9. Milkor

9

MILKOR

M eetha's face contorts, a storm of emotions playing across her features. Grief, anger, fear - they all war for dominance. She stumbles backward, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob.

"No," she chokes out, shaking her head in disbelief. "No, no, no..."

I watch, fascinated, as she battles her inner turmoil. Her eyes dart between her mother's body and me, confusion evident in her gaze. She takes a shuddering breath, steeling herself.

"Will he... will he have you kill me next?" Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her voice carrying the weight of her fear. The question hangs in the air, heavy with the implications of past events.

I study her face, noting the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes dart nervously to the shadows. This isn't just the fear of the moment; it's a deep-seated terror born from experience.

Her hand unconsciously moves to touch a small amulet hanging around her neck - a charm for good fortune, now seeming woefully inadequate.

Uncertainty washes over me as I consider Jarvil's erratic nature. "I do not know," I admit, the unfamiliar taste of uncertainty coating my tongue. "He is unpredictable."

Meetha's shoulders slump, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Unpredictable? That's one way to put it."

She wraps her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill. "You know, he's done this before. Not... not killing, but getting rid of people."

I remain silent, allowing her to continue. Her words come faster now, tumbling out as if she's been holding them back for too long.

"There was a servant girl, Lina. She spilled wine on his favorite tunic. The next day, she was gone. No explanation, just... gone."

Meetha's voice drops to a whisper. "And my older sister, Elara. She defied him, refused the marriage he'd arranged. She disappeared too. He said she'd run off with some trader, but I know... I know she wouldn't have left without saying goodbye."

Her eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

"And now my mother... I knew he didn't love her. But at least she was useful to him. He doesn't love me. Doesn't want me. I'm not useful. What's to stop him from..." She trails off, unable to finish the thought.

I watch as she battles her inner turmoil, her grief and fear warring with a desperate need for connection, for something to anchor her in this moment of upheaval.

"Take me," she requests, her voice steady despite the trembling of her hands. "Before he decides my fate as well."

I study her, my eyes raking over her delicate form. I sense her fear, but beneath it, a primal desire burns brightly. Her request isn't just about physical pleasure; it's an act of defiance, a way to claim some control over her life in the face of her father's unpredictable cruelty.

"I am not what I seem," I remind her.

"I know," she whispers, her gaze unwavering. A bitter laugh escapes her lips. "But what does it matter now? My mother is dead, my sister is gone, and I could be next. I trust you more than the uncertain future that awaits me."

Her words are laced with a mixture of grief and reckless abandon. She steps closer, her hand reaching out to touch my chest.

"Please," she breathes, her voice breaking. "I need to feel something other than this pain, this fear. Even if it's just for a moment."

The air crackles with anticipation as I reach out, my fingers brushing her soft cheek. Her eyes drift shut as she leans into my touch, surrendering to the moment. A single tear escapes, trailing down her cheek.

"Are you certain?" I growl, my voice rough with restrained desire. My true form longs to be released, to experience the intimacy in my true, demonic body.

Without hesitation, she begins to undress, her hands working quickly. The dress falls away, baring her smooth skin, the curves of her breasts, the swells of her hips. She stands vulnerably before me, courageous in her desire, yet I can see the conflict in her eyes - the guilt of feeling desire in the wake of such tragedy, the confusion of being drawn to me despite knowing I'm not what I appear to be.

In the dim light, I can see more clearly the intricate patterns of protective runes etched across her skin - a tapestry of magic and culture.

Pulling her trembling form into my arms, I savor the feel of her against me. Our lips clash in a fierce kiss, a dance of tongues and teeth that speaks of life and death. She clings to me desperately, as if I'm her lifeline in a storm of grief and uncertainty.

Meetha locks her hands around my neck and lifts her legs to wrap around my waist. I carry her, naked and quivering against me like a live wire past her mother's corpse.

The air reeks of fear and blood. She avoids looking at the body, teary eyes fixed ahead toward the chamber where Jarvil violated the woman I just killed.

The bedroom engulfs us in despair, its chill seeping into my bones. Here, Jarvil's cruel lust stained the simple bed with domination and pain. Pleasure is a myth, replaced by forced submission's grim reality.

The room where Korrine and Jarvil's bodies once writhed sickens me. Bringing Meetha to the bed where her mother likely submitted to Jarvil's demands revolts me.

"I will not claim you here," I murmur, my voice a low thrum that resonates in the hollow silence of the home. "Not where the stench of fear and submission lingers like a specter."

Her head is buried in my neck and I feel her jaggedly sigh. I wonder if she had believed that I, too, would succumb to the perverse allure of such a place.

I take her to the far corner of the dwelling, to a small room that serves as a storage space for odds and ends.

I lower her onto a makeshift bed of furs and discarded clothing. This act of tenderness feels foreign to my demonic essence.

Her skin glows in the dim light filtering through the cracks. The demon in me stirs, longing to break free from this elven guise. But I hold back, deciding not to reveal my true nature yet.

Her hands explore my chest, fingers tracing the contours of muscle beneath my shirt. I let out a low growl, my control slipping. Meetha's eyes widen, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she pulls me closer, her lips meeting mine in a desperate kiss.

I return the kiss with fervor, my hands roaming her body. Her skin is soft, warm, alive. So different from the cold emptiness I'm used to. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Please," she whispers, her voice thick with need. "I need to feel something... anything."

I oblige, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone. Her breath hitches as I take a nipple into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue. Her fingers tangle in my hair, urging me on.

My hand slides between her thighs, finding her already wet and ready. She gasps as I stroke her, her hips bucking against my hand. I can smell her arousal, feel the heat radiating from her core.

"Milkor," she pants, her eyes meeting mine. There's a hunger there, a desperation that matches my own.

I position myself between her legs, the tip of my cock brushing against her entrance. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. With one swift thrust, I'm inside her.

Meetha cries out, her nails digging into my back. I pause, giving her time to adjust. But she's impatient, her hips rocking against mine, urging me to move.

I begin to thrust, slowly at first, then faster as her moans of pleasure fill the small space. The floorboards of our makeshift bed creak beneath us, the furs rustling with each movement. But I barely notice, lost in the sensation of her tight heat around me.

Her climax builds quickly, her walls clenching around me. I feel my own release approaching, my demonic nature threatening to break free. With a final thrust, we both come undone, our cries of ecstasy mingling in the air.

The furs beneath us are damp with sweat, our bodies still entwined. Meetha's head rests on my chest, her breathing slowly returning to normal. I run my fingers through her hair, marveling at its softness. Such a stark contrast to the harshness of her life.

"What happens now?" she whispers, her voice barely audible.

I consider her question. In truth, I don't know. My plans have always revolved around the ring, but now... Now I find myself oddly reluctant to leave her side.

"Well," I reply, my voice low. "Your father will return soon."