Chapter Twenty-Nine Shan

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Shan

S han heard the commotion from her study—the raised voices, the crash of something fragile, shattering as if it had been flung against the wall. She was on her feet in an instant, hiking up her skirts and running out of the room and down the stairs. The sight she came upon was something out of her worst nightmares—Isaac and Anton at each other's throats, seconds away from bursting out into a bare-knuckled brawl.

Her footman—no doubt unwillingly drawn into this conflict—huddled in the corner, next to the destroyed remains of a very fine vase. The two men were screaming in each other's faces—vile words of censure, and Anton was advancing on Isaac with an anger that scared Shan.

She had never seen him so enraged before, but then again, he had been walking a knife edge these past few months since she had killed their father, and it looked like he had found an outlet at last.

At the very least she was thankful that Isaac had the decency to restrain from Blood Working, though he held his ground against Anton's advance, cruel words dropping from his lips. "Useless man, hiding behind your sister's skirts."

"Enough!" she shouted, and both of them turned to her in shock, as if surprised to see her standing there at the foot of the stairs. As if they didn't think their row would draw her to them.

"Shan," Isaac breathed, a plea, and she turned her eyes upon him in worry even as her brother began to rant.

"Ah, there you are, sister," Anton spat. "I was just telling our esteemed guest that he has to leave, seeing as he is not welcome here—"

Shan held up her hand without even looking at her brother, shushing him as she took in the ragged look around Isaac's edges. She had never seen him like this before—so worn and weary, seconds away from falling apart. "Why are you here, Isaac?"

Isaac didn't respond. He just looked to Anton helplessly, shaking his head.

Shan understood. He wouldn't—couldn't—speak in front of her brother. He was too vulnerable for that. So, silently, she took him by the arm.

"What are you doing?" Anton turned on her, his anger not diminished in the slightest. "Shan, you cannot trust him, not after—"

"I told you before, brother," Shan said softly, so very quietly, "that I know what I am doing. I do not need your protection."

Anton stared at her for a long moment, clenching his fist, then spun away sharply. He snapped his fingers at the footman, who hurriedly grabbed his jacket. The second he had it in his hand, he slung it over his shoulder and stalked to the door. "I'd warn you not to do anything you'd regret, but you're with him."

He slipped out, slamming the door behind him and leaving them standing there in painful silence.

"I shouldn't have come here," Isaac whispered.

"Nonsense," Shan replied. Glancing at the footman, she instructed him to have one of the maids bring up some wine, then waited until she was gone before she spoke again. "Please don't take my brother's words to heart."

"He isn't wrong, though." Isaac wrung his hands. "I have only brought pain and regret. To both of you."

"We're not children anymore, Isaac. Now come on." She tugged him by the arm, leading him to the stairs. "Let's talk."

He followed her in maudlin silence. She carefully smoothed her skirts, rolling her shoulders to release some of the tension that had crept up in the last few minutes. She led him again to her study, seating him by the fire, and when the serving girl arrived with the glasses and the wine, she poured them both a generous amount and placed the goblet in his hand.

He didn't speak right away. He just sipped his wine and stared into the fire. Shan didn't push him. Settling in the chair across from him, she waited. He was scared and hurting, and he would speak when he was ready.

"We're too late," he said at last, looking up at her with haunted eyes, and suddenly everything became clear.

"Samuel," she whispered, and he nodded. "Where is he?"

"With the King," Isaac spat. "Where else? I tried—" his voice broke, a terrible, haunting sound. "I tried to be there for him, but I couldn't. I wasn't even allowed to be in the room, and so—"

"So you came here."

"I tried to stay away," he admitted. "I walked the streets for hours, Shan. Hoping I could just… I don't know. Disappear. But still, I found my way here." He drained the rest of his glass, and fear rolled off him in a wave so strong that she could taste it.

"What happened tonight?"

"I am the Royal Blood Worker, and it is my duty to do as the King commands," Isaac began, and she stepped forward to refill his wine glass. His hand caught hers as she set it down, keeping her close to him. She didn't resist. "Even if it means delivering Samuel to him like a lamb to the slaughter."

Intrigued and a little bit terrified, Shan sat at his side as she encouraged him in his tale. It didn't take much, just a nod of encouragement here, a simple question there. Isaac spilled it all, as if he couldn't stop himself, as if it was a compulsion.

A confession.

He told her everything, all that he had done in his trainings with Samuel, and the reports that he had sent to the King. How the King had been pleased with the progress but kept pushing for more—for more practical applications, for darker things that Isaac couldn't bring himself to ask of Samuel. Frustrated, the King had taken it into his own hands, had summoned Samuel to the castle for a test.

And though Isaac had begged him not to force Samuel to be alone, the King had not been moved.

She held his hand through it all, all her masks fading and her responses becoming more and more real as he continued to speak. It had been years since they had opened up to each other like this—speaking of pain and fear and vulnerability. And as he proved what he had promised her before—that he was not the King's mindless puppet—it was painfully easy to slip back into this, the time melting away as if it had never passed.

Shan knew that she was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the slightest push would send her falling.

When at last he finished, his eyes closed and his head tilted forward, she couldn't do more than whisper his name. He glanced down at her, his dark eyes empty and framed by his soft eyelashes, and he looked so beautiful and broken that she couldn't breathe.

"I failed him," he whispered. "I promised him that we'd find a cure."

"You haven't failed him." Shan squeezed his hand. "We can still find a cure for it, and Samuel knows that you are fighting for him. He knows the power of the King, and he will not blame you for it."

She hoped so, at least. But Isaac just looked at her, a frown on his face, and said, "I still feel like a failure."

"You're not," Shan said. And she believed in Samuel—he was stronger than Isaac knew, and she had to have faith that he could survive this test. "Trust in him, as he would trust in you."

He bit his lip, and he looked so vulnerable, so shattered. "What if I don't trust in myself?"

"Then let my trust be enough." She leaned forward, capturing his mouth with hers, and Isaac grunted in surprise. For a second she thought she had miscalculated, that this wasn't the kind of comfort he needed, but then he grabbed her, his hands on her waist, pressing in with an almost bruising intensity.

She didn't fight him as he pulled her onto his lap, slotting his lips over hers as he pressed their bodies together. Her knees spread automatically as she settled over his hips, locking them together, her hands clenching his shoulders as she clung to him, tasting the despair and desperation on his lips.

He breathed her name again and again, a benediction, as he peppered her cheeks, her throat, the tops of her breasts with kisses. Shan pressed against him, an offering, knowing what he sought, the friction they both needed, driven by the desperate desire to lose themselves in their own bodies. To drown their fears and emotions in a few moments of pure physicality.

Letting him hold her up, she reached behind her, pulling at the stays of her dress so that they came loose, sliding down and revealing the corset beneath. Isaac let out a shocked breath, suddenly stilling as she allowed the dress to fall. He kept staring as she moved his hand to her corset, and he gently pulled it free, letting it fall after the dress and leaving her in just her shift.

"Shan," he gasped, looking everywhere but strangely afraid to touch. "Are you—"

"I am," she said, sharper than she intended. When he still didn't move, she ripped her shift off, leaving herself wonderfully bare. She pulled from his embrace to slide down his body, enflamed by the feeling of her naked skin against the silk of his suit—him, still perfectly dressed, looking down at her in awe as she knelt between his spread knees.

Trailing her hand down the long length of his torso, Shan felt the flutter of each of his breaths, the barely held restraint that coiled through him. Her fingers lingered where his shirt tucked into his trousers, and she glanced up at him through her eyelashes, coy and sweet. "May I have a taste?"

His hand found hers, fingers twining as he eased the button open. "Yes," he breathed, lifting his hips as she pulled down his trousers and underthings, baring himself before her.

"I've missed this," Shan confessed as she leaned forward, dragging her tongue across his leaking cunt. Isaac bucked up into her mouth so she wrapped her hand around his hip, holding him firmly in place as she refamiliarized herself with him. "Let me suck you."

"Please," Isaac gasped, moving to pull his lower lips apart, letting his small cock jut forward, his bud grown and engorged and perfect for Shan to wrap her lips around. The result of the Blood Working treatments he had spent so long on, and Shan knew how to work it for his pleasure.

So she did, pulling his cock into her mouth as she suckled, working her mouth up and down his length, flicking her tongue against the sensitive head before taking him all the way in. His scant inches still felt heavy against her lower lip, twitching and eager, and she released her grip on him so that he could thrust into her mouth again and again, until he at last shattered against her with a low groan.

She leaned back with a smirk as he struggled to catch his breath, her fingers warm on his thighs. "Feeling better?"

He didn't respond—he just seized her in his arms, rising to his feet and carrying her to her desk. She clung to him as he swept it clear, pressing biting little kisses against his throat until he groaned. He dropped her hard on the desk, the wood shockingly cold against her naked skin. She grinned up at him, daring and defiant, and he swore under his breath. "You are a marvel, Shan."

She pulled him down, clawing at his clothes now, desperate for him to touch her. He laughed, and she felt suddenly lighter, as if she could float away on the very sound of it. He kissed her deeply, unmindful of his own taste on her lips, as he dipped his hand between her legs, driving into her aching warmth with a roughness that had her gasping. He fucked her relentlessly, twisting his hand so that the heel of his palm pressed up against her clit, falling into that old, familiar rhythm of skin and sweat and pleasure as they both chased the release they were looking for.