DISCLAIMER: Alas, I won't ever own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER TEN
A toying glance.
A step too close.
A piece of cake…
She screamed as a hand dove viciously into her hair, wrenching her head backwards. Before she could topple, another hand pushed painfully between her shoulder blades, forcing her onto the table with a crack. The young man drove his elbow painfully against her spine, groaning as he leaned close, nuzzling her hair. "I think she's at least worth half the debt," he said at length, grinding his arousal against her backside. "Get a good look, gents! She's ripe for the picking!" he brayed, lifting her from the table, forcing her to arch against him, her figure on full display. Humiliation colored her cheeks—her tears burned a hot trail, dripping from her jaw.
She cried out begging him to stop, but her words fell on deaf ears. There was nowhere to go—she was no match for his strength nor their numbers. Her skirts were tossed over her back, as warm, coarse fingers tickled the tender flesh of her thighs through her homespun chemise. The fist in her disheveled hair tore loose, ripping the strands from the root.
His hand continued its exploration, cupping her barely covered sex. Screaming, Sarah jumped forward, her stomach slamming into the sharp edge of the table. "Stop! Please!"
The short man moaned in her ear, biting the lobe before planting a wet kiss behind it. "I always did like a good fight. Virgins are a bore otherwise—bleeding knuckles and tears always made the release that much sweeter." He rubbed against her once more, between the thin, worn material. Laughing low in his throat, he cuffed her squarely on her arse.
Yelping at the sharp pain, the dam holding her tears at bay suddenly burst. She wept openly, sobbing into the wood, before lifting her eyes to spear those of their leader. He was braced casually against the edge of the sink. She did not need to look at his trousers to see how much pleasure he took from her humiliation—his wicked sneer was evidence enough.
A flash of movement from the window caught her eye.
A soft flutter and a streak of white darted past; her jaw fell open as the white owl settled on the outer sill. The beady eyes locked with hers—hope flickered to life in the pit of her stomach, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled free: "Help me! I beg you! Help me!"
Say your right words.
The voice had come from the depths of her mind, surrounding her in a velvet timber, too unique not to be familiar. Her panic surged at his immediate refusal. "Please! For God's sake! Help me!"
Say your right words, Sarah.
Though she could feel the reverberations echoing around her skull, her eyes remained fixed on the strange fowl pacing at the window. "Please! I don't understand—" she wept as a thick tongue licked at her neck. The terrible culmination of smells swirled around her in a blinding fog of pungent filth.
"Don't look so disgusted, pet," the villain sneered. "You'll be wishing for—"
THE RIGHT WORDS!
"I—I—still don't—" she stammered, her mind fuddled in fear and panic. "I— "
YOUR WORDS, SARAH!
The roar of her name pulled her from the pit of darkness—suddenly his meaning crystallized, the memory clear and strong: Wish me back.
So she did.
The window panes began to rattle, vibrating with unknown force. A flash of blinding light flooded the room. The glass burst, the tiny remnants exploding into the room. Her eyes closed on instinct as she tucked her chin to her shoulder. The air pulsed with an electric fury, moments away from ignition.
He was there.
Relief so strong it was almost painful capsuled her within its warmth, securing itself to her nerves before they frayed beyond all hope of recovery. He had to be standing near the window, near the leader, but she refused to open her eyes—delirious in her terrified state.
A howling cry pierced through her thoughts, pulling a startled whimper from her lips as the vice in her hair released. Fear paralyzed her newfound freedom, and she could hardly think to run, least of all stand. Her muscles became aspic, her body pooling in a heap under the table. The gruesome noise bounced around the room, its intensity never changing, and for a moment she marveled at the strength those lungs must possess to maintain such a scream.
Then, as horrifically as it started, it stopped—accompanied by ragged, wheezing breaths. Sarah was startled to realize hers were mingled in the chorus of the others.
Crunching underfoot alerted her of the approach before his glorious voice breached her panic. "Sarah, you're safe." Her head shook vehemently, eyes still screwed shut, protesting his declaration of sanctuary. "Sarah." His voice was soft, comforting.
"You came!" Flinging herself into his arms, she wept openly into his chest; the glass shards digging into her knees was little more than a nuisance at the back of her mind.
He welcomed her, pulling her closer, pushing the air from her lungs as he crushed her against him. Neither seemed to care as they remained motionless on the cold, unforgiving floor.
A loud groan, more closely resembling a whimper, pulled them both from the peaceful comfort of the embrace—he with a murmured curse, she with a gasp. The king peeled himself from her person (or perhaps her from him) and made to stand, bringing her up with him. Sarah breathed a heavy sigh as he draped a protective arm about her with a reassuring squeeze, his nearness repelling the suffocating fear waiting in the shadows to claim her.
Bodies lay helpless on the floor, simpering, hands wrapped protectively around heads and torsos as if their limbs might shield them from the pain.
"Wait 'til I get my 'ands on you!" The leader rasped, pulling himself onto all fours with gritted teeth. It would seem he had not been nearly as incapacitated as his companions, neither of whom made any effort to stand. Inhuman in their size and filled to the brim with palpable hatred, his eyes shot daggers, as though he might be able to strike her with that venom alone.
Sarah watched the crazed man attempt to stand. He was failing rather miserably, his body weak. Her hand fisted at the broad chest she was boring into, nails sliding against the intricate leather as if she might disappear into the armor altogether.
"Here," said the King, "a gift." His sharp brow rose at his own amusement while hers pinched with unanswered questions. A crystal rose to view. Pulling her hand away from him, he placed the globe in her palm, his lips pulled in a dark smile.
Sarah looked from her hand to the man now hunched over—only his feet and fingers touched the stone, and his eyes were narrowed to wicked slits. He was watching her. The man leapt forward, growling. His arms stretched forward, his hands forming claws meant to snatch her from where she stood.
Sarah screamed.
The crystal fell.
The orb cracked against the man's back, melting into the ruddy fabric of his frock with a sizzle as he landed at her feet. Thin lips ripped open on a silent scream before the body burst into translucent white flames that cocooned him in supernatural heat. An instant later, the two companions, still lying on the floor where they fell, began to scream and retch in unison.
Sarah savored the sight before her: every moan, every scream. She enjoyed their suffering—her full lips curled into a sneer. Oh yes, she enjoyed this—enraptured by their heinous shrieking as they writhed in agony. Her smile broadened as they each begged for death.
Jolting from the bed as though the hounds of Hell were in the feathers themselves, her hands trembled as they clutched her breast in an effort to soothe the nightmare from her soul. Burning hatred coursed through her veins as her eyes closed to gather her thoughts. She could almost taste the ash of the fire consuming her mind as the clock sang its fifth hour.
She would get no further rest this night.
"Do you honestly mean to keep me under lock and key for the next six days?" Sarah hissed, reminding Blythe of a wild feline, not that he would voice such thoughts given her current mood. He watched as she continued to pace back and forth in front of him, her aggravation threatening to become a permanent fixture in the floor. Sleep-deprived eyes shot to his wife, filled with ire and pleading. "Constance, please, tell him how unreasonable—"
"It is only a week, Sarah. No need to be dramatic. We are not jailing you, despite what you think," she said demurely over the teacup nestled between her hands, elbows perched unapologetically on the table. "No one is saying you cannot go home—we are only asking that you spend the evening hours with us." Smiling, she placed the cup on its saucer, glancing to her husband in acknowledgment, determination settling in her soft voice. "We are well aware of what your father will do if you don't attend to your chores."
Giving a pointed look to the dejected woman before her, Constance sighed. "Though I don't see why I cannot send Henry or even Poppy in your stead. They are paid to maintain my home, and more than capable to manage yours if you'd let them." Rolling her eyes, her hand rose, silencing the girl's protests. "I know, I know—your father." Blue satin clad shoulders drooped. "I don't like the idea of you alone in that house." She paused, smiling wanly, "Is spending your evening hours in our company so appalling?"
"No, of course not."
"Good," Blythe spat, having grown tired of her foolishness, "and when your father and Richard return they can sort out this mess—you've been through enough." Blythe stepped forward, reaching to clasp her chilled hands in his. "We worry about you, about your safety." His warm eyes smoothed the edges of her irritation—until he opened his mouth once more and promptly stuck his foot in it. "Lord knows they don't."
"Blythe!" His wife gasped.
"Can you deny it? It is no great secret that Robert is a gambling bastard, and Lefroy has done very little to protect her." His voice grew thoughtful, "Curious, is it not, that the very evening both your father and fiancé leave on holiday, three men arrive at your door demanding an audience?" The grip on her hands tightened, his eyes turning black. "God only knows what would have happened—" Blythe shut his eyes, pushing the unwanted thought away. "We would never forgive ourselves if something happened to you. Sarah, please, if not for you, do this for me—for us."
She agreed, of course, and dropped the issue. What could she say without adding fuel to the flames of their well-founded concern? In truth, she had no desire to return home.
Yet there she sat in the garden, the layers of dirt caked in a black ring around and beneath her nails as a sure testament of a job well done. Despite the sweat that dampened her brow and the healthy pink flush to her cheeks, the air carried a cold promise of the approaching winter. The repetitive plunging of her fingers in the dampened, icy soil left them glaring red and achingly numb. Sarah sat back on her heels giving her hands a much needed rest as she admired her handiwork of freshly—though most certainly—over-worked soil. The garden hardly needed tending—the humble reaping had been harvested; the root cellar was full but certainly not bursting. The dirt needed to be turned, but it could—and usually did—wait until after the winter, but idle hands…
Or idle minds, she chided, as she curled and unclenched her fingers to bring life into the stiff joints. For three days, she could think of little else save for that terrible dream and the illusive stranger nestled within. Despite his deeds in the bounds of her subconscious, she knew so little of the man she saw (in one way or another) every passing day. It was a wonder so much of her time was wasted thinking of him, when she possessed only a small handful of memories.
You miss him.
The idea came unbidden and crooned, startling her. "I most certainly do not," she corrected, rolling her eyes.
You wish he were here.
Sarah shook her head as though she could clear it of any such notions. Reluctant as she may be, she would admit to missing the strange ameliorating effect his company bore, but she did not wish for him. That would be ridiculous—she hardly knew him. He had been a dream until a week ago: an enticing and unattainable imagining nestled harmlessly inside her mind. Perhaps that's why she allowed herself to daydream. He was something she could never have, and it was easy to let fancy run free when there was no risk, no possibility of anything becoming real.
Except he was real, and she hadn't stopped thinking of him—even when she knew she should.
But thinking and wanting were not the same. Sarah did not want him. Nor did she need him. There was no reason for her to call out—to wish. She was under no threat, in no danger. They weren't friends. She could think of no one she knew less, and her caution of him had not yet abated, not fully.
And still, you miss him
An invisible thread seemed attached to any—all—thoughts of him, The Goblin King, pulling taunt in his absence. No matter how many times she recited her protestations in a mantra of whispered denial, even she could not convince herself of their truth: she did miss him, if only a little.
"Ah!" She threw her head back, groaning. "I don't really miss him—I just don't want to be alone is all," she assured herself with a huff, rising on wooden legs and wiping her palms against her apron. Strutting to the bucket resting by the rear door, Sarah snatched the worn rope handle and made her way to the small pump at the end of the garden row.
Though better than a well, the little pump was far from perfect. The lack of proper maintenance made it as difficult to use as hefting the large pail back and forth. The rusting arm stuck and screamed as she pulled back and groaned as she pushed all her weight against it to move it back down. It was an arduous task, testing both the strength of her patience and that of her body, but every day she managed it, some with greater effort than others. Perspiration that minutes ago only dotted her brow now trickled facilely along her temples, matting the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Sarah did not bother wiping it away, and instead she bent to retrieve the water-soaked bucket. The bite of the coarse handle bit her palm, but she ignored it, letting the sheer weight of the nearly full bucket keep her wandering thoughts at bay.
The soft cry of a bird echoed in the air, and before she could help it, Sarah turned, searching the heavens on bated breath, hoping to see a streak of white soaring against the azure. Butterflies swarmed her stomach and fluttered in her pulse. It can't be— her eyes locked on the fowl as it descended, squinting into the brumal afternoon sun. Water splashed against her earth-stained clothes, pooling in an icy puddle beneath her feet. Her legs propelled her forward in an odd mix of tenacity and apprehension, racing to the far broken gate to better see the incoming beast.
Sarah froze in her tracks, wrapping all ten fingers around the splintering wood of the fence. Rising to her toes, she watched as it slowed, landing softly on an open branch, framed by the knotted hands of the barren tree. Her disappointment crested: where she wanted a flat face and cloud white feathers, there was a round face with bark-toned wings, speckled with black and umber.
Why would he come? I'm hardly in any danger—I've made no wish— Sarah lectured, moving morosely to grab and refill the bucket she so carelessly spilt. "Just was well," she grunted, fighting the rusting joints once more, her own arms cramping in protest. What would I even had said to him? Her eyes rolled as she replaced the now-full bucket by house, a wave of unease washing over her.
In three days, she had yet to cross the threshold, never mind the fact that she had not come home until this afternoon. Now she was doing every task imaginable so long as it kept her outdoors. Very little was left to be done, save for tending to the chickens, which unfortunately, was just as daunting as entering her kitchen.
What a strange turn life had taken when a hobbled chicken coup seem somewhat preferable to her own house. Sarah hated chickens—or more accurately the chickens hated her—but she tended them carefully, knowing full well what would happen were she to lose one. They had been forced to sell the barn along with most of the profitable land, leaving a mere half acre and a small carriage house, that after the horses and coaches had been pawned, left a perfect shelter for the egg-laying devils that now demanded fresh hay.
Much to her relief, it was a rather simple task—sifting and laying fresh straw—and in under half an hour she was finished. Though pleased as she may be to leave the ugly bastards lie, it meant she could avoid it no longer.
Wish for him, her mind offered as a way to prolong the inevitable—then, with more force: Wish him back. Sarah scoffed as she marched very slowly to the door. "I will not make a wish! What would I even say, he's a King and I—I—" Her steps faltered—I am a puzzle, nothing more.
Sarah stopped, one palm on the door, the other firmly grasping the weathered knob. It was like coming to the end of a long tunnel with no memory of how she got there. A sudden, disgusting panic welled up inside her, and with it the wild urge to turn and run. Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood throbbed in her temples. Darkness bore down on her, smothering her, until each breath became a painful struggle to pull back into her lungs. The muscles between her shoulder blades knotted, and she rolled them in an effort to relieve the tension trapped there, but the ache refused to release.
Only then did she realize what had braided her muscles and tightened her stomach. Dread. This is what she had been feeling, and denying. This moment was the one she'd been waiting for, only she couldn't pinpoint what this was: the wish or the house. Both were terrifying endeavors, yet only one was entirely necessary in the grand scheme of things. Her chores were expected—demanded—even. Her father might not care for much, aside from the whores and tables he so regularly frequented, but he had become a warden over her tasks. The house was to be sparkling, though only a handful of eyes ever saw beyond the door, and it was her privilege—burden—alone to bear.
But a wish…
A wish was a choice—one only she could make.
Her forehead rested on the frigid wood, making her shiver. An unnameable, unfathomable emotion rose inside her breast, unfolding layer upon layer like the petals of a flower under the warm embrace of the sun. She could almost smell the heady fragrance of a full-bloom rose drifting in the air. It was the scent of promise. Of hope. What have I to lose?
Closing her eyes, her grip tightening on the doorknob as she waited. For a brief pause in the breath of time, Sarah wondered if he would come. He had offered her a chance to forget—to walk away and never look back. Twice he had offered and twice she refused, not wanting to let this strange chapter in her life disappear into oblivion. She needed this. She—against all reason and good sense—wanted to see him again. Biting her lip to fight the soft smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, Sarah breathed, "I wish—" her lingering doubts and fears tried to chip away at her courage, but she would not be deterred. And though her words came just louder than a prayer, her voice was strong: "I wish he were here, now."
Sarah knew the exact moment he appeared, her lips pulling into a smile before she could command them otherwise. Aware that something had changed, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled at his nearness. Her dress was dirty and her face smudged; she was hardly fit to be seen, but for the life of her, she could not seem to care.
"Sarah…" Anger, unfettered and pregnant, weighted her name. It was a growl of raw force. It frightened her—thrilled her. "What's happened? Are you hurt?"
"No! No," she replied quickly, shaking her head in protest. With an adamant whisper, she added, "I am well. I promise." Unhurried, Sarah turned, allowing her gaze to slide upward, admiring the details of his costume: the length of his black boots, the curious mahogany coat tailored to perfection hiding all but the starched white collar of the shirt beneath. Her eyes skittered past the contorted frown of disquiet and found his. They both remained silent.
Waiting for him to react, to respond, was torture. The stark feeling of nakedness that crept over her would have pulled all her fear back into place were it not for that foolish hope pinned to her chest. It wasn't simply because he was here—though it was a significant factor—but moreover that he'd seen her at her worst, her weakest without judgment or condemnation. Even now he simply watched her, testing the truth of her words, and after an agonizing moment, she felt, more than saw, his tension palliate.
The very air with which he carried himself and the power coursing audibly in his veins as he watched her made her feel amorous—wistful even. She almost didn't recognize the feeling but surrendered to it with ease. Without realizing it, Sarah drifted closer, until she was halfway between them, finally bringing herself to a stop with more effort than she cared to admit. His features remained stoic, and she wondered, not for the first time, if he was angry with her. She had after all, disrupted his schedule, calling to him without any real reason as to why. He was a king and she had demanded his presence—what right had she to make such a request?
This was a mistake. Sarah blinked, hoping to dissuade her dour thoughts.
Suddenly he was before her, only inches separating their bodies. A ruby flush crept up the column of her neck—her heart leapt beneath her ribs. If he was unhappy with her, he would step away, he would yell and be cruel. Only he didn't; instead, he cupped her face, the smooth leather caressing her weather-rosed cheek. Her eyes closed at the gentle touch. "Goodbye." His melodic purr soothed her troubles and Sarah felt herself smile, the sound wrapping around her in a warm balm of comfort and elation.
Then all at once, that single word resonated, striking deep into the fog of her reverie. She flinched and stepped away, her eyes sparking with pother—their unique algae and sea-glass turned a dulled beryl. The unexpected hurt brought tears to her eyes, and a pang of regret stung her heart. She had wanted him to miss her, to need her—and foolishly, Sarah had allowed herself to believe he might. There was nothing to say, nor did she wish to speak, fearing her voice would betray what little her expression left to the imagination.
"You weren't supposed to wish me back," he said, taking a slow step forward as she moved further away, three colors of eyes locked firm on each other. Her mouth was slightly agape, the invisible puffs of breath catching speed as he pushed nearer. His eyes narrowed, but not in challenge or anger—but something Sarah did not quite understand, though she felt it deep within her. "You were supposed to say goodbye—not goodnight."
Her eyebrows rose as she struggled for words. "W—what?"
"And yet you wished." He scanned the length of her, the movement hardly discernible. "You stand before me uninjured, and by your own admission you are safe and well. Yet, here…I…am." He drew out the words, letting each roll off his tongue in a gentle caress. Those sharp eyes narrowed, assessing hers with doubt, as a slow, delicious smirk pulled one side of his mouth. A spark of mischief lifted his brow. "Careful, Sarah, one might assume you wanted to see me. Or worse—" he took another step nearer, leaning forward as he spoke, "that you missed me."
The Goblin King watched with great fascination as the color simultaneously drained from her face and her cold-bitten cheeks blushed an enticing shade of crimson. Herculean effort kept the roguish twist of his lips in place at her unspoken avowal; all the while electricity trilled under his skin. "You are rather quiet. Have I spoken untrue?" Another step had her craning her neck to meet his eyes.
"No—er—I mean, yes!" Sarah blinked, and coming to her senses with a soft shake of her head, she backed away until her heel bumped the kitchen door. Had she retreated so far already? He bent closer, holding her gaze as if attempting to convince her to confess with only a look. "Please." It was all she could think to say, but there was no meaning behind it—none she understood.
His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "I won't harm you." Faster than she could react, his hands shot out, his palms flattening against the wall on either side of her shoulders. Sarah froze. Her heart thundered, her gaze locking on his mouth as he smiled, a dark, dangerous curving of his lips. His knuckles drew faintly along the curve of her cheek—the icy leather sent a shiver up her spine. "You're blushing."
Sarah sighed, dragging much needed oxygen into her lungs. This man, his closeness, gave off the heat of brimstone compared to the coolness of the wood behind her. "It's only the cold."
"As you say," he purred, his voice singsong and mocking. Slowly, ever so slowly, his nose traced the line of her jaw making her pulse sing. He closed his eyes, simply breathing her in. Try as he might, it was impossible to forget the kiss they shared so many nights ago, while standing so close. Even now, he couldn't say why he had kissed her with such desperation that first night, but Gods help him, he wanted more. The rapid rise and fall of her chest combined with the hot whisper of her breath against his chin was intoxication in its purest form. "Tell me, my dear, did you miss me?"
"N—no." She lied again.
Fighting against his own lust and illogical annoyance, he abruptly dropped his arms, stepping away before he lost control. "Why am I here, Sarah?" His brow twitched and rose without his permission. The words tumbled from his lips before he could catch them, "As much as I enjoy your blushed gawking—there are far more important things that demand my attention." He winced at the bite of his own remark but said nothing in opposition.
She blinked several times before a single breath escaped. "Oh, um… of course." It was all she could manage through the burning sting of his callous words—however true they might be. With a swift and undignified tilt of her head, she turned, throwing open the door, and fled to the kitchen with abandon.
Suddenly she dropped with yelp, landing first on the overturned chair that had snatched at her unsuspecting feet like a monster lying in wait beneath a child's bed. Then she finished her clamorous descent with the smack of her palms and knees against the unforgiving stone floor. At once, hands were upon her, pulling at her. She screamed, fighting against them, smarting her ankle on the chair. Her heart beat fast as she threw her fists wildly about. They had come back. Lurking silent in the darkness for her arrival, she knew they would make good on their heinous promises. No! NO! Please!
"Sarah!" Her name was so far away. Everything was going to fall apart, and she along with it. There would be nothing left of her once they finished. Arms circled her, another sound calming her panic, "Shhhhh, shhh." The noise repeated softly at her ear, a gentle hum that settled deep within her breast calming the painful drumming of her heart. "Shhh, you're safe, love. You're safe."
She sensed a smell—not of anything she could recognize, but it was familiar. It smelled of warmth, of comfort—of home. Her muscles relaxed, and her back eased into that welcoming refuge from her fear. "Open your eyes, Sarah, it's alright. You're safe." A hand ran over her hair, and she twisted so her face pushed against the wide expanse of his chest. It was just him, the imagined admirer of her dreams. Him, the Goblin King. Gradually her breathing slowed, and the heavy tightness that threatened to consume her lifted like a feather in the wind, soaring further away than she cared to reach.
"Thank you," she finally said, refusing to meet the eyes she could feel against her skin. Sarah pushed away from him, embarrassed by her weakness. A desultory lumbering of limbs and fabric brought her to her feet as she studiously avoided any further contact with his person. There was no dignity in her movements, and the two brief glances she managed to sneak both revealed his amusement at her unladylike fumbling and hurt.
Sarah did not wish to think on the implications of such a look, so instead she focused her sleep-smudged eyes on the disordered room, smoothing her apron as she did. She was right—they had come back. Only not for her, but as a message. The room—and she supposed she would find the rest of the house in a similar state—was a smattering of furniture, shredded papers, shattered glass, and soot. Her fingers began to massage her temples. My father is going to kill me. Her eyes closed as she frowned, calculating the damage. The cupboards had been emptied onto the floor, and her carefully hung herbs were crushed and covered in soot dumped from the fireplace. The table seemed to be the only thing untouched, but the chairs had been broken beyond repair. To say they had left only a mess was to say the plague had been little more than a public nuisance.
"Perhaps they discovered your affinity for cleaning when bored?" He stood beside her now, his arms crossed over his chest. Her fingers stilled, and she turned her head to him, eyes aghast. His attention went to her lips, curled in unabashed shock, it was all too obvious she had forgotten he was there. Though his expression remained serious, his tone was lighter, "You said yourself that you clean forgotten rooms when boredom strikes—though I admit a kitchen is hardly considered forgotten—but the point remains."
She stared back at him, a blush rising once more to her cheeks. Then, incongruously, her lips began to twitch at the corners as she struggled to maintain control. Her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle her giggles that only seemed to grow louder the harder she tried—until she could contain it no longer and gave in to her laughter. Daring another glance before she squeezed hers shut, their eyes met, and instantly he became infected with the same mirth. Dirt stained hands covered her face as tears sprang to her eyes.
Placing his hand on her shoulder, he drew her to him, wrapping her in the security of his arms before placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. He did nothing to hide his own smile as he listened to the sound of her calming laughter. It felt so right, her in his arms, her head pressed lightly against his chest. The thought was terrifying. Exhilarating. Silence surrounded them, but they both welcomed it, knowing words might douse the flames heating between them.
He felt her shift, the subtle movement of her head beneath his chin forced him to lean back. Assessing her gaze, there was no mistaking the raw intensity pooling in her eyes. It was a rare thing for him to be caught so off kilter. Odder still was that he wished to remain in this curious state, so long as she was there too.
Leaning forward, caving to his desires, he smoothed his cheek along hers and breathed against the shell of her ear. His fingers grew bold, tangling and pulling at her hair softly, just enough to make her tilt her head back exposing the curve of her throat. His nose traced a path up the smooth column of flesh. She smelled of earth, salt, and something far sweeter…
Sarah's eyes locked on the high ceiling, attempting ardently to count the beams, pretending his hands did not leave her skin burning with wicked desire—but it was impossible. His fingers idly traced the ridges of her spine whilst his hands cradled the base of her skull, commanding her full attention. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense, his shoulders taunt as he held her firm. The lips that smirked only moments ago became little more than a thin slash across his face as a frown pinched at his brow. "Tell me, Sarah," the tone was gentle, pleading, but certainly not a request, "did you miss me?"
Sarah held her breath. She swallowed hard, feeling the confession slide down into the pit of her stomach like a heavy stone. It was inevitable that her dishonesty would eventually reveal itself, whether by her own admission or that of another (albeit only she knew such a secret). Sarah had hoped to disguise it awhile longer—or forever if she could manage such a thing. An eternity passed as she debated her answer, her hesitation stemming from the fear that he would think her ridiculous. When his overwhelming curiosity and unblinking scrutiny became too much, Sarah allowed herself to breathe: "Yes."
Something flashed dark and heavy in his eyes, the faintest breath escaping his thin lips as the lines surrounding them deepened. The fingers in her hair tightened, keeping her rooted and speechless before him. He watched her. Shamelessly he leaned closer, his nose grazing hers, studying her for any signs of deceit.
He would find none.
Still captive between his gloved hands, Sarah was pulled forward, the infinitesimal distance between them closing as his lips brushed across her own—but he did not kiss her. His hold remained true as he stood poised before her, the lightest, barest touch of his mouth against hers. But he did not move—did not breathe. The sound of her heart racing echoed in her ears as she waited, wanting nothing so much as she wanted this. Rose flushed her cheeks, the temperature rising around them—and still he did not move.
Sarah wanted to scream, to beg him for something—anything—other than the raging fire burning delicious heat across her skin. He was teasing her. Daring her to continue. He was giving her a choice.
All the shadowy corners buried deep within her sparked to life as if he had taken a torch of gleaming light, waking the narrow avenues of long forgotten emotions: illuminating her hopes, her desires, her dreams, and rousing them from a slumber she believed would forever remain undisturbed. He was a stranger: a man at one moment indifferent to her and the next his entire being seemed to be consumed by her. It was remarkable. Disarming. To wield such power over someone so menacing so very dangerous was intoxicating—addicting.
She wanted more.
With tentative slowness, her chin tilted, and her lips pushed against his. A sigh, deep and masculine, rumbled from his throat as he pushed back with unbridled urgency. It was powerful, raw—and he wouldn't have stopped were it not for the rattle of a door, too far for her ears to hear, clicking in his skull.
He jerked her from her feet, forcing her behind him until her back was pressed firm against the nearest stone wall. "Do not move." It was a King's command, hissed under his breath as his eyes locked on the closed interior door. His shoulders were taunt again, but not out of anger—rather the lean muscles were waiting on bated breath for the impending fight.
Knocking ricocheted down the hall, drumming over the faint rumblings of a gentle voice calling her name. The sounds stopped abruptly, just long enough for relief to wash over them both, before the pounding began anew—the tempo becoming insistent. Far away someone called a name, the sound muffled as it traveled the through the house. Fear crept vertebrae by vertebrae up her spine, settling heavily on her shoulders. Dizzy and off balance, Sarah waited, trembling despite her companion's formidable presence.
The knocking continued—the voice grew louder, more familiar, "Sarah?" There was a pause, and her name rang out clearer still: "Sarah?"
"Blythe?" She breathed, moving around her protector. "Why is—?" Her hands swiped at her face. Of course! Of course he had come to collect her. She should have guessed as much. His behavior at the shop should have been enough to rouse her suspicions had she not been so very distracted. If she knew him at all—and Sarah knew him far better than even herself—he would be waiting, not in the small cart used for deliveries at the press, but in his personal carriage, fully enclosed and sheltered from peering, troublesome eyes. Relief eased the tension from her body, a soft laugh escaping at her own foolishness.
Her bemusement was short lived, however, when realization dawned painfully in her mind: she was supposed to be alone. It took very little to imagine what would be said: what Blythe might do, the implications such a situation would garnish. Her honor, her reputation (what little she maintained), and her virginity—the very thing that saved her three days past—would be subject to questions. Many she could not answer without her madness becoming the subject of debate as well. The engagement would be broken, and she could be at the mercy of The Estate. Sarah's back went rigid as she turned to him, her eyes impossibly round. "You—" she whispered frantic, "you cannot be here. You must go—now!"
She made for the door, thinking their exchange finished. She squeaked as his hand shot out, catching her waist, moving her to face him. "Then say you'll wish me back." He held her close, his features serious. His free hand moved to cup her cheek. "Say it."
Sarah closed her eyes, a refusal trapped on her lips. But somehow the words swirling around her head would not come. "Yes, but you must go."
"No—" the soft shake of his head indicating his displeasure. "No, Sarah. Promise me."
She shook her head at his incredulous demand. He wouldn't, she assured herself, he wouldn't dare. She huffed. He would. The distant pounding of the door drummed in her ears, reminding her just how little time she had. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to the man holding her captive. "Yes! Fine, I promise!" she emphasized. "Now, go. Go!"
"Sarah?!" They stilled. "Are you here?"
He was inside.
The King could hear the gentle scrape of a boot on the marble tiles. In an effort to catch her unawares, he leaned nearer, forcing her to meet his commanding eyes. "Tonight."
Her own narrowed at the sharpness of his tone. "I can't— "
"Tonight," he repeated over the sound of her employer's summons.
Worrying her lips until she tasted blood, Sarah stared, agog at the strange man begging for her company. She ought to say no. Too much was at stake if she were caught, and what would be the prize if she weren't? Letting her eyes drift close, Sarah made her choice with the subtle shake of her head. "Tonight." Quickly, she stood on tiptoe and placed a tender kiss to his cheek. "I promise." The words whispered against his skin before she lowered to her heels once more.
At once the door swung open as Blythe strode into the kitchen, a small frown tugging at his mouth. "Did you not hear me calling?" Her head shook in protest as he stepped closer, his eyes scanning first her person as if he expected to find her injured or unwell, then the room itself. "I cannot fathom why Richard would not have insisted you remain with us while he is away." He gestured to the room, his head following his hand. "This is proof you should not be alone in this godforsaken—" he stopped, his eyes narrowed at her flushed expression, "Sarah, are you alright?"
A/N: Sorry for the long wait, we are in the process of moving and my hubby is deploying and it is crazy in our house. I have no intension to go so long between postings. That being said, I really am sorry for making you wait. Please tell me what you think, I live for reviews and an anxious to hear from you! Thank you to all the new followers, seeing those numbers rise means the world to me. I'll see you all next chapter!