Chapter 13

13

" Y ou still haven't told me where we're going," I grumble as I wipe the sweat off my forehead. We've been walking in this forest for hours . "And why we have to walk and not teleport like you always do."

PomPom and BonBon are walking by my side, wiggling their tails. Their faces are the epitome of happiness as they explore their new surroundings. Surprisingly, they haven't made a sound of protest at the long distance.

The forest is thick, the canopy obscuring the sky. There is a myriad of sounds around, all pointing to different creatures that might pop out and bite me.

So what if I'm technically immortal now thanks to this annoying bond to Mister Grumpy Pants? I still wouldn't appreciate being bitten by a giant anaconda or whatever prowls in the forests of Akkaya.

And since I'm wearing a dress that only reaches past my knees, my calves are fair game for the tall grass and plants that brush against me. There is no beaten path where we're going—nothing to indicate anyone's been around for years.

I scratch my ankle, the spot red from the bite of an insect. It itches, and I'm getting annoyed. But I take consolation in the fact that he's itching too.

Nykander stops, raising a brow at me as he studies me from head to toe.

"You will know when we get there," he answers cryptically.

"See, now, Mr. Dark One. I don't appreciate being kept in the dark, no matter how much you might like it there," I tell him pointedly. "I get that I'm basically your portable food bank, but I would appreciate some information."

His lips tremble with mirth at my description of portable food bank .

"I cannot teleport us to a place I have never been," he answers slowly. "My powers only work with familiar places."

"Oh," I murmur.

"It is getting dark. We should camp here for the night," he mentions, ignoring my actual questions.

He studies the area, settling on a remote spot between two giant trees. He leaves me alone as he teleports back and forth to bring supplies—fresh water, food, and a makeshift tent that he ties on the branch of each tree to provide a modicum of cover. When he's done, he builds a fire and disappears again.

I'm staying by the sidelines, staring at him as he moves at the speed of light arranging everything. But it's when he teleports back for the last time that my heart explodes in my chest.

He quietly carries two dog beds and lays them in the tent. PomPom and BonBon give him a happy bark each and a lick as they hurry to their beds, exhausted after a day of walking.

"That was thoughtful of you." I take a seat by the fire.

He grunts, turning his attention to setting up the rest of the tent while I heat up some food.

When he's done, he joins me, though a distance away.

"I'm still waiting, you know," I mention as I hand him a small bowl of meat and roast potatoes.

He gives me a deadly look and mutters something under his breath.

"I'm not going to stop. I will continue to ask and annoy you. So you'd better tell me," I warn.

He doesn't answer, taking a small bite of his meat.

"Dark One?"

No reply.

"Nykander?"

Nope, he continues to ignore me.

"Nyk?"

"Do not call me that," he growls.

Finally! A reaction.

"Then you'd better answer me. I'm waiting." I lean back and give him an innocent smile.

He shakes his head at me. After a moment, though, he speaks.

"I am looking for an artifact. The same one that Damien is searching for."

"What artifact?" I ask, curious.

I slide closer to him.

He scowls at me.

I flutter my lashes at him.

"The realm I am from, Tartareia, was sealed off thousands of years ago by a goddess. It is impossible to go in or out of it now. The artifact in question would allow me to enter the realm."

I blink, surprised by his answer.

"So you want to go home?"

"In a manner of speaking," he notes, his expression shrouded in mystery.

"What type of artifact is it?"

"You ask a lot of questions," he grumbles.

"Of course. Wouldn't you if you were in my shoes?"

He narrows his eyes at me. With a sigh, he continues.

"There are two realms that have always been in opposition, Aperion and Tartareia. To some, the former was the home of the gods while the latter was the home of the demons. To others, it was the reverse. We are all products of the Source, but the universe thrives on balance—where there is darkness, there will be light."

"Okay… I get it, you're the Dark One."

"You asked me to explain. I am," he fires back at me. Clearing his throat, he goes on. "These artifacts are items infused with the essence of The Primordials—the first gods. There are fourteen of them, housed securely in Aperion."

"So we're going to Aperion?"

"No." He chuckles. "I would never be allowed to step foot in Aperion. But a few thousand years ago, I heard rumors of one artifact being hidden in a different part of the universe." He pauses. "In Akkaya."

"Oh." I blink.

"There are fifteen royal Houses in Aperion. Each House has a Temple and a High Priestess who is in charge of the protection of its artifact, except for the House of Moirai and the House of Psyche who share one artifact. Soon after Tartareia was sealed off, the High Priestess from the House of Ananke disappeared, together with the artifact."

"So we're looking for this High Priestess?"

He nods.

"I don't have the exact location, but I have a few clues. The problem now is that Damien has those clues, too," he adds, his expression tense.

"Wait. Is Damien from Tartareia, too?"

"In a manner of speaking. He is not the same kind as me, but he is…similar."

"I don't understand." I frown.

"My kind is born this way, with these abilities and increased lifespan. We require blood to keep our energy flow constant. But there is another way to gain similar abilities." He pauses as he takes a deep breath. "The blood bond between two mates is not the only type of bond there is."

"What do you mean?" I frown.

"A Son of Tenebreis may use his blood to turn a person into his thrall. This usually happens with corrupted spirits that have the capacity for destruction but no guidance for it. Damien was such a spirit at one point, before a Son of Tenebreis converted him into what he is now—a high-level demon. Although our abilities are similar, there is also a difference. High-level demons do not feed on blood. They only feed on energy. Souls," he adds grimly.

"He eats souls?" I repeat in a low voice.

A shiver goes down my back.

Damien was a demon. I sat and ate at the same table as a demon.

Good Lord! I was almost sacrificed by a demon!

"Souls are the purest energy in the universe. Why do you think there is a rumor about me causing that plague to use the energy of the souls to heal?" He raises a brow.

"But…" I falter as I put two and two together. "Oh my God! Does that mean that Damien caused the plague? And he is the one consuming the souls?"

He nods.

"It is the most plausible explanation."

"But a plague? Couldn't he just, I don't know, eat one or two souls? Why does he need so many? Half the population of Akkaya is gone !"

His mouth pulls into a tight grimace.

"Because that is the nature of a thrall demon. In the beginning, one soul can provide nourishment for a long time. But as these demons use their powers more and more, they need to feed constantly. By my calculations, Damien should be close in age to me, which suggests he needs a high volume of souls to operate at an optimal capacity."

"How old are we talking about?" I dare to ask.

"Time flows differently here, but in Tartareian age, I am thirteen thousand five hundred and nine years."

I gawk at him.

Thirteen thousand…

"I am twenty-one," I whisper.

"I did not ask for your age, human, nor do I care about it."

"But don't you see?" I burst out, grabbing onto the material of his shirt and dragging myself closer to him. "I am twenty-one and I am mated to a thirteen-thousand-year-old god/demon, whatever you are! I'm getting lightheaded," I add dramatically.

"I do not see the need for histrionics, Barbi," he mumbles drily. "It is what it is."

"How could it be? Do you know there are hundreds of forums making fun of books where the heroine is a young and innocent human and the hero is a hundred-year-old supernatural baddie? In our case, you're thirteen thousand years old—even worse. You're basically robbing the cradle, Nykander." I shake my head at him.

He plucks my hands off his person and deposits me away from him.

"You are not a heroine and I am not a hero, Barbi," he speaks slowly, his eyes trained on me.

I release a heavy sigh.

"Of course you would say that," I mumble.

He gives me a warning look.

I return my attention to my food, chewing slowly as I think of painful ways to make him regret his words.

"Wait a moment!" I suddenly say, my eyes widening at the realization. "If Damien is consuming souls at such an alarming speed, then…" I gulp down. "Is that why he was so interested in how many people are in my world? Because he wants to eat them too?"

Nykander nods.

"Precisely. It is also why he would need to sacrifice you," he explains matter-of-factly. "Demons can only travel from one world to another in their physical form by using the blood of someone from the target world. Your blood functions like a key to open the portal for him to go to Anthropa."

I stare in shock at him.

"Does that mean I saved my world? By not dying, I mean?"

"Well," he muses thoughtfully. "Technically, you did."

"Ha!" I point my finger at him as I jump to my feet.

He blinks in surprise.

"I am a heroine. I saved Earth from psycho Damien!" I jump up and down ecstatically. "I knew I was meant for greater things," I add in a wistful tone. "Ever since I was young, I knew I had a bigger fate than just going to school and becoming a boring lawyer—which I was never going to do anyway, and my mother would have probably disowned me."

"Barbi, you are doing that thing again," Nykander mentions wryly.

"So what! I am a heroine . You should thank me, you know. Now, by extension, you are a hero too since you are my mate. I know you would have never imagined such a thing, with your villainous reputation and all."

"Your logic does not make sense," he murmurs, though he's fighting a smile.

"Come on, Nykander. I know you secretly like it," I say as I drop down next to him. "Admit it." I wiggle my brows at him suggestively.

"I will admit no such thing." He chuckles.

My lips slowly stretch into a smile as I regard him. He looks like a different man when he's laid-back like this, laughing instead of scowling at me and telling me all the things I can't do.

"There is one thing I am not clear about, though," I start. "Why is it that you have such a bad reputation in Akkaya? Everyone was telling me that you were after Damien because you wanted to steal his crown."

He scoffs.

"As if. I was after him because he happens to be the thrall of a man I abhor. He heard the rumor that the artifact might be located in Akkaya and he sent Damien here to get it for him. But you have met him. He is a narcissistic bastard who thrives on adulation."

"A cheating bastard too," I quip. "When I met him, he was in bed with two naked girls. Two , Nykander. And his wife was standing right there!"

"She is his wife only in name," he mentions. "She is also a thrall, and they use their marriage as a cover."

"It doesn't matter! A marriage is a marriage," I declare proudly.

The corner of his mouth pulls up.

"That is the least of Damien's sins. I have been trying to create a resistance against him, which worked for some time while I searched for clues about the artifact's location." He purses his lips. "Someone in my camp must have betrayed me because not only did he know I found new clues about the artifact, but he also knew when I would be at my weakest. I hadn't fed in months when he ambushed me and locked me in his dungeon, hoping to pry the clues from my mind," he explains.

I frown.

"Why hadn't you fed in so long? You said you need to feed daily to operate at optimal strength."

A rueful smile tips at his lips.

"I used to only feed out of necessity and never from a live donor. You could say you were the exception." He laughs. "And look where it got me," he mutters in a low, barely audible voice.

"Why? If you're such a baddie, why would you not feed from people? You're the Dark One! Surely you could get away with killing a few people—not that I'm instigating murder." I quickly put my hands up. "I would never do that," I whisper. "But what do villains care about murder, no? You killed those guards at the palace with ease."

"Killing and feeding are two different things," he muses as he leans back, closing his eyes and tipping his head toward the sky. "I vowed to someone I would never personally feed from another. Although now I have broken that vow…"

"Out of necessity ," I point out.

Why do I feel the need to comfort him? Especially when it reinforces the fact that I'm nothing but a tool to him.

But there's something about his body language that tugs at my heartstrings. The wind blows his dark locks into his face, but he makes no effort to move them aside. He simply stays like that, face oriented to the sky, eyes closed, and lips parted. It's almost as if he's not here anymore—as if his mind has traveled to another location.

I stare at him for moments on end as silence descends between us. All I hear is his breath, complemented by the whoosh of the wind and the sound of the wild animals roaming through the woods.

There's a tinge of sadness emanating from him, and I have the sudden urge to move to his side and give him a hug—wrap him in my arms and murmur that it's okay.

But I don't. I just look at him while he looks at his past.

I draw my knees to my chest and place my head on top of them.

We might not be talking in this moment, but we share something.

Loneliness.

We might be together, but we are each lonely in our own way.

I know my demons well. But what about his?

What haunts him when he closes his eyes?

Bringing the back of my hand to my eyes, I wipe away the moisture coating my lashes.

"I'm going to sleep," I speak as I get up.

He doesn't hear me. He remains in his trance.

I take my place in the tent next to the dogs, and I bring their little bodies closer to me, borrowing their warmth.

Nykander doesn't move.

My lids become heavier and heavier, but until the moment I fall asleep, my eyes are on him.

A deep rumble wakes me up from my sleep. The sound is insistent, preventing me from going back to sleep. My babies stretch around me, whimpering but not waking up. I lay a kiss on top of their heads as I groggily get up to investigate the source of the noise.

It's pitch-black out.

The fire has almost burned out. Only a few pieces of wood retain a spark, enough to illuminate the outline of a sleeping Nykander caught under the weight of his nightmares.

"Nykander?" I whisper as I tread carefully toward him.

He's on his back with one hand under his head. His long body is stretched on the ground, with nothing to cushion him from the abrasive soil.

Why hadn't he come to the tent? We'd set it up for this exact reason, so we would be comfortable lying down. The stubborn man had gone through the trouble of getting special beds for the dogs but had paid no mind to his own comfort.

I shake my head.

He releases another low moan, his lips half parted, his face marred by a scowl.

He must be having a nightmare. And after being imprisoned for so long in that dungeon, I don't blame him. He probably has all types of PTSD related to it.

Reaching his side, I get to my knees and carefully touch his shoulder.

"Nykander? Wake up and come to the tent. You'll be more comfortable there."

Of course I don't expect him to easily acquiesce. In fact, he might put up a fight for the mere fact that I am in the tent too. He sometimes behaves as if I were a leper—which is not great for my confidence. Alas, hopefully, he will make an exception this time so we can all go back to sleep.

"Nykander?" I push gently against his shoulder.

He murmurs something, his brows bunched up together, his body rocking softly from side to side.

I lean in closer to his mouth and strain to hear what he's saying.

"Mo…"

Mo?

"More what?" I ask, but he doesn't seem to hear me.

Drops of sweat are gathered on his forehead and dripping down his face. I place the back of my hand to his skin. He's burning! Is this normal? Shouldn't he self-heal?

"Don't," he rasps. "Mo… Don't… Please…"

He's not making any sense.

"Nykander." I shake him gently. "You're having a bad dream. Wake up!"

He doesn't react.

He's trapped in his nightmare, trying to claw his way out of it but being unable to do so. And I don't know how to help him.

"Nyk, please…" I whisper.

His eyes snap open.

Despite the darkness of the night, his eyes shine brightly, a molten silver that lights up as he sets his gaze on me.

"You're awake." I release a sigh of relief. "I was worried for a moment since you weren't answering and…"

My relief is short-lived as I find myself on my back with him looming on top of me, his hand wrapped around my neck. It's not a bruising hold. In fact, it's almost gentle as he swipes his thumb over my skin in circular motions. His warmth transfers to my skin, infiltrating my pores and consuming me like a raging inferno.

My heart thuds in my chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound echoes in my ears, complemented by his harsh breaths as he stops a breath away from my face. A low tremor starts from the base of my skull, traveling all the way to my toes, making them curl and do a weird dance of excitement.

I lick my lips, staring into his beautiful face.

His eyes are on mine, his stare boring into me.

There's an intensity to his gaze that renders me speechless—a mess of sensations, all foreign yet familiar at the same time.

My breath hitches.

There's heat. Searing, insufferable heat. Yet the last thing I want is to cool off. No, I want to plunge myself into this inferno and never resurface—at least not whole.

The mark on my chest burns, lighting up under my dress, almost as if it can sense the proximity of his own mark. I bring my hand to his chest, draping it down his unbuttoned shirt and searching for that spot. As my palm makes contact with his mark, a zap of energy shocks me. His mark becomes alive as it twirls and slithers on his chest. Like a serpent, it curls over my palm, pulling me closer almost as if it wants to tie us together through an invisible threat.

He doesn't look away.

I can't either.

My hand against his naked skin, I feel every beat of his heart as he regards me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

There's an eerie exactitude to the rhythm of his heart, one that emulates mine to the beat.

He moves sinuously on top of me, placing his arm under me so he won't squish me with his weight. His hard body blankets my own, his hips cradled between my legs.

He's…hard.

"Nyk…"

"Mo," he murmurs, lowering his head and breathing me in. "Mine. Mo. Mine."

His lips hover over my face as he slowly slides lower and lower until he reaches my neck. His tongue peeks out to lick the spot right under my jaw.

My mind blanks on me as goose bumps cover my skin, thrills of pleasure shooting through me.

He wraps his lips around my skin, drawing it into his mouth and nibbling at it with his teeth. At first, it's playful bites. But as his fangs protrude and sink into my skin, I feel a sharp pain that is quickly replaced by sheer pleasure.

"Nyk." I gasp, arching my back against him, holding him close and willing him to never stop.

The blood leaves my body, transferring into his, and the connection between us strengthens. His mark pulses under my palm. My mark burns as it seeks more of his touch.

"Mine," he whispers sensually, making me blush uncontrollably.

He licks the wound on my neck languidly as it heals and he drags his fangs across my skin, more blood pooling to the surface. His own skin breaks, too, in response.

"Drink," he commands in a rough voice.

I blink, disconcerted for a moment. But as his big hand cups my nape and pulls me closer to his neck, my mouth automatically opens to taste his blood. But as I run my lips over his neck, his wounds close too quickly for me to get more than a small taste.

"Bite me," he commands.

His voice is deep and alluring, speaking to a hidden side of me that wants nothing else but to please him. My body is no longer my own as I move and writhe to rub myself all over him, bathe in his essence while he feeds on my own.

I wrap my lips around his flesh, feeling the blood pump in his veins under his skin, hearing the beat of his heart as if it were my own.

Yet how can I bite him with my blunt teeth?

"Bite me," he repeats. The command booms inside of me, the bass of his voice reverberating through my entire being until all I can do is obey him.

I was born for this. I was made just for this.

To be here, in this moment. To be… his .

I bring my teeth down on his skin, my canines lengthening until they're buried deep in his flesh. Fresh blood flows into my mouth and I gulp it down greedily, feeding as if I've done this my entire life.

"That's my girl," he rasps against my ear, the praise feeding my ego like his blood feeds my essence. "Drink me up. Every drop. Every fucking drop, Mo."

Mo.

Mo.

Mo.

The word echoes in my mind, a thousand warning bells going off at once.

When he was mumbling it before, I thought it was merely an incoherent word.

But it's not, is it?

My body goes slack under him.

It's not what I think it is…right?

He peppers kisses all along my jaw, his fangs grazing my flesh as he licks his way toward my lips.

"My girl," he whispers. "My Mo."

I freeze.

My stomach plummets, a wave of nausea rolling over me.

Before his lips can touch my own and steal my first kiss, I muster up all my strength and push him off me, moving my head out of the way so I can drag a deep breath into my battered lungs.

My lashes are damp and tears burn behind my retina.

Inhale. Exhale .

The sky is closing in on me as the burn in my chest becomes an unbearable inferno. But not one of pleasure. It's one of pain.

He rolls away from me.

He blinks slowly, clarity entering his gaze, and with it, a harsh look that speaks more than a thousand words. His cheek twitches. His mouth is set in a grim line as he sets his deadly glare on me.

Then he proceeds to kill me with five words.

"You are not my Mo."

We stare at each other in silence, both breathing hard.

He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture one of disgust. A feral expression claims his features as his nostrils flare.

"I—" I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

"Go to sleep, Barbi," he orders, his voice vibrating in the air.

I lick my lips, tasting his residual blood, and I falter.

"Go to sleep. Tomorrow we will leave at first light."

"We should talk about this. About?—"

"There is nothing to talk about. Go. To. Sleep."

His eyes flash at me and I scurry away from him, running back to the tent.

He stands up, looking up at the sky for a few moments before he disappears.

I know he's not far. I can still sense him—or, this wretched mark over my heart can sense him. But his absence cuts a hole inside my chest.

I lie down, hugging PomPom and BonBon, but sleep proves elusive.

There is only one pervasive thought.

Who is Mo?