And Rise: Chapter 8

He hesitated for only the space of a single heartbeat before he caught her lips with his, bearing her back against the wall with a low, needy sigh. His hand on her pauldron curled, then pushed, and she gasped at the sound of metal scraping over stone. Her fingers skimmed over his chest and up the back of his neck, and he answered with another deep noise.

She clutched him close, shivering and parting her lips at his searching tongue. The hot copper-tang of blood filled her mouth, and for a moment she froze. Blood meant injury; blood meant faltering on the field of battle. But it also meant his tongue sweeping against hers, his hand not against her shoulder sliding over the steel plate covering her side and lower still, until he caught the edge of her mail tunic and slipped beneath it, palm over-hot even through her leather leggings. It meant the twisting want in her belly, groans in her throat and needy sighs in her lungs. And it meant a blossoming of desire, too, for the taste of it. It pricked at her and stirred her blood.

All traces of exhaustion vanished, and the ache of her shoulder became a distant memory.

What became all encompassing was the way his hand inched upward, the shifting slide of mail over his wrist, the need to cast her gauntlets aside so she could feel him skin to skin. She tugged her hands away to fumble with the buckles and tight leather gloves and he chuckled against her lips, arching away to give her space. The steel clattered to the stone and her hands found his jaw, cupping it as her fingertips slid back into his hairline.

Threads of thought tugged at her. Rendon Howe's dungeons. Danger. The dawn. But they were overwhelmed and worn thin by the taste of him, peeking through the slowing flow of blood. Nathaniel's hand, too, was clever and intoxicating, playing at the seam along her thigh, inching up by breaths. She whined against his mouth and he laughed, other hand sliding from her shoulder to the wall behind her, his thumb teasing at her pulse.

He drew away slowly, languidly, catching her lower lip between his and suckling a moment. Then the bright pain came, the tiny point where he broke the tender skin enough to draw blood, nibbling until it was swollen and throbbing. She gasped and tried to pull back, then to close the distance, aching for any form of resolution. She found it in how his fingers slid the last inch up her thigh, how his hand turned so he could cup his palm against her sex.

She was falling. She was falling, and all she could think of was how long it would take to shed her armor, how much it would take to get him underneath her, how her entire world had become the longing for his heartbeat against her, his pulse seated deep in her, the movement and slick heat of it all, his lips on hers and-

He broke the kiss, lips trailing down her throat alternating with light nips over bruises he had left just hours before, and this time she didn't pull away. She let her head fall back against the stone - Rendon Howe's dungeon - and moaned as he found her pulse, as she felt his fangs drag against her skin. His hand between her legs coaxed them apart, his thumb rubbing through the leather until she squirmed and bucked in a loud clatter of steel.

The noise broke through her thoughts and stilled him, his teeth poised just over where her blood pounded hot and heavy. She struggled to draw breath, and he tensed against her- then shoved himself away from her, gasping and wide-eyed.

"Maker-" he whispered, and she sagged against the wall (Rendon Howe's dungeon, dawn is coming, the walking dead-), staring back at him. "Maker, I didn't mean-"

Cauthrien swallowed, the motion sluggish, her throat thick. She gripped fingers into the cracks in the mortar behind her, seeking purchase and anchor. Her head spun. It was as if her mind was clouded with spindleweed smoke, her every breath reduced to matching rhythm with her pulse as if it could find no rhythm of its own, the throb of her body longing for his.

"Cauthrien," he said, as she grimaced and stumbled forward. He retreated. "Cauthrien, it's- there's a demon."

"What?" she whispered, reaching out for him. He stepped back again.

"It's in my head. It's in your head. Think!" The torch on the wall flickered, sputtered, and he swore as he ran to it, fumbling with the sconce. She watched, frowning and trying to do as he said. Think. But the heat was being replaced so quickly with curling fingers of cold- She crouched to grab her gauntlets, yanking them on and working her hands until they warmed again. The motion, the familiar grip of leather and metal, brought her back a little more and she looked to the slab of stone.

"Down?" she asked, voice still little more than a breath, and he was at her side, pressing the torch between her fingers.

"Yes." His gaze faltered, dropping from her eyes to her lips, to her throat, and she had to grit her teeth, bite down on her tongue to keep focused. It would have been so easy to reach for him again, to pull him back to her, to forget whose son he was and what monstrosity moved his limbs, to let him murmur low in her ear or feel his muscles flex against hers-

"Cauthrien," he murmured, and she closed her eyes with a soft whimper. There was the creak of leather, him leaning in, the passing heat of his lips near hers- and then he pulled away again.

"Get your bow," she said, straining against the need to follow him. She opened her eyes again and forced herself to fast strides, to where the stone slab covered the entrance to the catacombs. "Get your bow, we need to finish this-"

"Before it wins," he agreed, and when he came back to her, it was to crouch and help move the stone.

Upwards from the dark curled tendrils of frost, winding around her throat and beckoning her down with teasing breaths against her lips. She resisted, foot braced against the opening. She glanced up to Nathaniel. "What's down there?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "But I can tell you it dies like anything else."

"Does it?"

His smile was grim, twisting his reddened and blood-marked lips. "It will have to."