29. Eldrion

TWENTY-NINE

Iwake to the sensation of Alana springing from the bed, her face etched with horror as the realisation of what we’ve done seems to sink in. She paces the room, muttering to herself. With a flick of her wrist, she conjures an icicle back into her hand, the morning light glinting off its sharp edges.

Then she turns to me, holding it like a knife.

I try not to grin as I sit up, purposefully leaving the sheets draped so they barely cover the parts of me I know she’d like to see again up close.

I remain like that, tracking her movements. The air between us is charged, heavy with arousal, and despite the fury in her eyes – or perhaps because of it – all I want to do is drag her back into bed with me and hear her make those noises again.

Hear her call my name again, even if she does curse at me afterwards.

“Alana.” My voice is still rough with sleep. “Please, listen to me. Let me explain. After, if you still choose to end my life, I won’t stop you.”

She pauses mid-stride, tension coiled in every line of her body. I can see the internal battle raging within her, the desire for answers warring with the anger and confusion that radiate from her in waves.

“I felt the same way you did. I needed answers, and I wanted you dead.”

Her brow furrows. Is this a surprise to her?

“But I found answers. I know now why we are connected the way we are.”

Slowly, as if every movement is a concession, she sits in the chair opposite the bed, plucking my robe from the back of it and wrapping it tightly around herself.

The dark fabric contrasts starkly with her pale skin and her purple wings, making her seem even more ethereal, more untouchable.

Fuck, it’s good to see her wearing something of mine.

Why does the sight of it make me think of nothing but ripping it off her and devouring her again?

Her eyes meet mine. The icicle remains clutched in her hand, a tangible threat.

Would I let her stab me with it? If she truly wanted to kill me, would I allow her to?

Perhaps, because if she won’t listen to me, then all is lost anyway.

“What I’m about to tell you... when you and I were last together, I had no idea why I needed you here. All I knew was that you were important to our future. I didn’t know if you were to be trusted or whose side you were on.”

“I’m on the side of people who don’t torture and murder and kidnap innocent beings,” she spits.

I blink at the venomous truth that spirals from her tongue. Like smoke, it curls around my ribs and squeezes.

That is how she sees me; a monster.

That is what I made myself.

“My mother...” I falter, the words sticking in my throat. The memory of reading those pages is still raw, still painful. I reach for the table beside the bed and Alana’s entire body tenses.

The icicle looks both comical and intimidating in her hand. I want to remind her that I saw what she did to herself with one just like that... less pointed. But still... by the waterfall. On the rock. When I watched her, and called her my good girl.

As if she knows what I’m thinking, she starts to blush. She adjusts the robe, and frowns at me. “What are you doing?”

I pick up my mother’s journal and toss it so it lands in her lap.

“My mother did something to yours, long ago. When your mother visited her. It’s all recorded in there. A journal that belonged to my mother. I recognise her hand. She wrote in a signature ink. It couldn’t be anyone else’s. It’s real.”

Alana glances down at the book, then flicks open the cover.

“The bit about you starts a few pages in,” I tell her. “Seems my mother wanted a record of her madness.”

I sit up fully, the sheets pooling around my waist. I run a hand through my hair, trying to gather my thoughts, to find the right way to explain the inexplicable.

“She cast a spell, a dark ritual, on your mother while she was pregnant with you. She... changed you, gave you the powers you have now.” I see the shock register on her face, her eyes widening, her lips parting in disbelief. She is scanning the words while I speak. But I press on.

“She believed you were the key to saving our kingdom from the evil that threatens it. That your powers were a gift, a weapon, to be used against the coming darkness.”

Alana holds up her hand to silence me. She is reading. Her lips move, and I follow them. I have read the entry so many times, I know exactly what she is whispering.

I have seen the face of our salvation. A child, born of a healer’s womb, with the power to turn the tide against the coming darkness.

As soon as I saw the child, I knew who she belonged to.

Magdalena. The healer who came to me from the Leafborne clan after Raylon’s death. She came unasked, and I remember wondering why someone would do such a thing. Make such a long journey out of pure kindness.

She spent days with me, making tinctures and singing me lullabies. She was kinder to me than I ever remember my own mother being.

Now I know it was fate who brought her to me.

Now I know why we spent so many hours talking, with her counselling me through my grief.

It was all for this. So the child growing in her belly could save us all.

I did not want to hurt her. Magdalena was sweet and kind, and clearly longed for the child she carried. But I did what I had to do. What fate had asked of me.

I found an ancient spell, a ritual of dark magic that would change the child forever, mould her into the weapon we so desperately need. The elves held the spell, of course. In their library. The price for taking it was one I am not willing to put on record.

I do not want it remembered.

But I do want a record of what I did to Magdalena. In case I was wrong.

In case, instead of saving us all, I condemned us.

Would you like to know how I did it? If you’re reading this, I assume you would. Either because things have gone horribly wrong or horribly right.

It was easy, really.

I am the Lady of Luminael. Everything comes easily to me.

She had not visited for a while, but I sent word that I’d like to see her before her baby was born. She arrived, belly full and round, wearing a yellow headscarf and carrying a bunch of poppies.

I remember thinking how quaint it was that she would bring a lady a bunch of flowers.

I sniffed them and put them in a vase.

She seemed pleased that I liked her offering.

After our usual talk and walk around the grounds of the citadel, I suggested we retire to my study for tea.

And that is when I drugged her.

She didn’t suspect a thing, and didn’t notice the strange taste or colour of the water. She just drank and talked, hand constantly resting on her belly.

When she finally passed out, I took the empty cup from her fingers and set it down on the table.

Then, as she slept, I performed the ritual.

A drop of my blood.

A bead of my sweat.

I mixed them with the powder the spell dictated, then I filled a large glass syringe and injected it into the child growing within her womb. With this magic, and the dark words of the incantation, I shaped her and twisted her, until she was no longer a mere fae, but something more. Something extraordinary.

I created a magic that had never before been seen in our lands. Not like this.

I created an empath, born to absorb the magic of others, to wield it as her own.

The one who will save us from what is coming.

Alana.

I knew her name because Magdalena had already used it. She knew her daughter’s name long before she was born. And she loved her long before, too.

I whispered that name as Magdalena left that day, completely unaware that everything had changed for both her and her child.

Magdalena’s child, Magdalena’s flesh and blood, but my creation. My hope.

When Alana reaches the end of the passage, a tear rolls down her cheek.

“The visions,” she whispers. Her grip on the icicle loosens slightly, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something else there, something that might just be understanding.

I nod, leaning forward intently. “They’re not just dreams, Alana. My mother had them too. Perhaps my brother, as well. But he died too soon. And they passed to me.”

“And then to me.” She meets my gaze. She’s put the icicle down now, and is holding the book with both hands instead. “When we... in the tunnels.”

“They’re premonitions, warnings of what’s to come if we don’t stop it.”

“It’s real? All of it?” She presses her palm to her chest, and I know she’s reliving them the way I do whenever I try to close my eyes without whisky.

“And you.” I meet her gaze. “You are the one destined to prevent it. That’s why you can absorb magic, why you’re so powerful. Why you’re the only empath in centuries to possess these powers.”

She’s silent for a long moment, processing my words. She stands, icicle in one hand, journal in the other, and paces. Up and down. Up and down.

She pauses by the window and reads some more.

I can almost see the gears turning in her mind, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The icicle begins to melt in her hand, dripping onto the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asks finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why keep it from me?”

I sigh, running a hand over my face. “I didn’t know, not until I found my mother’s journal.”

I rise from the bed, aware of my nakedness because she appraises my body even though she doesn’t mean to. I cross the room to her.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” I have never spoken to her like this before. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone like this. With softness instead of command.

She flinches slightly as I touch her arm but doesn’t pull away. “But I need you to understand. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve told you... it’s real. I don’t know when the demons are coming, but I know they are coming. And I know you are the only one who can stop them.”

Alana looks down at the puddle of water on the floor, the remnants of the icicle she conjured. Then she meets my gaze again.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she says, tipping her chin up, fire blazing in her eyes. “After everything that’s happened, everything you’ve done...”

“I’ve given you every reason to doubt me, to hate me. I am not a good man, Alana. I will not pretend to be. But I do speak the truth.”

She’s silent for a long moment, searching my face.

Then she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I don’t trust you. How can I?” She throws the journal to the floor and storms away from me.

But I close the gap between us and grab her arm.

When she turns, she looks at me with pure fury in her eyes, and I love how much she hates me. I deserve that hatred. My family deserves it. I want more of it.

She jerks away from me and starts picking up her clothes, shaking her head. “You’re evil,” she says. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

I pull on my pants, fasten my belt, and stride towards her.

When I reach her, I squeeze her face tight between my thumbs. “Do you despise me so much, Alana, that you think I would lie about this?”

She tries to jerk away, but I hold her steady.

I lower my voice. “Do you despise yourself for wanting me?”

Her breath quickens, her skin shimmering in the early morning light that has begun to creep up over the horizon and through the cracks in the shutters.

This time, she does pull away from me. She strides over to the windows and throws open the shutters. “Look at my face,” she barks. “See in the daylight just how much I despise you, Lord Eldrion.”

I spread out my wings and stride towards her. I am bigger than her, stronger than her. And yet, she is stronger than me in a million other ways.

It makes me want to worship her and own her at the same time.

“On your knees, Leafborne.” I tower over her.

She looks up at me, eyes glistening.

The torment that lights up her body is almost visible on her flushed skin. Her lips part. I am hard for her already and I have not even touched her yet.

“On your knees,” I repeat the command.

“No,” she says. “On yours.” She rises into the air and presses down on my shoulders.

To my surprise, I obey her.

When I am kneeling, she descends back to her feet, then leans back against the window, parts her legs, and rests one of them on my shoulder.

I grin, looking up at her from between her legs, then very gently reach out to touch her clit. She shivers as I make contact with her, and her sigh fills the room.

I lean in and bite the inside of her thigh, hard.

She gasps, but it is chased by a moan of pleasure, and she applies pressure to the back of my head, urging me to do it again.

I oblige, biting harder this time, and sucking until her skin grows darker beneath my teeth.

Jerking my head back, she pushes me away, turns around, and presses her palms against the window, presenting herself to me. I lick from her pussy to her ass, groaning as the taste of her fills my mouth.

Then I fuck her.

I slide into her waiting cunt effortlessly, and thrust hard.

I press down on her wings with one arm, causing her to whimper with discomfort but lean into it at the same time. “Please,” she breathes. “Fuck me harder.”

With my other hand, I grab her hip and pull her back onto me. She grinds them as I thrust, and continues to press her palms against the glass.

When she reaches down to play with her clit, her moans grow louder.

Our bodies slam together. Her walls tighten around me.

She punches the glass with a closed fist, and a splinter appears. I grin and fuck her harder.

She presses her palm onto the crack in the glass, then braces her other hand on the window too, so she can push back harder. And harder.

I stop, withdrawing my cock so only the tip remains inside her. Then, when she looks over her shoulder and says, “Don’t stop,” I slam back into her.

This time, the glass shatters.

We tumble forward, bodies locked together. I wrap my arms around her waist, beat my wings, and hold us there. Suspended in the air above the courtyard. Then I spin her around and fly us to the top of the castle.

Reaching back, I whip my belt from my pants and curl it around her wrists, then I tie her to the spire above my quarters.

When she is fixed there, I let go of her.

She is suspended, hundreds of feet above the ground. Of course, she could fly if she had to, but the adrenaline that course through her body is palpable.

I beat my wings, allowing the cool air to torment her naked body.

Her nipples peak, she arches towards me, searching for my touch, and her eyes blaze with fury.

“I could end you now, if I wanted to,” I murmur.

“You do not want to end me, or I’d have been dead long ago,” she replies, shifting her hips as arousal spreads down her inner thighs.

“What do you think I want from you, Alana?” I am close to her now, so close I can feel her breasts pressed up against my chest. I moisten one finger and use it to pinch her nipple. Her eyes widen. “Why would I lie to you about what you are? About what our visions are?”

“I have no idea why you’d lie, and I have no idea what you want with me.” She searches my face. “My powers? My body? All I know is that I can’t trust you.”

“You’re right about one thing.” I thrust my hand between her legs and apply pressure to her cunt. “I want your body, and I love that you give it to me so freely even though you cannot stand me. But you are not right about the rest. I meant it when I said you’re special. Everything I told you is true.”

“Stop talking.” She tilts her pelvis down, grinding onto my hand. “Stop talking and fuck me, Eldrion.”

“No.” I take my hand away. “I don’t think I will.”

Her eyes flash with rage. “What . . .?”

“I think I’ll leave you here, so you have some time with your own thoughts. So you can ruminate on whether I really am the bad guy or whether you believe what I’ve told you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She wriggles against the restraints that are holding her in place.

I meet her eyes. “Watch me.”

When I return to my chambers, I am shaking. Did I really leave her up there? The thought is both exquisite, erotic torture, and terrifying.

What if I lose her again?

What if I’m playing a dangerous game and I’m about to lose?

My aim is to give her time to think, and then prove she can trust me when I return to her. But what if I’ve misjudged it? My mind is so clouded by lust for her and the need for her to believe me that I have no idea whether I’m doing the right thing.

I feel like the old version of me; the one who was cool, and calculated, and knew exactly what games to play and how to play them in order to get what he wanted.

But that does not mean I’m right.

I sink down into the chair by the broken window. The sun is only just rising. I reach for the whisky, then change my mind and set it down again. Instead, I pick up my mother’s journal. And while I wait for the right moment to retrieve Alana, I read her words again. And again. And again.

I speak them loudly enough that they carry up in the air towards Alana.

I know she can hear them.

And I know that all she can do in this moment is listen.