23

I’m sore all over, but especially inside. Despite the abundant slickness of my arousal, his ferocious thrusting was a friction I’m not used to.

The entire experience feels like a dream. I surprised myself with how quickly I adapted, how I drew together all the pieces I’d gleaned about sex and then leaped into the whirlwind of lust with him. I don’t think I could have been so enthusiastic and fearless with anyone else, but with him, fucking felt as natural as breathing, or kissing.

Despite the soreness, I half-hoped he’d want to fuck me again this morning. But he seemed eager to get away from me. He scarcely touched his breakfast before he left the table. To be fair, he did a thorough job of spoiling the food, so perhaps he was embarrassed about it. I cling to that possibility, trying not to worry that he has thought better of us , and decided never to touch me again.

Carrying a bucket of hot, soapy water, a mop, and a sponge, I make my way to the lengthy tiled hall that runs past the library. I tell myself that if I clean the entire length of it, I can have an hour of reading, as a treat.

But my steps falter as I pass the library. It’s not as if I’m slowing down intentionally—it’s as if the house is lengthening the floor, dragging at my feet, impeding my progress.

I set down my bucket and stand the mop against the frame of the library door. Then I sink to my knees and press my hands to the tiled floor.

The house responds with a burst of pressure, an almost physical force compelling me to enter the library. At the same moment, something pulses against my chest—the jeweled hourglass necklace from last night. I’ve been wearing it this whole time—I never took it off, not even when Krael was torturing me so wickedly.

The house spins a series of images through my mind—Krael fucking me on the table in the torture room, his tall naked form carrying me through the house afterward, both of us entwined in the bed last night. The house approves strongly, that much is clear. It keeps pushing the word mate into my head.

I know what mating is—a term typically used for sex between animals. I have no idea why the house is so obsessed with the word, but I sense that it needs me to verbalize what I did with Krael, or perhaps how I feel about him.

“Yes, I fucked him,” I whisper, blushing. “We fucked each other. He… that is, I…” I chew my lip, then confess in a rush of words, “I love him entirely and I never want to leave him. ”

A blaze of glee and satisfaction rushes from the house into me, and I gasp a little at the intensity of it. At the same time, it switches my inner vision to a view of the library.

“You want me to go into the library?” Climbing to my feet, I push open the library door and step inside. “What is it? What do you want me to see?”

The hourglass necklace lying against my chest lifts away from my skin and drifts forward, its chain tugging slightly. Instinctively I understand that it’s guiding me, and perhaps I should be surprised, but I’m not. When I found this necklace, it was lying beneath a sofa, peeking out just enough for its emeralds to glint in the lamplight. Almost as if it wanted me to find it. I didn’t tell Krael that part. I didn’t want him to forbid me from wearing it, and I felt somehow that it belonged to me.

So when the necklace draws me into a narrow, shadowed aisle of the library, I follow without fear or protest.

No lamps or candles here, no faerie orbs to light the way, but toward the end of the gloomy aisle, I spot a green glow.

Tugged forward by the necklace, I quicken my steps until I see, on a shelf just above my head, a silver hourglass filled with green sand. Lush green ivy trails down from the shelves above, flanking both sides of the hourglass, almost like a concealing curtain that has parted just for me. Strangely, the stream of sand between the crystal globes of the hourglass seems to run up as well as down, so the bottom half never becomes full, and the top half never empties.

The hourglass itself has a simple design, nowhere nearly as elaborate as some of the timepieces I’ve seen in the library. But it exudes a power that vibrates along my every nerve, through each bone of my body. The house hums in my mind, and I understand, with sudden certainty, that the house is the hourglass, and the hourglass is the eternal heart of the house.

“The Nexus,” I whisper .

Cautiously I stretch out my hand, and I touch the clear glass with my fingertips.

At the same moment, the pendant of the necklace stops floating and drops into place against my skin again. It’s burning hot now, and the pain of the contact makes me gasp. But I can’t reach up to yank the necklace off. I can’t remove my fingertips from the hourglass. In fact, I can’t move at all. I’m paralyzed as surely as if Krampus had licked my cheek.

For a terrifying moment I’m frozen in place, galvanized by the current of unbearable power rushing through me. My unbound hair rises around me like a cloud, crackles of green light flickering through it. I can hear the sizzling hiss of my own skin and flesh burning where the necklace contacts my chest. The pain is violent, and yet I can’t scream. It feels as if a sliver of glass is searing through my skin and muscle, burning its way into my chest, pressing right against my heart, then sliding deep into the throbbing muscle. My heart beats loudly and heavily around the pain, while that imaginary shard slips in deeper, then dissolves as if it was never there at all.

Gasping, I jerk my hand back from the hourglass. My other hand grasps the pendant of the necklace to yank it off—or I try to grasp it, but nothing is there. No pendant, no chain, and no sign of any burn wounds. My skin is flawless, and the necklace is gone.

Where the fuck did it go?

My nails scrape against my skin, and I crane my neck trying to look down at the spot, just above my cleavage, where the necklace last rested.

There’s nothing.

And yet what I just experienced wasn’t nothing . I can’t shake the odd sense that the necklace melted into me, that it went inside me somehow.

“What the fuck was that?” I yell at the house .

Through our connection, I sense that the house is satisfied. Smug, even. It sends me calming impulses, but it doesn’t contribute any distinct explanation, only its certainty that everything is right, and good, and safer now. The word trust floats through my mind.

I’ve been working this whole time to gain the house’s trust, and perhaps it’s time for me to trust it in return. After all, it has welcomed me, protected me, expressed gratitude to me, and opened itself slowly to my advances. Rather like a lover, I suppose.

Perhaps I have two lovers: Krael and the house—the three of us, linked in a strange triad, connected in turn to the four monsters who share the place with us.

A soft, hysterical laugh escapes my lips at the thought.

When I glance back at the shelf where the Nexus stood, there’s only a curtain of ivy and a row of books. I consider brushing aside the vines to see if the Nexus is hidden behind them, but I’m too shaken to risk touching it again. On wobbly legs I head out of the library.

Right before I close the doors, I think I glimpse a wisp of red smoke. I squint at the spot, but I don’t see anything else.

After shutting the doors tightly behind me, I sit down on the floor of the hallway to recover. Idly I swirl my fingers in the bucket of hot, soapy water, only to find that it’s cold now, not a trace of warmth left. I must have stood there, immobilized by the Nexus, for longer than I realized.

By the time I fetch more hot water and return to the tiled hallway, I sense Krampus’s presence through my connection with the house. He must have finished his task, and he’s slowly working his way toward my location.

I haven’t cleaned a single section of the floor. He’ll think I’ve been frittering away my time in the library.

Part of me knows he won’t care. He would never blame me for taking time to read and to enjoy myself—in fact, he’d encourage it. But I want to be useful. I like my work here, and I want him to know that my efforts won’t stop now that our relationship has changed.

Despite my urge to get on with the work, the knowledge that he’s approaching sends little trickles of arousal between my legs. As I dip the sponge in the soapy water and squeeze it out, I realize my panties are already as slick and damp as my hands.

Which gives rise to a very naughty thought.

I drop the sponge onto the tiles, then reach beneath my skirts and pull off the panties I’m wearing. I wad up the silky bit of cloth and stuff it into the pocket of my dress. Then I get down on my hands and knees, and I begin to wash the tiles.

Thanks to my bond with the house, I sense the exact moment Krael appears at the far end of the hallway. My back—or rather, my bare ass—is toward him.

He’ll understand instantly why I took the panties off. He’ll know what a wicked, slutty little maid I am.

He was barefoot this morning, and he must be barefoot still, because I don’t hear his footfalls. I keep sweeping the sponge across the tiles, scouring stubborn spots of grime, then sitting up on my heels to rinse and squeeze the sponge again before returning to my hands-and-knees position.

The cool air of the hallway stirs the lace on my skirt and flows across my naked pussy. I know Krael is staring right at my bare legs and ass as he prowls closer, and the knowledge makes my throat dry and my skin hot.

Later I’ll tell him about what happened in the library. But right now, I simply want him to prove to me that last night wasn’t a dream, that he still wants me, needs me… loves me. He said he did. But I can’t be sure. I’ve had little experience with love outside of books. The love I felt for my captor was a twisted dependence, culminating in betrayal and violence. The love I felt for my favorite Mother was a source of comfort, but also of constant fear for her life—and it ended in agony. My connection wi th Krael seems doomed already, but for now I’m still here, with him. I intend to take full advantage of that.

I can hear his breathing now—slow and measured but heavy, thick with lust. I keep washing the floor, but I’m wiping the same tile, over and over.

His claws click against the buttons of his pants as he undoes them.

My heart flutters as I stroke another tile with the sponge and lift my ass ever so slightly.

Don’t ask me, just take me.

I hear him kneel behind me. My fingers dig deep into the sponge.

The hot, smooth head of his cock plunges into my slit. His hands wrap my hips as he lunges forward, sinks in all the way to the hilt, seals us together with a firm smack of flesh against flesh.

A little cry breaks from me, eliciting a dominant growl from him. He pulls back a little, rams in deeper, and I cry out again. The twitch of his cock inside me lets me know that he likes the sound, so as he fucks me I grow more vocal, striving to please him. I fill the hallway with soft, breathless, feminine cries—the prettiest sounds I can make.

Krael stops thrusting. He leans forward, over my back, and clasps one hand around the front of my throat, gripping it tightly enough to ensure my attention.

“Stop faking,” he hisses. “You’re not playing a role for me. When I’m inside you, I want nothing but the most authentic cries from your soul, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a good fucking girl.” His hand slides away from my throat, down my shoulder blade, then darts around underneath me and grasps my breast through the thin fabric of my dress. His thumb flicks across my nipple, and I suck in a quick breath as a thrill traces from that touch all the way to my clit .

“That’s it,” he purrs as I whimper for him. He squeezes my breast again, then runs his hand along my stomach before diving beneath the skirt to access my pussy. His Fae claws are still out, and I tremble there, on my hands and knees, impaled on his cock, while he teases my clit delicately with those terrifying nails.

“Pretty little maid.” His voice is low, harsh with lust. “Tell me why you were here in the hallway with your pussy all bare and wet.”

My response is barely a whisper. “I wanted you to find me and fuck me.”

“Shall we have this agreement then,” he murmurs, coaxing my clit toward bliss with his fingers, “that if you aren’t wearing your panties, I can use you anytime I like?”

“Yes, please, sir,” I whimper.

“You could be cooking dinner, cleaning your teeth, shaking out a rug, changing sheets, and I’m allowed to bury my cock in this sweet pussy anytime I like, as long as you’ve kept access open for me?”

“Yes,” I gasp, as he jiggles my clit rapidly with the flat of his fingertip. “Oh fuck, yes!” And I come, with a shaking cry. He hums his approval and presses two fingers over that spot while my pussy spasms around his hard length.

“Fuck,” he groans. “How do you feel this good?” He grips my waist and starts thrusting again, letting out fierce grunts as he increases his speed.

“Oh gods,” I exclaim, shrill and breathless, as he pummels me toward another orgasm. “I’m going to come again… shit…”

I scream this time, and he bellows a huge, shattered groan. The waves of pleasure that wash over me are impossibly high, irresistibly wild, drowning me in mind-ravishing bliss. It goes on and on, surge after surge of ecstasy, and every time he starts to ease himself out of me, another shock of pleasure hits us both and he sinks back in with a helpless moan. I can feel him more intensely, more vibrantly than I did last night, as if our connection is deeper somehow. I feel his shocked joy, his disbelief at the violence of this orgasmic maelstrom. I sense his care for me, his desire that I enjoy myself just as much as he does.

“Feather,” he pants, sometime during the storm of it all. “Feather, I love you.”

I’m thrilling through another paroxysm of glorious pleasure, unable to speak or breathe because I’m coming so hard. But when the sharpness of it eases and I can process words again, I murmur the words back to him.

Finally he manages to pull his cock out of me without triggering another orgasm, and we lie on the floor, exhausted, him on his side and me nestled in his arms.

“I think you’re my mate.” He breathes the words raggedly into my hair.

“The house put that word in my head earlier,” I reply. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a unique, lifelong bond that results in unusually violent pleasure between the mated pair. It is a soul-deep tie that cannot—or should not—be broken. But it should only be possible between Fae, when one of them comes from royal blood.”

“Maybe you do,” I suggest.

“No.” He lifts his hand to stroke my hair. The caress is absentminded, gentle. “After I left the trolls, I researched my bloodline, mostly so I could avoid my mother and anyone associated with her. She and my father were as far from royal as anyone could be.”

“Maybe we aren’t mates. Just normal lovers.”

He chuckles hoarsely. “The sex we’ve been having is anything but normal, even for the Fae. This level of pleasure is all new to me. ”

For a moment I lie still, relishing the light, careful scrape of his nails against my scalp. It feels delightful, and it’s relaxing.

“What would it mean if we were mates?” I ask him.

“Pain,” he says dolefully. “It doesn’t change the fact that I will have to leave you. When we do part ways, instead of a heart-wrenching sadness, our agony will be nearly unbearable.”

“Sounds like my life,” I murmur.

“I could lie to you, if you’d prefer that.”

“No. Always the truth between us, from now on.” I push myself upright, shoving my hair back from my face. “And since we’re truth-telling… something strange happened to me in the library.”

I tell him about the glowing hourglass, about the long moments I stood there immobilized by its power, and about the vanishing necklace. He sits up too, the lamps along the hallway highlighting the ridges of his black horns, glinting on the tiny ring in his nose. His expression grows more perplexed the longer I talk.

“Any idea what happened to me?” I ask, when my story is done.

“The house revealed the Nexus to you, and when you touched it, there was some sort of… reaction. Perhaps you absorbed some of its power, or perhaps you were merely a temporary channel. Maybe the necklace did go inside you somehow, or maybe it simply vanished.”

“I thought you would have answers.” I cock an eyebrow at him.

“I may be Fae, but I’ve never been a magical expert.” He chuckles ruefully. “Even the wards I laid around the house are questionable… they represent my best guess for our protection. I can recognize certain amulets, totems, and artifacts, and I can wield specific magics like geistfyre, but the broader realm of magical study is a mystery to me, as are many aspects of this house. ”

“Who might have more information about the house and the Nexus?”

“Nocturis, my overseer. But I don’t dare call for him. He won’t approve of all the impossible, wonderful things that you are. He might try to take you from me, and I’ll have to defy him, and then I’ll be annihilated.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “So it’s all a mess—one beyond your power to clean.”

“Perhaps.” I straighten my skirt and smooth my hair. “But until we think of a solution, or a new crisis presents itself, we simply need to do the next right thing.”

He watches me as I retrieve my sponge and begin washing the tiles again. “Is that what you used to tell yourself in the cabin?”

“Among other things.”

“It’s not a bad philosophy.” He hitches his pants into place, buttons them, and picks up the mop. When I look up at him, surprised, he smiles. “The work will go faster with two.”