TOBIAH

I wake to a dimly lit yurt, and I am thoroughly disoriented for a long moment. My body is weighed down by exhaustion and wrung out by alertness and worry. It smells of smoke, flowers, and Ruin.

I shift despite my soreness and prepare to sit up. I am unsure of the time and wonder how long I have been out. I also wonder how the hells I am even alive. I should be dead, should I not? Everything I know about ash wood is that it kills fae unequivocally if you fight it and I fought it hard.

What the hells?

"Don't move," Ruin says at my side, and I blink at him in surprise. He looks… dejected. Worn. Empty. Nothing like the charming man I admire.

"How…?" My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat. "What time is it?"

Ruin shrugs as if it is inconsequential and looks me over.

"Early morning the next day," he offers after a moment. "Are you in pain?"

I shrug since I do not trust anything these people have to offer me so I will suffer in silence.

He scowls at me, irritated.

"You're lying. Why?"

I am baffled for a moment, surprised he can tell, floundering before I answer.

"I… I do not trust whatever these people have to offer me," I finally say, and he nods slowly.

"Okay. Do you have something to help?" He asks patiently and I think about that. I do, maybe, but it is for emergencies. Is it an emergency?

Fuck. I hate figuring these things out. But Ruin's eyes are burrowing deeper and deeper into me with each passing moment, and I know he will not let this go.

I huff, now irritated and in pain.

"Hand me my bag," I say. "If… you have it somewhere, that is."

He snorts and reaches under the bed.

"I brought it in with you," he says and cocks his head. "You're very suspicious, you know. I've been thinking about it, and I noticed it a long time ago, but you're easily the most suspicious person I've met. Even more so than Kingston, the brat."

I snort.

"Thank you," I say dryly as I delicately sit up and start digging through my supplies.

"It's not an insult. Just an observation, but…" he looks sympathetic, and I sigh softly. "… this isn't the first time you've been randomly attacked, is it?"

I suppress a laugh. No. No. It is not. I grew up being randomly attacked and those who are particularly perceptive somehow suspect I am Fae and gods know what happens then.

"No," I say quietly. "It is not."

He nods and watches me chew and swallow black dried Huthae berries. They would not do anything for humans or elves, but for me, they are a pain reliever. It takes a moment, but soon the intense aching is replaced by a faint one. My mind is clear. I have more powerful relievers at my disposal, but I cannot be inebriated around these humans. It is too dangerous.

I smile at him and hand him the pouch.

"Better?" He asks and stashes the bag again. He looks relieved as I nod. I do not lay down again and watch him for a long moment.

"Ruin? "

"Hm?" He draws closer to me and I to him.

"Are you… you seem… troubled," I say quietly, brow furrowing. "It is just a… light shoulder wound and a little poison."

That almost killed me, but he does not need to know that.

He chuckles and shakes his head.

"No. I know," his delicate fingers brush my elbow and it is the most intimate touch I have had in centuries. I cannot stop the shiver that travels through me. If he notices, he does not say so. "It's… I spoke to their Sovereign. It was… upsetting."

I swallow past the dryness in my throat.

"Do you… wish to talk about it?" I ask softly and he shakes his head, still touching my elbow.

"No. I don't want to think about it. I… don't want to think about anything."

He had been looking at his fingers but now he's looking at me, eyes soft and so tender that for a moment, I become lost in fathomless green and tender youth. But… he is not really young, not really. He has not shared his past and I have not shared mine, but I can see his world weariness in the corners of his eyes and hear it in the vibration of his laugh. He has seen so much, done so much, been responsible for so much that he is a man many decades his senior.

And why do I find that attractive? Somehow, part of me thinks it is wrong—he is a youthful human, but his smoky -cedar-lightning scent has burrowed deep into my chest and I crave it like I crave air. He has hardly done anything to me but existed and I cannot lie to myself anymore—this is more than admiration. This is need.

I clear my throat.

"What… do you want?" I whisper, tension building like the inhale before a tsunami.

"You," he says simply and deftly pulls me to him, sealing his desire with his lips. He tastes of sorrow and fire and longing and goddesses be damned—he tastes like mine. I want to possess every inch of him and as he climbs into my lap and deepens the kiss, all my careful self-control leaves me. I am barren and open, but I trust that he will not hurt me, even as his tongue plunders my mouth and lays claim to my very soul.

He is cautious of my shoulder, but I am not cautious of him. My touches are rough, wanting to rub my scent into every corner of his soul. We are panting and I can feel his cock against my stomach and my own cock drives into his ass. Minutes pass by meaninglessly and all I can hear are his pants and desperate whining and feel his clutching. He may be slight, but, fuck, his grip is so firm as if he somehow knows that we are meant to melt into each other.

He tugs at my shirt, and I want to give him everything and help him take it off. His shirt is next and then somehow our trousers and pants are next. We are bared to each other and his eyes slide over me before he gently touches the only scar I have—the only one I cannot hide no matter how much glamour I use. It is right over my heart, and it is nasty and twisted, a testament to my father trying to end me. I still do not know how I survived.

For a moment, I worry that it is too much for him—that he will leave, and I will be left with nothing. But he just kisses it softly and then eases me back. My fingers explore his own scars, the jaggedness of them speaking to the testament of his will. Humans are such fragile things, taken out by plague and accident and infection. But here he is, all mine, all longing, and all strength. His glorious scars are proof of that. I thought that when I first saw them, and I think that now.

"They're ugly," he blurts and now he is shy, a blush making its way down his neck and chest.

I shake my head.

"You enrapture me with your beauty, Your Worship," I say quietly and suddenly he is kissing me again, our lips sealed in a violent declaration of need.

I want to bend him over and thrust into him until we are both wailing, but somehow, I know that he needs to take control. He is humming with anxiety and desire and I remember all too sharply his… complicated relationship with that dickhead Prince Miguel. When was the last night he consented to…?

"Ruin," I pant and take his chin in my hand. "We do not have to. If you need—"

He scowls at me.

"What I need," he snaps, "is to ride you until I see the whole godsdamned universe."

I swallow, unsure of what to say to that.

"Uh…"

Mine.

"I am all yours, warlock," I murmur, running my hands along his lithe chest, feeling his scars again. Gods, he is stunning. More stunning than any lover I have ever taken before.

There is something sacred and delicate about his lithe body—so very him, so very mine, so very strong. It amazes me that he holds so much power in such slight, fragile muscles and as we fall into more kissing and moaning, I am even more amazed by his strength and virility. He hovers above me, taking me so completely that I am dizzy with desire and a visceral need to feel him. He takes a moment to loosen himself up, massaging his hole as he kisses me. I fumble to give him lubrication as I summon the sliding elixir my people use. He laughs at that, grinning at me.

"Of course you have magic lube," he chuffs in amusement and a moment later, he's moaning and then stops as his channel relaxes under his care. I wish I could show him my actual genitalia, but I cannot. It is too risky. He'll have to enjoy a boring glamour instead. Well, not boring. Just different. Not really me.

I make an embarrassing noise as he reaches behind himself and grips my cock. It is iron hard and dripping precum. With no preamble, he lowers himself down onto it in one thrust. How his slight body takes all of me, I do not know. I just know I am immediately buried deep, and a strangled moan exits from me, utterly ignoring my own free will.

"This is probably the most relaxed I've ever seen you," he says with a snort. "Fuck, your cock. Fuck."

His back arches and his eyes glow green as his magic comes forward, thrilled by our bond. I want to remember him like this—alight with wanton passion and delicious, consuming groans. He starts a steady pace that drills into my very soul, and I cannot help but thrust up into him. We degrade into pants and gasps and Ruin moans nonsense that I cannot quite understand. I wrap my hand around his cock, and he cries out, already leaking and ready.

"Fuck, Tobiah, don't—" he warns me, whining adorably, but I am not going to last either. I am too full of… him.

"Ruin," I gasp and somehow, we explode at the same time, his cum hitting my neck in his excitement. I see the sky and the stars and this entire fucking realm of existence as I am wrecked with pleasure and need and want. The salty scent of it fills my lungs and as I fill him to the brim, I gasp and grip his hip to steady himself. I do not want to become lost—at least, that is what I tell myself as I fall deeper and deeper into him.

Fuck.

He's not mine.

No.

It is much, much worse and I fill with dread as the realization hits me.

He is mate.

Shit.