught me to expect release from you." Another low, dark chuckle shivered over him like a touch. "Bastard. It's just...just physical." The door opened without being touched. There was no one in the sitting room. That didn't seem right, but he couldn't remember why. "I hate when you touch me."

"Ohhh, Nuada," Eamonn laughed as they stumbled together to the long sofa in front of the fire. The dark Elf dropped him to the sofa and with a small nudge, tipped him onto his back. "You love when I touch you. Here," and his smile was pure predator, "I'll prove it to you."

Nuada closed his eyes as those demon hands slid under his tunic and shirt. Whatever happened next, he wouldn't care. He didn't care. As long as Dylan was safe and it didn't hurt, he. Would. Not. Care.

This time, he didn't fight when Eamonn raped him. Not the first time, or the second, or the third, or the times after when he lost count, mind fogged by alcohol and poison and that hated pleasure. There was no pain. And if a single tear rolled from the corner of his eye over his skin to mingle with his sweat, Eamonn didn't comment on it.

.

Dylan didn't want to bother Nuada if he was working, but it was getting late. The sun had already begun to set, turning the sea to fire and blood. Her husband hadn't come out of his study. She knew that a lot of things had been put on hold in Nuada's life since the king had flogged him and everything had spiraled out of control. Prince things, relevant to ruling the kingdom - or whatever parts of it he was responsible for. She also knew if she was going to be a good princess, she'd have to learn how to do that sort of thing, too.

But it was so late. Had he eaten at all today since coming back from the beach? Becan didn't think so, and Dylan didn't have the temerity to summon any servants and ask them. So she was going to interrupt.

When she knocked on the study door, she heard a snarl and then a harsh, "Go. Away."

Dylan blinked and pushed the door open, poking her head inside. "Nuada, it's me. Are you okay? I was starting to worry, so...I…" She trailed off, eyes widening as she took in the scene before her.

Shards of pottery sprinkled the floor, and a few drops of something that smelled vaguely of sulfur sprinkled the surrounding carpet. Chunks of crystal coated in some transparent purple residue mingled with the crockery. Nuada stood behind his desk, hands splayed and palms flat to the wood, his shoulders hunched. He wore no shirt. The bruises she'd seen on his chest that morning stood out darkly against his moonbeam skin. He'd lost weight, she realized suddenly. Somehow she hadn't noticed before.

His eyes blazed, ivory kissed with scarlet. Even through his dark trews, she could see the evidence of his arousal.

"Get. Out." He spat each word like a curse.

She stared at him. "No."

His nostrils flared and his fingers curled against the wood. He bared his teeth at her. But unlike this morning, his eyes weren't glazed in sleep. He wasn't dreaming or sleepwalking or whatever else. He was awake, and fully cognizant. He was just...very angry and very turned on. She couldn't leave him like this. Not because of the horny part, but because whatever had made him so impossibly enraged - likely a nightmare about him - was eating at him and she didn't feel okay about leaving him to deal with it alone.

"I want you out of this room," he snarled softly, teeth bared like a feral animal. "I do not trust myself with you right now."

She lifted her chin. "That's ridiculous. I trust you." But she jumped when he slammed his hands against the desk.

"Get out!"

Annoyed that she'd jumped and having no idea what else to do, she stamped her foot. "No!"

It was the right thing to do. Nuada stared at her for a moment, then turned his head away, but she saw his lips twitch before he pressed them into a dark slash across his face. A small sign of humor was better than nothing. She folded her arms and leaned against the door until it clicked shut at her back.

"You had a nightmare." It wasn't a question, so he didn't give her an answer. His expression was answer enough. "Okay. The same nightmare as this morning?" A quick shake of his head. "Worse?"

He flicked his eyes at her, then away. Sighed. The scarlet dusting of his ivory eyes began to fade toward bronze. That was good. Scarlet meant insane rage. Bronze just meant angry. The ivory told her he was still aroused, though. If it was because of the nightmare, that likely made him angrier. She ran a hand through her hair and tried to think. This morning, she'd panicked. She couldn't panick again.

"Yes," he said flatly, finally.

Yes, it had been worse? Geez. Remembering his rage, his horror from that morning, Dylan fought to keep her face carefully, deliberately neutral. If he thought she was too distressed by this information, he'd clam up. He wouldn't tell her a thing.

"Are you hurt?" She asked carefully. She didn't see any fresh bruises, no scratches or bites. Still, she asked, just in case.

Nuada shook his head, then frowned. Glanced at his palms. "A few small bruises," he confessed. "Nothing painful. It does not matter."

The silence between them stretched until it was just shy of uncomfortable. For the first time in months, Nuada felt far away from her. She didn't know what to say to bring him back to her. They were supposed to tell each other everything. Sometimes he held back, out of misplaced shame or self-loathing, but she usually knew what to say to help him open up. For some reason, though, after the odd micro-dream where Eamonn had kissed her in the bathroom and said he missed her, she was off-balance.

"Nuada…" Dylan trailed off, biting her lip. Cleared her throat. "How was the dream worse? Can you tell me?"

He stared at nothing, gray creeping into his eyes, that xanthous gray of despair. Slowly he sank back into his chair. Still stared off into space. His throat worked convulsively as he swallowed, swallowed again. Dylan braced for him to be sick. But he only closed his eyes and dropped his head back against his chair.

"It was just like in the cottage, but you were not there," he said simply. As if that was all he needed to say to explain. It was. Just like in the cottage. Rape where the rapist made the victim crave touch, heat, flesh. Gancanaugh venom turning an innocent person into a helpless slave to the monster raping them, making them beg for it, need it, mindless with the agony of impossibly vicious arousal. And in the nightmare, it had only been Nuada and the dark Elf.

Dylan swallowed. "Do you...want me to help you?" Because she knew what it was like to wake from those hideous dreams so painfully aroused it felt like you might die. And he wouldn't hurt her. It usually helped him, both of them, to make love after a nightmare.

But Nuada shook his head. "I could not...defile you that way."

She frowned. Defile? "Nuada-"

"He kept asking me if I wanted him to bring you to us," he confessed in a rush. His expression tangled into shadows and furrowed brows and the flash of bared teeth and dark lips. "He kept saying...saying how he knew how badly I wanted...wanted to…" He grimaced, and spat the words, "fuck you. How it would be so easy to bring you to us, for the three of us to be together, 'enjoying' each other."

Without warning, his fist slammed down on the desk. The inkwell rattled. Dylan started in surprise at the sudden noise. Took a small step forward. Nuada didn't seem to notice.

"He made me say things. That I…" His hands trembled when he covered his face with them, scrubbed his palms over his face. "Human words. Vile things. Mortal profanities. Obscene things. Again and again, he said, 'Use the words I like. Tell me, slut.'"

The prince didn't notice as Dylan crossed the room, too wrapped up in his memory. He jumped as if she'd jabbed him with a pin when she set her hands on his shoulders. He looked up at her, eyes flashing between xanthous gray and scarlet-kissed ivory. His chin trembled. She slid her arms around him and he buried his face between her breasts. He did not weep, but she felt him shudder.

He made me think of you when he...he would say things, ask me things, make me say things, and he kept asking if I was sure I didn't want him to fetch you, to bring you to us. I kept saying no, no, but he kept asking and...shades of Annwn, Dylan, I did want you. I ached to have you under me, to lose myself in your body while he took me. I'm sorry, I am so sorry-

"Shhh." Gently she stroked his hair. "You don't need to be sorry. It's the Tears, and the memories, and what's between us. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Shhh, shhh. This is not a betrayal, Nuada. It's not."

It feels like one. I am sorry, little witch. He kept asking me...asking me if I wanted to...to fuck you and I tried to say no, I tried to make him stop talking about you, but he kept asking. And I wanted you so badly, everything was burning, so I said yes. Forgive me, forgive me.

"Shhh, shhh. It's okay. We're okay." She pressed her lips to the top of his head. "Shhh. It's okay, my love."

I thought...in the dream, I thought to get drunk, so drunk I didn't care what he did to me, how many times he raped me. But I was never quite drunk enough. And when I woke up, I...there had been a flagon of troll beer on my desk, nearly full, before. In the nightmare, I drained it dry. When I awoke, it was empty. And there were two wine glasses beside the flagon. He had set them there in my dream. I do not know where they came from, Dylan!

That explained the broken glass, she thought. He'd have hurled them away the minute he understood what they were.

"Okay," she whispered aloud, still stroking his hair. But she knew he felt her heart thudding hard, felt her own unease reverberating through their linked minds. "Okay. Thank you for trusting me. We'll figure it out. It's all right. We are going to figure this out, I promise."

Somehow.

.

Dylan didn't dream of Eamonn that night, or the night after. She and Nuada ate their suppers on the beach beside a roaring driftwood fire, and she slept out under the stars, and woke in the mornings to eat breakfast on the beach, then go back inside for showers. Separate showers. For some reason, without Nuada under the pounding spray with her, the water felt cold no matter how high the actual heat.

Nuada dealt with princely paperwork as the days passed. Dylan napped, because swimming in the ocean - refreshing and invigorating as it was - ended up leaving her pleasantly sleepy afterward, and napping was what pregnant people did as often as not anyway.

When she wasn't napping, she was reading; Becan would bring her books on the history and culture of Bethmoora, as well as various treatise on death curses and royal magic. Dylan didn't exactly hide that last leg of her research from Nuada, but she didn't volunteer the information, either. He let her read in silence and solitude, and asked no questions. He seemed too exhausted for questions.

Every afternoon just as the sun was beginning to touch the sea, Wink would stop in to say hello to her before going into Nuada's study. Every afternoon, he brought with him a random bottle of something to drink, which he left with her prince. It was never the same thing, but Dylan had a feeling it was liquor of whatever type was easiest to hand that day.

Her prince stopped sleeping beside her on the beach, staying awake all night and preferring to sleep in his study come the morning. When she went in to take his boots off and drape a blanket over him, slide a pillow under his head and put his feet up, she often smelled alcohol on his breath. The bottle Wink had brought the day before would usually stand empty on the desk. And even then, Nuada slept for a handful of hours at most.

This went on for a month. For a month, Nuada drank himself to sleep every morning and sat vigil over her every night. For a month, she had no nightmares of the dark Elf or even of her childhood in the institution. Instead, her dreams were filled with sitting on the beach watching the moon rise over the sea, shielded from the chill by the gauzy white cloths of an ivory pavilion that didn't block her view. Every night, the same pavilion, the same spot on the beach, but black embroidery began to creep up the panels of fabric from the bottom after the first night. The obsidian threads twisted into starry patterns and leaves, rising higher every time she fell asleep. It felt like a way of marking time.

But there were no monsters, no dark Elves, no childhood enemies. Only rest and peace. For a month, Dylan woke each morning and didn't have to run to throw up while fear churned in her stomach and revulsion wrenched her guts.

But Nuada turned grayer and grayer, the shadows around his eyes and mouth darker and darker. He lost weight. Slept little and ate less, and only ate at all because she asked him to. They stopped sleeping together, in any capacity. He stopped touching her almost completely, even for an embrace or a true kiss. She felt the loss of his arms, his warmth, his comfort like a blow. But he was so tired, so worn. It felt selfish to complain about missing him holding her at night when he could barely sleep at all.

He never drank in her presence but when he woke every afternoon and came to check on her, to give her a perfunctory kiss on the top of her head before heading off to bathe, he looked unwell. He never lost his temper with her, never snarled or shouted, which she would've expected because of the drinking. Instead he seemed...resigned. As if he were dying slowly, inch by inch, and had decided fighting it was pointless.

She stopped napping in bed, preferring the sofa. It felt less empty without Nuada beside her. Even though her stomach had stopped rebelling every morning, Dylan's appetite waned as her thoughts twisted and turned in her head. Worry for Nuada coiled inside her.

"My lady," Becan said one morning. "You must eat."

Dylan bit back a sigh. "I'm not very hungry."

The brownie snapped his fingers and a tray plunked down on the low table in front of the sofa. On it was a plate of lightly buttered toast, some cottage cheese, a few small bunches of green grapes, and a cup of honeyed, salted milk, like Nuada had conjured for her in the Royal Forest weeks ago. All of it in small portions, all of it light fare that wouldn't leave her stomach feeling leaden. Beside the plate was a small stack of books.

Becan folded his arms across his chest and gave her A Look. The corner of her mouth tugged up into a wan smile. She picked up a piece of toast and bit off one corner. The brownie smiled at her, as if she were a child who'd done exceptionally well on a pop quiz.

"Should you need me, my lady, I will be here," he said, and vanished. Appetite roused a little by the warm, salty butter and lightly crisped bread, Dylan set to work on her food.

Nuada did not come out of his study until late afternoon. And so the day wore on much as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.

Dylan couldn't shake the terrible suspicion that he'd...done something. She had no idea what. Something to help her. To stop her nightmares. But she had zero clue what that could've even been. She almost suspected a trade - her nightmares for his - but who could he have traded with?

She hoped and prayed her reading would give her he answers, but she found nothing, and Nuada continued to draw back from her, continued to fade away. In her dreams, the black embroidery of leafy vines and stars crept higher and higher up the white cloth of the pavilion.

.

One night, it rained. She didn't bother trying to go out and swim. They couldn't have had a fire to warm up with, and she had no idea what bad weather could do to the currents or the tides. It had been raining all day, too, so she hadn't bothered waking Nuada in the afternoon as she usually did at his request. He needed sleep, troubled though it was, and she didn't plan to go anywhere, so she had no need of an escort.

But it had been some hours since she'd expected him to get up on his own, so she finally threw back the thick, knitted blanket she usually curled up under in front of the fire and padded through the suite toward his study. Rain pinged off the window panes with the force of hailstones; a chill frosted the air from outside. Dylan wrapped the autumn-colored blanket around her shoulders to ward off the cold. At the study door, she hesitated. Closed her eyes. Probing down the link between them, Dylan tried to see if Nuada was actually asleep or just in the middle of something.

Her mind brushed a muffled, distant rage that snapped and crackled like high-amp electricity against her mental touch. She jerked back, mentally and physically, as pain flashed through her head. Her ears popped, quick and hard. She flinched. Rubbed the heel of one palm against her ear.

What in the world? Dylan had never felt rage like that from Nuada before. She'd never felt him so...far away before, at least not when he was right on the other side of a door. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes. The rowan wood door was cool, polished wood under her palm and against her brow when she stepped up to it. Tentatively, she reached out again.

Rage. Incandescent, explosive rage. Shame. A greedy lust edged with loathing, like razor blades glinting inside the lush flesh of a succulent fruit. Triumph, dripping with some cold black sludge she didn't recognize but without doubt belonged to her prince. And ringing it all round, like a poisonous mist creeping across the landscape of his mind, was an icy fog of despair and resignation.

He was dreaming. A nightmare. She had to wake him.

Dylan hurried into the study, the door swinging shut behind her. Nuada sat in his chair, head dropped back, eyes closed. His hands convulsed into fists. Relaxed. Convulsed, knuckles white with tension. Relaxed. His head jerked from side to side. He wore no shirt or tunic, but despite the chilly air, sweat sheened his forehead, his chest. His star-blond hair hung in a braid over one shoulder; it jerked like a dying snake whenever his head snapped back and forth.

"Damn you," he growled low in his throat. "Bastard. Filth. Whore."

"Nuada?" She didn't want to get too close. She knew better. Who was he talking to? She'd have thought it was him but...but Nuada had never called the dark Elf a whore before. "Nuada, wake up. Wake up, you're dreaming."

He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. Snarled, "Choke on your damn bargain. Choke on it. Choke on me, whore."

Ice skittered down Dylan's spine. Bargain...choke on your damn bargain...The words echoed in her head even as she called her husband's name again. "Wake up! Nuada, wake up! You're having a nightmare." Would she have to touch him? If he accidentally bruised her when he woke, even the littlest bit, he'd despise himself (she had no fear he would actually do her real harm; they had both learned from the near-brush on the beach a month ago).

What bargain? Bargain with who?

"That's it," Nuada hissed, shifting restlessly. Each word snarled from his lips. His handsome face was twisted into a feral grimace, rage etching deep lines across his forehead. His fingers opened and closed as if he were crushing something in his grip. "Choke on me. You traitorous son of a bitch, think you can do this to me? I'll make you feel it. I'll kill you. I'll kill you-"

"Nuada!" The sheer, vicious hatred in his voice made her sharp call come out edged with no little fear - not of him, but for him. Maybe it was the fear that broke through the nightmare, the verbal cue that she was in distress and needed him. Dylan had no idea. But Nuada jolted awake, bolting upright and gasping for breath as if he'd been trapped under water and come moments away from drowning. Bracing his forearms on the desk, he set his forehead against his arms and panted for air. Dylan dared another step. "Nuada?"

His head snapped up. She froze. His irises were almost white. Only the faintest hint of crimson edged them, so dark it was almost burgundy, almost bleeding into his scarlet sclera. She'd seen this color before - in the cottage. That first time under the influence of the Tears. Except there had been no scarlet at the edges, only gold. Only later, after the first time the dark Elf had beaten her, had the scarlet come into his gaze.

Dylan swallowed hard. She wasn't afraid. Maybe she should have been; if she'd been someone else, she probably would've been. But this was Nuada and he loved her and he wouldn't hurt her. No, fear wasn't what she was feeling now as she watched him slowly rise from his seat, never taking his eyes off her face.

"I need you to go," Nuada rasped.

"No, you don't." She sensed it through their link, his desperate plea that she stay, that she not leave him. But he was pushing her away. Why?

"Get out. It is not safe for you to be here with me right now."

She lifted her chin. "Why? You won't hurt me."

His chest heaved, a quickly indrawn breath. Something just shy of nervousness tickled the back of Dylan's neck. Nuada said, "I had an ill dream."

"Yeah," she said. "I know." She let the blanket around her shoulders fall to the floor in a puddle of golds, crimsons, and fire-colors. "That's why I woke you up. Why do you think it's not safe for me to be here?"

In a low voice, he said, "Because I want you."

Heat curled in the pit of her stomach. She had to swallow. He hadn't touched her in a month. And he wanted her.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Okay. I want you, too. In fact, I've wanted you for weeks. Wanted to cuddle with you, and hold you, and kiss you, and eat breakfast with you, and sleep next to you, and dance with you and play chess with you and read with you like we used to but instead you're hiding in here away from me, suffering." Her voice rose with every word, strangling in her throat. Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. "You haven't touched me in almost a month. You won't talk to me. Why? What…" She trailed off, hugging herself. "What did I do wrong?"

He sighed oh so softly. "Nothing, little witch. You've done nothing wrong. I am the one who is wrong."

"Why?" She demanded. "Tell me why. Explain it." But he didn't say anything. "Is it the nightmares? Because he keeps asking for me? What? What is it?" She saw his hands convulse into white-knuckled fists and she lifted her chin. "Is that why? Because in your dreams, he keeps asking you if you want me with you?"

"It is not that simple-"

"He keeps asking if you want to fuck me, right?" She didn't miss his flinch. "So what? It's not like we don't bang like a screen door in a hurricane half the time."

Nuada choked on an incredulous laugh. "We what?"

"Bang. Like. A. Screen. Door," Dylan said succinctly. "You're an Elf. I'm Mormon. We're married, we're not asexual, and we were poisoned with Love Talker venom. We're randy. So what?"

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me, for pity's sake!" Dylan stiffened her spine and glared at him. "Are you pushing me away because of your nightmares, yes or no?" After a long moment, he sighed and nodded. "Okay. I really do not appreciate that. I thought we were a team. You and me, dealing with whatever the hell is going on with our brains, and your dad, and everything else. How can we be a team if you shut me out?"

"It is not safe for you with me," Nuada snapped. "Not right now. Not even most of the time anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because I do want to…" Nuada's teeth snapped shut with an audible click and he turned away from her. Sucked in a breath. "It is getting worse. The wanting. The need." A sigh shuddered out of him. "Every time I sleep, that bastard asks me if I want you. He says such disgusting, obscene things about you. And it makes me burn, Dylan. I should hate the things he says but all I can think about is what he's doing to me, saying to me, and what I want to say and do to you."

Huh, Dylan thought. Now they were getting somewhere. But aloud she said, "He's not actually hurting you...is he?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Nuada shook his head. Swallowed. "It's almost...it's as if he...as if it...I do not know, I-"

"He acts like he's making love to you," she whispered. His head shot around and he stared at her. "He's done that to me in my nightmares, too, a few times. Acts like it's normal, what he's doing. Like it's not rape. And it feels good but you want him to stop and he won't, he keeps talking about how much you like it, how much you want it. And then you wake up and everything hurts."

Slowly, Nuada nodded. "But he doesn't talk about me to you, does he?" Dylan shook her head. That was different. The dark Elf in her worst nightmares was very...possessive. He always wanted her to himself. "The worst nightmares, he makes me remember those moments near the end, before we killed him. When the days bled together and there was only-"

"The three of us."

She didn't usually think about those days. After the first week or so, their enemy had stopped beating her up every so often and stuck with raping the both of them. She remembered some of that. Remembered the haze of pleasure, of need so sharp it felt like it would flay her skin off. She hadn't cared who or what was using her as long as the pain stopped. Did Nuada remember better?

Nuada leaned heavily against his desk. "He says things...tells me things...tells me I did things, and I do not know if they are true or merely nightmare but I can see them in my mind, I can feel them, and it is revolting but I want them, Dylan. I want…" He looked into her eyes and she was surprised to see his eyes were wet. "The things he says we did to you...I want to do them again. It turns my blood to fire to think of it."

"What things?"

He flinched. "Do not make me say them, please. I am shamed enough, am I not?"

"I don't see any reason for you to feel shame," she said. He blinked. Stared at her. "I love you. You love me. What we do together, whatever that is, is an expression of that love. You would never hurt me on purpose, I wouldn't hurt you. What things?"

"Dylan-"

"What things?" She repeated. He swallowed hard. A minute tremor went through him, but she saw it. He dug his fingers into the desk's smooth surface and hung his head. "Do you want to do those things right now?"

He looked at her. Wariness filled his face. "I...some of them. Yes. I cannot...the nightmare, it makes it impossible to drive the thoughts away-"

"Okay, then. Let's do it. You obviously need to blow off some steam anyway and I've missed you the last month." The final word held the faintest edge.

Nuada stared at her without speaking. She couldn't tell if he was appalled or thrumming with anticipation or both. She could sense the spike of desire simmering in him through their link.

"I miss you. I miss you so much. It's obsessive and stupid but I miss you and I just want to be with you. So what do you want me to do?" She asked. Nuada opened his mouth. Closed it again. His eyes blazed as they devoured her, but he said nothing. Okay, then. She'd have to wing it.

He still said nothing when she lifted her hands to the laces of her bodice and tugged at the bow until it came loose. Said nothing when she toed off her slippers, pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and tossed it to the floor. His breathing quickened when, moving as if it were nothing, with a few quick tugs and a shimmy she stepped out of her underwear and left that on the floor, too.

"What do you want me to do, Nuada?" Dylan asked again as she came to stand next to his desk. Moving as if in a dream, the Elven prince caught one of the bodice laces between his thumb and forefinger and let it run between them. "Tell me what you want. Please don't push me away."

He swallowed hard. "I...am not-"

"You haven't slept beside me in a month. Haven't touched me in a month, or showered with me, or bathed with me, or even gone swimming with me. You barely eat with me. Haven't kissed me or held me. I miss you." She moved closer, daring to crowd him. She could smell him now, feral woods and fresh clean water and just the faintest whiff of whatever he'd been drinking. "Do you really think I would turn on you for your nightmares, or your reaction to them? I love you."

Those nearly-white eyes fixed on the neckline of her gown as she reached up and loosened the undone laces so that the bodice gaped, showing off the slopes of her breasts. She'd never actually tried to seduce him before; she'd tormented him in bed, in a playful way, but that wasn't this. Nuada licked his lips when she trailed her fingertips along the neckline of her gown, over the scar above her heart.

"Because he keeps asking you if you want me, want to...fuck me, that's why you feel ashamed of wanting me, isn't it?" She hazarded, and Nuada actually flinched. "He's using cruel words on purpose, you know. And the things he says, they make you feel like coming to me is wrong, so you keep pushing me away, avoiding me. You're worried you might...what? Scare me? I'm not scared of you. Hurt me? You would never."

He managed to tear his eyes away from her breasts. "Because I want to," Nuada growled, as if that explained everything.

She blinked. "Want to hurt me?"

Nuada shook his head but never took his eyes from her face. "Not hurt you. I want to…" He swallowed almost convulsively. "I want you so much I can taste it, Dylan. So much it feels as if I'm dying. Worse than in the cottage except I am still me, I can still think and reason. I want you under me, craving me, screaming for me, begging me-"

"We've done that," she said softly. "If you want that from me, ask. I don't mind. I...I like it."

But he shook his head again. "It's not the same and you need to go now, because if I have to see you like this for one more second, I-"

She kissed him. A soft brush of lips against his, barely a whisper of warm silk against his mouth. Almost a shy kiss. She couldn't get much leverage, thanks in equal parts to the soft swell of her belly, her bad leg, and the fact that Nuada was just so tall.

And then suddenly his fingers were surging into her hair and he was kissing her, his mouth moving over hers, hot and demanding. She moaned into the kiss - how long had it been since he'd kissed her like this? Too long, too long, she'd missed him so much - and then he was hoisting her up and dropping her on his desk. He shoved up the skirts of her simple leine; he didn't have to coax her knees apart. Her legs went immediately around his hips, urging him closer.

"Damn you. Why are you torturing me?" He demanded against her lips. He nipped at her mouth and she whimpered. He twined silken strands of her hair around his fingers as he kissed her, pressing in, growling like a wolf. "I want you," he snarled. His fingers, still tangled in her hair, yanked hard. She cried out at the sting, but not in pain. His eyes were practically feral. "I shouldn't want you like this but he's turning me into an animal and I cannot stop myself." He kissed her again, almost bruising her lips but never quite crossing that line. "He says such disgusting, obscene things about you and it makes me want you more. It shouldn't but by the Fates, it does, it does!"

"What things?" She gasped against his mouth, kissing him back with a hunger that surprised them both. He had no shirt to use to drag him closer to her but she felt every place their bodies touched, burning points of delicious heat. She ached to feel his hands stroking over her back, his lips on her throat. "Is it...the things...or the words?" She panted.

He growled, "Words," and caught her mouth in another desperate kiss. She gasped and moaned when he caught her lower lip between his teeth, biting softly. Moaned again when his tongue invaded her mouth and he drank from her, all hunger and need. It had been too long, she wanted him, needed him suddenly.

"Nuada, please," Dylan begged. His lips dragged along her jaw, seared the side of her neck when he kissed over her pulse. One hand slid up over her ribs and she cried out, "Touch me. Please, I don't care, touch me, something, please."

"Are you mine?" He demanded, cupping her breast. The breath caught in her throat. "Not his, mine."

"Yours," she gasped as his free hand slid up her bare thigh, slipped between her legs. "I'm yours, I'm yours, Nuada, please…" She had no idea how it had happened so quickly but she was ready for him, eager for him, it had been too long and she'd missed him and somehow this new darkness that he found so distressing wasn't distressing her at all, it made her want him more. "Please, I'm yours, please, please."

"Tell me to stop," he said, and sank his teeth into the side of her neck. Her head fell back with a shuddering cry. His tongue flicked out to taste her skin, hot and wet. He slipped his hand inside her open bodice, his palm hot against her bare breast. "Tell me to stop."

"If you stop," she said, "I will absolutely bite you on the tip of your cute little Elf ear, don't you dare."

He actually laughed just before his fingers found her and began to stroke. Nuada caught her when she lost her balance, held her up while she trembled and whimpered for him. He stroked between her legs, she was so ready for him. He whispered, "Too long, I did not think I could bear another day, gods, mo duinne, you will be my undoing," and then she couldn't wait anymore and neither could he.

It took mere seconds, a quick yank on his own laces, a shove at the waist of his trews, and then he was inside her, taking her while she lay on his desk, crying out with every thrust of him into her. It had been so long, too long. He was rough, desperate. Nuada gripped her hips and kissed her hard, swallowing every sweet cry as he surged into her.

Mine, he growled in her head. You're mine. This is what I want. I want you just like this. So beautiful. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

This is what I want...And before, what had he said? Because I want to. Not hurt her, but what Eamonn had said. Nuada had been sickened by the words, not the acts. The words. Human words. He wanted to fuck her, like the dark Elf had said. He wanted to take her, hard, fierce, ravish her. Harder, crueler than before. Mark her skin with his hunger, love bites and soft bruises and need, like before, like the cottage, but without the poison. That's why he was sorry. Because he thought it made him a monster like Eamonn.

Don't be, don't be sorry, and even in her head, she was breathless while he took her over and over, filling her. Don't be sorry, I want this. His shock, his hope flared through their bond. I want this, I want it, I want you, just please don't stop, please.

Hell's teeth...never. I'll never stop. You're mine. You're mine, by the gods. My love, my queen. Take me, take all of me. I need you, I need you, gods…

"I love you," she gasped out. "Nuada...Nuada! Don't stop, please, yes!"

Panic flashed through her, a brief bite, when he pinned her wrists to the desk on either side of her head, but then pleasure swamped her and she fell headlong into it. She couldn't stop the cries of pleasure spilling from her lips. Nuada snarled something under his breath and kissed her hard, hard enough she tasted the copper salt of her blood on her tongue, and didn't care. She only cared about him, about them, about this.

"Say my name," he bit out from between gritted teeth. "Say my name."

"Nuada…" It came out a helpless sob of pleasure. He shifted her, and she let him. His palm scorched against her thigh as he held her open for him, vulnerable, helpless. He kept her wrists pinned above her head with one hand but it didn't frighten her. Her blood had turned to sweet liquid gold and wicked, delicious fire burned where he touched her. "Nuada...Nuada!"

"You're mine," he panted. "Mine. Only, always."

"Yes," she cried, "yes, yes, please!"

He couldn't hold back, could only take. Dylan's cries fell like sweet rain on his ears, faster now, she was close, so close to that edge. Nuada took her, took her. Her back arched as pleasure washed over her, drowning her. He snarled, "Gods, scream for me."

There was no room for fear, for confusion, only desire, only love, only Nuada above her, panting her name as he made love to her, growling words of need and lust and possession, as he drove her over the edge and she fell with a long cry of release.

He wasn't finished with her.

Dylan had no idea why he'd been so worried, why he'd thought a new level of rough would upset her, because he gave her a perfect evening. And when it was over, they cleaned up in the shower and ate dinner in bed, cuddling together, feeding each other tidbits and kissing between bites the way they'd done in the sanctuary. Nuada still looked tired, but the horrible cloud of shame and guilt was beginning to dissipate a little.

They curled up together beneath their blankets and slept in each other's arms as they hadn't done in over a month. Dylan had no nightmares, and if Nuada suffered any, he didn't wake her.

When she awoke the next morning from another dream of the white pavilion on the seashore, Dylan suddenly knew what bargain Nuada had made.