Chapter 24 - Calliope

The first time a beast makes it into the castle is three days later. I cannot yet know why, but it is me the creature seeks out upon making it inside.

It is deep in the night, past midnight. Once again unwilling to spend another moment alone in Arvoren's bed while he skulks the halls of this wretched place, I find myself here. The library looms, its doors creaking as I push them open, slipping inside and letting the silence swallow me. Those familiar old books rise like dark sentinels, towering from floor to ceiling, their contents filling the air with the faint scent of leather and parchment, mingling with the cool stone. The library is almost always empty, but tonight, its stillness presses in with an unsettling weight.

I step lightly, moving deeper into the dimly lit rows, my voice hushed as I call out, "Linus?"

The word barely carries, a whisper in the vast, shadowed expanse. Only silence answers. I take another step, my gaze sweeping down the rows, trying to pierce the heavy gloom. He must be here somewhere.

I have questions for him. I want to know about his family’s role in the revolts, his position in this city, the progress of the rebels. I want to know whether they still plan to murder my husband.

Privately, I want to know whether I even still want that.

I call his name again, a little louder this time, letting the sound drift through the still air. But all I hear in reply is the faint rustle of paper as a draft stirs somewhere in the depths of the library. No faint murmured greeting, no uncomfortably knowing laughter echoing from the darkness of the archives.

Frustrated, certain he must be here, I continue forward, each step cautious, my senses heightened, searching for any sign of movement.

A faint noise sounds from somewhere among the shelves, soft and indistinct, like something shifting in the darkness. Relief blooms in my chest—I'm sure it must be Linus, moving among the aisles, searching for one of the dusty tomes he seems to spend so many hours poring over here.

But as I listen closer, something about the sound strikes me as odd.

There's a gravity to the movement, a steady, ponderous weight that doesn't match the soft, gliding movements of the man I cannot comfortably call my ally. I hesitate, the relief draining from me quickly as it arrived, as a darker thought creeps in. The air feels colder, sharper suddenly. Then, that heavy weight again, moving between the shelves.

The thing in the library with me is not human, I realize in a single chilling moment.

The noise draws closer, echoing off the stone walls. An instinctive urge to hide grips me. A low growl rumbles up to the high ceiling, reverberating off the shelves in a wave. A sickening thrill of fear grips me. I hold my breath, every inch of me frozen as I press myself against the side of a towering bookshelf. Perhaps here, it won’t see me. My fingers dig into the wood, and a slight tremor runs through them, betraying my frayed nerves.

The growl fades, replaced by a dense, charged silence. I risk a small, silent exhale, my gaze darting along the aisle, scanning for any sign of movement. But the shadows are thick, impenetrable, and the flickering sconces offer no help, their light barely reaching past the first few rows of shelves.

Then, I hear it—a soft, deliberate scraping, as though claws were being dragged slowly, purposefully along the stone floor. The sound weaves through the narrow aisles, not far from where I hide, prowling closer. It smells you.

I press myself further against the shelf, shrinking back, willing myself to disappear, strain my ears, trying to place its position—but the echoes distort its direction, making it feel as if it's everywhere at once.

I know I should move, slip away while it's distracted, but paralysis grips me, a strange, gut-wrenching dread.

A chill runs down my spine as I finally catch a glimpse of it—a hulking shadow gliding slowly between the shelves, its form partially obscured by the darkness.

It's massive, taller than a man, its body distorted and misshapen. A beast fit to be the mount of a vengeful God. A thick mane of fur bristles along its back, and as it prowls forward, I catch the glint of golden, unblinking eyes locked in a gaze that pierces the darkness. My breath catches in my throat, terror closing around my chest as the creature lifts its head, sniffing the air, a faint scent of something dark and metallic curling from its mouth.

I pull back, keeping myself hidden, though every instinct screams at me to run. The beast lets out another low, rumbling growl, the sound curling through the air like smoke. My fingers tighten on the edge of the shelf.

Move on, I pray, though the Gods can’t help me now. They’d rather I die. Move on, leave, don’t see me—

But instead of heeding my useless prayers, it halts. Its head turns sharply in my direction. Its eyes narrow, gleaming with a strange, malignant intelligence as it sniffs the air again, as though it senses my presence.

It knows I'm here.

My heart thunders in my chest, every beat loud and betraying. The beast takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the gleam in its eyes sharpening, focused.

It begins to stalk toward me, each step calculated, predatory. My body remains pressed against the shelf, my mind a flurry of panic. There's nowhere to go—the shelves seem to close in on either side, boxing me in. The open aisle seems an eternity away.

The beast's jaws part, revealing sharp, jagged teeth glistening in the dim light. Its growl intensifies, a sound so deep it seems to vibrate through the floor. It lowers its head, readying to strike.

If I don't move now, I'll have no chance at all.

In a surge of adrenaline, I push off from the shelf and hurl myself toward the opening, then down the aisle, my footsteps echoing as I weave between the towering stacks of books, breaking into a full sprint. At my back, the beast lets out a furious snarl. Its heavy footsteps thunder behind me, claws scraping against the stone as it lunges for me.

I hear the beast tearing after me, its breath hot and searing, closing the distance faster than I can hope to outrun. Panic surges within me, propelling me forward. The open hallway is just a few feet away when I'm yanked off balance—the beast's claws have snagged the edge of my cloak, pulling me back with a force that sends me sprawling to the ground.

Pain flares in my arm as I skid across the cold stone, the fabric of my cloak tearing with a sharp rip. The creature towers over me, every inch of it radiating a dark, primal power. It snarls, its jaws snapping inches from my face, eyes glinting with the promise of bloodshed. I manage to roll to the side just as it strikes, claws scraping the stone with a screech. A scream escapes me, short and frantic, an almost animal sound.

Panic ignites something deep within me—a fierce, desperate need to survive. For a moment, I am a young child again, dodging rocks thrown at me in the street.

Survival is what I’ve always done best.

I scramble to my feet, summoning every fragment of magic I can reach, back to the wall. The power crackles beneath my skin, wild and electric, searing as it flows through me. With a shout, I release a surge of fire straight into the beast's face.

Flames lick across its fur, and it recoils, screaming, smoke curling from its singed muzzle.

But my victory is short-lived. The beast shakes off the fire, snarling with renewed fury, and charges again.

I stagger back, feeling the heat of its claws slicing just past my cheek. Forcing myself to focus, I dig deeper, the flickering flame of my power flaring once more. I pour everything into one last desperate strike, thrusting my hands forward.

A brilliant arc of lightning crackles from my palms, illuminating the entire library as it slams into the beast's chest. This is the legacy of my forebears—this is the storm within me, I realize.

The monster screams, its body convulsing as the electricity tears through it. In the flare of light, I see the raw ferocity in its eyes fade, dimming as its body collapses to the floor with a ground-shaking thud, smoke rising from its singed fur. Silence settles once more over the library.

I stand, trembling, breathless, as the last sparks fade from my fingertips. My arm throbs with pain, blood soaking through the torn sleeve, but relief floods through me as I stagger back, away from the beast's lifeless form.

I barely hear the footsteps rushing toward me, the door at my back wrenched open. When I look up, I see Arvoren, his figure dark and formidable in the low light, his expression torn between rage and something far more visceral. His gaze shifts to the blood on my arm, the smoldering beast, and back to me.

"Calliope!"

His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it, edged with fury. He closes the distance between us in a stride, his hand reaching for me—and then, his fingers are achingly gentle as they cradle my wounded arm.

"I'm fine," I manage, but the words come out breathless, a waver betraying the lingering fear and adrenaline.

"Fine?" His tone is sharp, accusatory, the anger flickering there undercut by the fear he can no longer hide from me, all his desire, all his want, his worry. His gaze searches mine, as if grounding himself in the sight of me, unhurt, alive.

The space between us pulses with a fierce tension. His hand remains on my arm, his fingers brushing the torn fabric, the rough warmth of his touch impossible to ignore. I feel my pulse quicken, each beat echoing in the quiet, heavy air.

Then, without thinking, I step closer, my gaze locked with his, and before I can stop myself, my fingers find his collar, pulling him closer until our lips meet.

It's as if every wall I've put up crumbles in that moment. The kiss is urgent, raw, ignited by the flames of fear, relief, and something deeper I can no longer deny. His arms encircle me, pulling me against him, his mouth claiming mine with a fierce need that sends a tremor through me. The heat of his kiss drowns out the pain, the fear, until there's nothing but the steady press of his lips, the feeling of him anchoring me.

He breaks away only for a moment, his gaze heavy with that fierce protectiveness, possessiveness, and what I can now see is lust.

"You could have died," he murmurs, the words hoarse, his voice barely restrained.

"But I didn't," I reply, breathless, defiant.

A shudder runs through me as Arvoren's hands move to my shoulders, steadying me. The weight of his touch burns even through the fabric of my dress.

"You could have died," he repeats, his voice rough. His fingers brush against the torn fabric of my sleeve, where blood still seeps slowly from the beast's claws. The touch sends a tremor through me. I fight the urge to lean into his warmth.

I move to reply, but my voice catches. My heart thunders against my ribs, adrenaline still coursing through my veins from the fight—or perhaps from his proximity, from the way his breath ghosts across my skin.

He pulls me closer, one hand sliding to the small of my back, huge against me.

"You fought well," he murmurs, and there's something like pride in his voice. "But you shouldn't have had to."

I look up at him, caught in the intensity of his words, their nakedness. In the dim light, I see on his face a look I have not known before.

"Arvoren," I breathe, and his name feels different on my tongue now, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine.

He answers by pressing his lips to mine once more, the kiss deep and desperate. It’s as if he's trying to convince himself I'm real, that I'm here, alive in his arms.

I respond without thinking. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. The wall meets my back as he presses forward, his body caging mine, solid and warm.

My head spins with the contradictions of it all—the gentleness of his touch against the memory of his violence, the tenderness in his kiss against the possessiveness in his grip. I should push him away. I should run. But instead, I arch into him, letting out a soft gasp as his lips trace a path down my neck.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin, his voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

But I can't. The words stick in my throat, replaced by a quiet moan as his teeth graze my pulse point. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him there, and I feel him shudder against me.

The world narrows to sensation: the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the steady thrum of magic that seems to pulse between us, growing stronger with each racing heartbeat. When he lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he holds me beneath my skirts, warm hands gripping me with a ferocity that is almost— almost —painful.

He carries me to his bed with a grace that belies his size. Not one servant or courtier crosses our path in the halls—not that I’m in the right mind to have noticed, consumed by the taste of him, hands planted on the sides of his face, lips locked against his own.

In his chambers, it still smells faintly of herbal medicine. He lays me down on his unkempt sheets with surprising gentleness, pulling back to look at me. The moonlight streaming through the window catches on his features, turning him to silver and shadow. His eyes are almost golden in the darkness, dragon-bright, filled with a hunger that should frighten me. Instead, it sends heat coiling through my core.

"Beautiful," he whispers, tracing the line of my jaw with calloused fingers. "My fierce little warrior."

The desire in his voice makes me shiver. I should hate it, this claim he lays to me, but in this moment, with his warmth surrounding me and his touch setting my skin aflame, I can't bring myself to care.

“Yours,” I find myself moaning against his mouth as he lowers one hand beneath my skirts, splaying his fingers over the jut of my hip, holding it as if orienting me against him. “Arvoren—”

He kisses me again, slower this time, deep and thorough. He's trying to memorize the taste of me. My hands explore the broad planes of his chest, fingers shaking with need, feeling the steady thunder of his heart beneath my palm. He's solid muscle and barely contained power, yet he touches me as if I'm something precious, something that might break.

When his other hand slides down my side, skimming over the curve of my hip, I arch into his touch, wanting more. I feel the press of his need against my core, straining against his clothes. He groans, the sound vibrating through me, and then his mouth is on my neck, trailing fire down my throat.

As he kisses me, breathing fast, he says my name over and over. The vulnerability in his voice almost undoes me. I pull him closer, pressing myself against him, letting my actions speak what my words can't. His grip tightens on my hip, and when he kisses me again, it's with a desperation that matches my own.

When he can no longer hold back the force of his lust, the king—my husband, my tyrant, my captor—sits back, staring down at me in the dark. An understanding passes between us in that moment. When he tears my dress asunder as if it is made of paper, pulling aside my undergarments with sure hands, my nakedness somehow fails to bother me.

“Slow,” I moan, though I want to beg, faster, I need you, faster.

Arvoren obeys. It is the first time he has ever obeyed my order. When he touches me, thumb skirting in gentle circles around my clit, I am already wet, hot, needy. But he makes me howl for it, working a finger slowly inside me, other hand braced against my hip, bending me to his will, making me moan, then scream, as he brings me up toward my first climax, but not all the way, not yet.

“My Queen,” he growls, kissing my stomach. I feel the faintest brush of his teeth against the tender flesh of my sex, then his tongue, and I almost come undone then and there, back arching from the bed, splayed out for him, aching for it.

“I need you,” I beg. “Need you, Arvoren—please, I need you—”

He needs no more encouragement. The king leans back, then frees his member, the mere sight of it almost bringing me over the edge. My legs are jelly, my limbs almost numb with pleasure, and he takes advantage, slotting himself between my legs as if I am nothing but a doll. He kisses my throat once more, hard, teeth nibbling the tender flesh there as he aligns himself with me with his hand, braced above me, his huge, hot body boxing mine in.

When he pauses, I almost whine. I need him so badly, I don’t know what to do in this moment.

“Say you’re mine,” he growls. The low rumble of his voice rattles through my ribs, my whole body. I can feel the tip of him pressed to me. “You’re mine. Tell me.”

I wrap my arms around the king’s back, no room left in me for trepidation, fear, confusion, conflict. My fingers rake down his spine.

“I’m yours,” I moan. “Yours, I’m yours —”

When he takes me, it’s slowly, then all at once. I expect pain, but there is none, only a huge, subsuming pressure—pleasure, presence, all-consuming, taking me apart. My legs fall further open and I slide against the bedsheets, moaning shamelessly as he sheaths himself inside me, then begins to move, kissing me so hard the back of my head sinks into the sheets, taking my mouth, my body, my very being.

His hand returns to my clitoris, fingers rubbing in tantalizing yet tormentously slow circles as he takes me. His other hand braces my hip, rocking my body against his, then travels up my side to my chest. He touches my breasts, pinching one nipple gently, then hard, twisting cruelly, until I’m moaning, the pleasure and pain mixed up in me all at once.

When I come for the first time, it’s clear Arvoren isn’t yet done, not even close. He slows to kiss me as I come down, tears of pleasure rolling down my cheeks toward my ears, still buried inside me.

“You’re strong,” he murmurs in my ear, then bites my earlobe, pistoning into me, hips setting a bruising pace.

I know what he means: any queen of mine can keep pace with me.

And yet, despite my supposed strength, I am listless with pleasure, no longer fully coherent, moaning, whining, begging. I hear myself saying his name over and over. I know in the back of my mind something of my power has been unseated tonight—that he has broken a wall I never intended to allow him past—and yet, I cannot find it within myself to care as he sucks bruising kisses and bites into my throat, my chest, my swollen lips, warm hips hot against mine as he brings me toward my second orgasm.

When we finally come together, it's like a storm breaking. Magic crackles around us, responding to our shared passion. I cry out his name like a prayer. He holds me close, whispering endearments in a language I can no longer understand, his touch both gentle and desperate.

I am undone by pleasure, too overwhelmed by it to utter a word, let alone move. All of my limbs feel stringy and weak, jointless, boneless. When Arvoren removes himself from me, he seems to know I cannot conduct myself, because he brings me into his arms, pulling me atop his chest as he slides us beneath the sheets of his bed. He holds me tightly against his hot, hard chest, lips against the top of my head, pressed against my sweaty, mussed hair.

Despite myself, I feel safer than I have in my life there in his embrace.

As we lie tangled in the sheets, our breathing slowing, his fingers trace idle patterns on my skin. I know this changes nothing—I'm still his prisoner, still bound by chains both physical and metaphorical. And yet, through the haze of residual pleasure, I know it has changed everything.

He won. And I let him win.

It’s as if he hears my thoughts. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, against my back. It would be so easy to let myself drift off like this, safe in his embrace, pretending that love could be simple.

In the morning, we'll have to face what this means, what we've become to each other. For now, though, I close my eyes and let myself feel nothing but the warmth of his body and the gentle rhythm of his breath against my skin.