Chapter 46

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

MAEVYTH

A bright haze of light blanketed my face, and I squinted past the luminosity to the clock on the mantel of the hearth.

Just past noon.

What?

I shot up out of bed, my hand tightly clutching an object. The dagger.

“Oh, no!” I darted across the room to the armoire, and swiped my training clothes from their hangers. Nearly five hours late, I very much doubted I’d find Zevander waiting for me in the training room. Nonetheless, I didn’t plan to scamper down there in my nightclothes to check. Once dressed, I slid the dagger into one of the otherwise weaponless loops on my breeches and hustled down the corridor, passing the butler along the way.

“Vendryck, have you seen Zevander?” I asked.

Chin tipped up, he stared down the long bridge of his nose. “Lord Rydainn is in his study, I believe.”

“Can you point me in that direction?

He extended a lengthy, slender finger toward the main hallway, which curved around a tower to another long corridor. “Fourth door on the right.”

“Thank you.” Despite the intense pangs of hunger gnawing at my stomach, I darted down the hallway until I came upon the fourth door.

The frantic thudding of my racing pulse had my hands trembling, made obvious as I held up my fist to knock twice against the wooden panel.

“Yes.” The irritation in his voice bled through the door, and I winced as I opened it to find him hunched over a desk, sifting through pages of a book. He made a disapproving growl in his throat, as I stepped inside the room.

Rain tapped against the wide arched windows behind him, the gloom of clouds casting a dim light across the room. Candles stood in clusters on the fireplace mantle and a small table, wavering as I passed. The room held a hauntingly beautiful ambience, but with a moody undercurrent, and I could easily have imagined hours spent reading in peace. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I overslept.” I slid into the seat across from him, clutching the arms of the chair to calm myself.

Another grumbling sound in his throat while he kept on with his reading. Ignoring me.

A minute passed in what felt like the span of a century.

Then another.

Finally, I peered across the desk for a peek of his book. “May I ask what you’re studying?”

He flipped the book closed on his finger, allowing me to read the title on the faded, leather cover. Aethyrian Alchemical Codex.

“That must be quite old. The leather looks like it’s about to peel right off.”

“It isn’t leather. It’s human skin.”

“Oh.” A grimace pulled at my lips, and I cleared my throat. “Is that some sort of medical reference?” It must’ve been the thickest book I’d ever seen.

“Some sort.” He didn’t even bother to look up at me as he turned the page.

Knee bouncing, I bit the inside of my cheek, the irritation of his clipped responses grinding on me. “If you must know, it’s partially your fault that I woke up late.”

That earned me a scowl. He sat back in his chair and tipped his head. “And just how am I responsible?”

“The dagger.” I slipped it from the holster at my hip and laid it carefully on the desk. “I’ve not slept well in days. Between Magdah’s tea and the comfort of the dagger at my bedside, I slept like the dead.” Sans the moments beforehand, when I’d actually been visited by the dead.

His gaze shifted to the blade and back to me, but he made no effort to retrieve it. “What about the dagger made you sleep well?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always felt somewhat vulnerable in my sleep.”

He exhaled a long sigh and pushed the weapon back toward me. “Keep it.”

“You trust me roaming about with a blade?”

“Possessing a blade doesn’t make you a threat. It’s the mind which governs the weapon.”

“The mind can be capricious,” I countered. “One moment it’s content, the next, it’s spoiling for violence.”

His eyes darkened, and my skin prickled. “Is that another threat?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoyed the challenge.”

While his lips twitched, his expression remained as impassive as ever. “Depends on who’s holding the dagger.” His gaze dipped to the blade in my hand. “We’ll skip training today. Perhaps you can help me understand something.”

“Me?” Frowning, I slid the blade back at my hip. “How?”

“The day in the training room when you spun the staff … you mentioned you felt a sense of arousal. But tell me exactly what you saw in your mind .”

The request had me shifting in my seat, recalling the sensations I’d felt that day. Arousal was the simplest of terms. “I actually felt a complete loss of control. It wasn’t so much that I was controlling the staff. It felt more so that the staff was controlling me. Or … something inside of me.”

“What was it inside of you that felt affected?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but there was a sense of … familiarity. Protection. Like a warm blanket.”

His brows pinched with a frown. “A warm blanket.”

“I just mean I felt comforted. I trusted it. In my mind it appeared as gentle ribbons of fire. Calming.”

He cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his jaw, his eyes studying me, as usual. “The amount of magic that you pulled from me would’ve killed anyone else. Burned them from the inside out. Had my own sister attempted such a thing, she would’ve been vomiting liquid organs.” His words snapped me out of my musings, and a sobering realization washed over me. “You have a very dangerous gift, Maevyth. Were you anyone else, you’d be considered a threat, and I eliminate threats without question.”

“I swear to you, none of this makes any sense to me. I would not lie to you.”

Easing back into his chair, he sighed. “I believe you. Even if it makes me a fool.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Oh, you’ll do it again. Because I want to know the mechanics behind it.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.” He pushed up from his chair and rounded his desk, looming over me as he came to a stop alongside my chair. With a flick of his fingers, he urged me to stand, and I did, staring square at his muscled chest while I fought to look him in the eye. He raised his palm. “Place your hand against mine.”

Without hesitation, I did as he commanded, noting how much longer and stronger his fingers were compared to mine. How easily he could crush my bones, had he the notion to do so.

“I’m going to channel the flame into you. As much as you can take. However, if it becomes too much, I want you to tell me.”

“Okay.”

“Promise you’ll tell me, Maevyth.”

I nodded. “I promise.”

His tongue swept across his lips, and God help me, I had to look away at the twinge of curiosity rippling through me, taunting me with phantom sensations of how they’d feel across my throat. “We’ll go slow.”

Another nod, and I stifled a shiver at the anticipation.

Heat hit the center of my palm, a pulsing radiance that beat into my wrist, my forearm and elbow, to my shoulder and across my chest. I closed my eyes as the heat warmed my insides, the way Grandfather’s wine had felt whenever I’d had too much to drink. A pleasant buzz of energy that toasted my cheeks.

“Tell me how it feels, Maevyth.” His voice. God, his voice tickled my imagination, while that glorious sensation snaked through my blood.

“It feels … good.” The brevity of my words was the only shield to the carnal thoughts that corrupted my imagination.

“I’m going to give you a little more.”

“Yes. Please.” I opened my eyes to see his rapt gaze, the fascination in his intense stare.

Heat simmered and heightened, my muscles trembling, softening, yielding to the power that throbbed in my blood and muscles in erotic waves of pleasure. Lips parted, I tipped my head back as the ribbons of flame weaved in and out of my veins, as if it longed to touch every corner of me. Squeezing and releasing in slow and sensual contractions.

“A little more, okay?” His voice held a deep, husky timber, as if he were restraining himself, holding his power back.

Again, I nodded, my lids lowering once more. “Yes. It’s okay. Give me more.”

Another rush of burning heat flooded my body, like scorching lava, but god, it felt good. So good. Like the times I’d touched myself in the quiet darkness and my muscles had begun to lock up, trembling and warming with the promise of climax.

“Maevyth, are you okay?”

“Yes. Please. Don’t stop.”

His fingers curled into mine, and another round of fire blazed through me. “What are you feeling?”

The feverish tension between us turned ravenous and exhilarating, raking through me with sharp claws.

“Chaos,” I said on a choked breath. “It feels like chaos.” I clenched my teeth, my muscles taut and trembling as I clutched his hand, letting the power surge through me. A moan leaked past my lips, and I felt his fingers tighten on mine, crushing my hand.

When I opened my eyes, his hair clung to his damp forehead, where beads of sweat had gathered. The veins in his neck protruded, and he licked his lips, eyes intently focused on me.

I slowly dragged my tongue across my lips, and he raised his other hand, which I didn’t hesitate to clutch. “More,” I rasped.

The intensity of heat pouring through me had me tipping my head back, and I cried out, nails digging into his hands. “Don’t stop. Please. Please don’t stop!”

The heat snapped to cold as he released my hands.

I opened my eyes to see him stumble back a step, sweat pouring down his temples. Shallow panting breaths fluttered out of me, as I stared back at him, feeling as if we’d just gone to battle.

“What the seven hells are you?” he rasped through labored breaths. “Anyone privy to this loathsome curse would fear the flame, but you … ” Brow furrowed, he shook his head. “You revel in it like a drunken spirityne.” The trace contempt in his voice took me by surprise.

“I don’t know what happened. I was just?—"

He lurched toward me, clamped his hand around my nape, and crushed his lips to mine.

A shocked breath escaped me, captured by his commanding mouth and those full lips that consumed me with the delicious flavor of toffee, undertones of smoldering embers, and a hint of something warm and spicy, like cinnamon. Beneath those, the lingering traces of his liquor. A taste that brought to mind images of long, languid nights beside a slowly fading fire. An engulfing heat and damp skin. Wandering fingertips and wet tongues.

Whatever disdain he’d felt moments ago melted in the heat of his kiss.

I stood dumbfounded, lips parted, allowing him to exert his control as he devoured the air in my lungs between stinging nips of his teeth. A raw, aching need weakened my knees, while he kissed me with the assertion of a man who’d never been refused by a woman. One whose catalogue of dark pleasures rivaled the thickness of the book he’d studied moments ago. The way his tongue masterfully swept through my mouth and across my lips, teasing and taunting me, warned of dangerous passion. A man who could easily ruin me in one night.

“You are a fucking torment, Lunamiszka ,” he said through clenched teeth, as if he were angry. With me? Before I could voice the question, he dug his fingers into my nape and dragged me in for another kiss, growling against my lips.

A peculiar sensation wound inside my chest, like strings pulling me inside of him. Stomach fluttering. Thighs trembling. A greedy hunger pulsed and throbbed between my legs on a rush of liquid heat. An intensity that stirred my nerves to life, quickly severed when his hand pressed against my throat, breaking the kiss.

I opened my eyes to find his chest heaving, a guarded expression on his face, like that of a cornered animal.

My lips burned with his assault, tingling with a craving for more of his kiss.

“What is this?” he asked, his ragged voice carrying a hint of bewilderment. Dilated pupils swallowed the gold of his irises, and his brows furrowed deeper than before as he thumbed his lip. “It can’t ...” His voice drifted off, eyes losing focus as he seemed to slip into thoughts.

“It’s okay. I want this.”

“You don’t know what this is.”

I reached out for him, and he nearly tripped over himself to back away. Pangs of humiliation coiled in my stomach and burned in my already heated cheeks. “Did I …. Did I do something wrong?”

“I need you to leave. Now.”

“Not until you tell me if I did something wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong. Now, go.”

Without another word, I made my way to the door, his warm, spicy flavor still burning my lips.

“Maevyth,” he called out for me, and I paused, with my hand on the lever. “We can never do this again.”

Without another word, I slipped out of his office.

S mall, white sachets sat stacked on the settee, alongside a wooden bowl of mixed herbs that I’d gathered from the kitchen. Lavender and chamomile, star anise and thyme, mugwort and peppermint. A separate bowl held dried asphodels that Magdah kept on hand as protection against the Deimosi.

I slid the stems of dried baby’s breath and lady’s mantle through the fabric of the sachet, my head tormenting me with thoughts. Thoughts of strong hands across my skin, fingertips rubbing and caressing warm and swollen flesh, salt on my tongue and teeth at my throat. His lips, and that delicious flavor lingering on my palate like an unforgotten delight. How badly I wanted to feel it again, to savor it.

On a sharp exhale, I forced myself to focus on the task, to banish the visuals of that kiss which had clearly troubled him for reasons I still puzzled.

Focus.

I filled the sachet with the herbs, then strung it with twine from the canopy of my bed.

A knock at the door jerked my muscles that were still jittery and warm. The door cracked open, and Rykaia peered in, before crossing the room and taking a seat on the other end of the settee, her confused gaze sweeping over my mess.

“What is this?”

“We call them weavers back at home. The combination of herbs and spices induce sleep and ward off nightmares.”

She twisted toward my bed, where a half-dozen already hung. “Can I make one?”

I nodded and handed her a sachet, along with the bowl of herbs.

“What is that bowl?” she asked, pointing to the asphodels.

“That one is for the dead.”

“You see the dead here? In this castle?” She eyed me, as I weaved the dried flowers through the fabric and carefully poked a stem of baby’s breath through hers.

“I haven’t until last night. It’s strange, I was seeing them frequently back in Mortasia.” I kept on with my weaving, doing my best to mentally ward off the image of the ghostly woman that’d plagued my mind the night before, until I’d finally fallen asleep.

“Do you burn your dead?”

“No. Not unless they’re diseased, or believed to harbor demons.”

She snorted. “Harbor demons? Malevol inside a mortal body? I can’t think of anything worse. Mortals are essentially powerless, you being the exception, and you don’t live long.”

“I suppose, when you put it that way, it is silly that they’d choose to inhabit us.”

Quiet lingered between us, before she paused her weaving, the lack of movement dragging my attention to her. “But you saw one last night. In this room.”

“Yes. A woman.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “What did she look like?”

I sighed, recalling the features that had imprinted themselves in my nightmares, alongside The Banishing Man and the Lyverian girl. And Aleysia. “White hair, pale skin. Black eyes.”

Her eyes flickered in a way that left me wondering if she knew the woman. “Did she say anything to you?”

“She told me not to trust him .”

“Who?”

Shaking my head, I shrugged. “I don’t know. I only saw her briefly. Why did you ask if we burn our dead?”

“All our dead are burned. Their bodies create bloodstones, which eventually become vivicantem. I just wondered if perhaps that’s why you’re not seeing them as much here.”

“Maybe. But then, why would I have been visited last night?”

She snapped her gaze from mine and looped the stems faster, sloppier, as she shoved stems haphazardly through the fabric. “Some aren’t burned. Some die in awful ways.”

“You knew the woman.”

Her jaw shifted, and she nodded. “Pain and grief are entwined in every stone of this castle.”

“May I ask who she was?”

Brows pinched, she ignored my question and kept on with her weaving. When she finished, she held it up between us. “How’s this?”

Not wanting to prod her any further, I glanced toward the sachet and smiled. “Perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.”