He holds my stare, a small lock of hair grazing his forehead.
“Where—”
“My personal bathing chambers.”
My stomach drops.
I look below the surface to the hole in the wall I’m pressed against, a gentle current swirling at its entrance ...
It’s like the one in Puddles. In my puddle. The one I’m lured toward on the off chance I’m gifted a streak of Rhordyn’s scent.
My guilty fucking pleasure.
Slowly, I peer up at the stoic male standing over me.
The air has changed—become charged with the mix of our scents. But it’s more than just that ...
It’s the way he’s looking at me now.
There’s a hunger in those eyes that’s so potent, it’s scalding my cheeks, pooling liquid heat in that intimate spot between my thighs.
I release a shuddered exhale, choking the sound by biting down on my lower lip, tongue glazing across the plump flesh as if to taste his breath on it.
The ball of his throat bounces, and my gaze travels up the strong line of his neck before traversing along his sharp, masculine jawline. I get snagged on his chin dimple and that dark frosting of stubble, remembering how it felt grating on my neck. Recalling the mark it left—a rash that branded me for two days.
And then his mouth: sculpted, sensual, lips barely parted. If I tip my chin, I could taste him. Really taste him.
With that thought heavy in my head, the treasured scraps of his breath on my face feel utterly insignificant. Because I want it all.
I want that mouth to hunger over me with the same primal veracity that he seeks my blood when he’s gone too long without it. I want him to nip at my lip, to feed from me while I reciprocate in an entirely different way.
Sustain my hungry heart.
Pulse whooshing in my ears, I lean into the small space separating us—
My mind splits from the now, and I’m back in a freezing bath, tears sluicing down my cheeks. He’s walking away, leaving sharp words protruding from my heart.
I suggest learning to fuck your own fingers. You won’t be using mine again.
The memory jolts me from my lusty smog, and I see this situation for what it really is ...
Me, leading my heart to the whipping post.
I place a hand on his chest, looking at the spread of my fingers, thinking about how small it looks against the breadth of him ... then I draw a deep breath and push.
He slides back like a blade through butter, and I let my hands ball into fists that suddenly feel too delicate. Too weak.
“I’m okay now,” I rasp, though the words taste like the lie they are.
I’m not okay.
I haven’t been for years. I’ve just been hiding; keeping myself occupied. Now the perfect symphony of my routine has lost its rhythm, and I’m adrift.
Lost.
I wade toward the throat of stairs that rise up from somewhere below the waterline and disappear into the gloom. An exit that probably leads through The Den.
My galloping heart betrays my nervousness.
His scent is everywhere—an intoxicating elixir that clings to me, fills me ...
Will I smell someone else up there, too? Will Zali’s essence be thick and heady? Fresh?
... Will I smell their scents mixed together from the joining of their bodies?
Fuck.
I’m almost at the stairs when I’m struck from behind and shoved against the wall—chest first, cheek pressed to stone. Rhordyn’s fists nail either side of me, his granite body flush against my back.
He dips his face into the crook of my neck and my entire body trembles, the delicate flesh yearning for more abuse from his sandpaper stubble. Other parts of me yearn for the same claiming cruelty—throbbing and desperate.
He draws deep, like he’s feeding from the inhale, but it’s blown back out like an unwelcome guest. A low rumble sets every one of my nerves on edge, as if they’re expecting something more.
Three times, he sucks little breaths that sound like the seeds of words.
Three times, those seeds fail to sprout.
“What, Rhordyn?”
Another breath, this one sharp and intentional.
I wait for words that do not come, but rather a harsh huff that lands its blow and bathes me in the unwanted perfume of his scent.
“Exactly what I thought.” Prying myself from the cage of him, I drag my front across the stone until I can breathe without choking on his musk.
I’m over thirty paces up the stairs when he calls my name. It almost sends me tumbling back down where I’d no doubt end up in a crumpled heap at his feet again.
So, I run.
I run until I’m spat out in a room I refuse to take in. It’s not until I reach the door, hand wrapped around the handle, that my fire-breathing curiosity burns through her restraints.
I peep over my shoulder, eyes widening as I survey the panorama of his quarters.
Not what I expected.
The room is bigger than my personal space, sparsely furnished with a black four-poster bed. A side table carved from the same material nests beside it, topped with an unlit candelabra.
A crackling fire casts his space in a buttery glow, warming his scent so that it coats my throat and leaves my mind churning through molasses. But what really has me staggering, despite being anchored to the doorknob, is the easel.
Almost as tall as Rhordyn and wide like the breadth of his shoulders, it’s set by the window, a table by its side heaped with bowls of coal.
The rest of the room loses its luster because all I can see is the canvas it’s boasting.
The half-finished sketch.
A delicate pair of hands are immortalized on the cloth. One is palm up, the other resting with the tips of four fingers perched in the cradle of it, like they’re drawing sips of comfort from an absent well.
They harbor a restful sort of peace that makes my heart feel far too heavy for my body to contain ...
He draws. Rhordyn draws.
But not just that.
He sees. He’s caught this moment of such mournful beauty, and it’s hooked me—caught me in the back of the throat and cast little prickles in my eyes.
Rhordyn spills into the room like a storm, and our gazes collide, holding for a few drawn-out seconds. Quicksilver swirls threaten to consume me, as does the sight of him standing there, soaking wet and fully clothed, yet somehow looking so incredibly exposed.
Every muscle in his body is outlined by the sodden material, and I find myself envying that long-sleeved, button-down shirt for the way it has a hold on him.
His eyes are wide and wild, every fleck in the metallic pools glimmering like stars cast in a smoke-filled galaxy. The twists of his hair fall in such nonchalant disarray they bear their own sort of perfection, dripping water upon his powerful shoulders.
He’s beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. And it’s my turn for words to be caught behind my teeth.
I blink a few times, severing my sight of him in a gentle way. Because I deserve gentle.
I deserve gentle when this man is so boldly destroying me.
Nose blocked, I tug the door and stumble into the long, cold hallway that lacks a heartbeat. A hallway that leads only to and from The Den—a path I’ve walked too many times to be healthy.
It’s not until I’m all the way up Stony Stem, body lumped on the floor against the closed and dead-locked door, that I breathe through my nose again. With it comes the unbridled tears that pull straight from my pitiful heart.
I’m in love with a man who’ll never be mine—who’s unavailable in every way, shape, and form—and I’m certain it’s going to ruin me.
Firm knuckles assault the door.
I feel it down my spine, all the way to my toes. I feel it in my bones and in my fucking soul.
“What?” I whisper, knowing who it is. I knew from the moment I heard his heavy feet ascending my stairs slower than normal, as if he were being cautious for
a change. “It’s not feeding hour yet.”
Silence stretches so long I picture being tossed through the castle gate like a sack of grain.
There’s the faint clear of a throat, and then, “Funny.”
I thought so.
“I’m here to escort you to the Conclave,” he commands, and every muscle in my body tightens.
Nobody told me I was expected to attend. And the thought of facing all those people after what just happened in the gardens? Fair to say, attending the Conclave is at the bottom of my priority list.
“I think not,” I reply, gaze pinned to the open window. To the blanket of heavy clouds refusing to allow even a shaft of sunlight to split through and warm my skin.
Make me feel less numb.
“You think not?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I made your effort, and it didn’t turn out so great. Hard pass.”
“Then I guess you’ll be hitching a ride over my shoulder.”
This asshole.
“My door’s locked for a reason.”
“And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve busted through it. Should I call the carpenter in preparation? It’s his birthday, and he’s spending the day off with his family, but I’ll tell him it’s urgent.”
“Leave the poor man out of this,” I mutter, glancing down at my clothes and realizing that in the time I’ve been sitting here, staring at nothing, they’ve almost entirely dried.
“Is—” I clear my throat, scanning the clouds again. “Is that male going to be there? The one who ...”
I grind my teeth, mind staggering back to the memory of those sounds splitting me apart strike by strike—of the familiar man with azure eyes and a sword hanging at his side.
I feel ... rattled. Not myself. I don’t know if I have it in me to face him most of all. Not after he saw me unravel like that.
And it wasn’t just him. It was an entire crowd of people previously roaming the castle grounds; a crowd Rhordyn no doubt carried me through once he plucked me up and bundled me against his chest like a child.
“Yes, but you’ll be at my side the entire time.”
My heart leaps into my throat and flutters about.
At his side ...
He really shouldn’t use that sort of language around me.
“Won’t Zali be there?” I ask, tone flat, and he puffs out a sigh.
In that sound, I hear exhaustion.
“Orlaith, I need you in that room with me,” he insists, leading me to release my own exasperated sigh.
“I’m not dressed for it ...”
“You look perfect to me.”
I peel off the door and twist around, staring daggers at it. “You can’t even see me.”
“Don’t need to.”
I roll my eyes, then hear him rumble—a deep, throaty sound that ignites every cell in my body. But that fire is swiftly extinguished when I remember where this discussion is leading.
“Do I have to talk?” I ask, eyes squeezed shut.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
No answer.
I blow out a breath, run my fingers through my hair, and shove to a stand, straightening my blouse with a few firm tugs. Sweeping damp hair off my shoulders, I lift my chin and whip the door open, catching a glimpse of his posture; bent forward, head bowed, as if he were leaning with his forehead pressed against the grain.
He arches a midnight brow and moves back until he’s three steps down Stony Stem, his eyeline just below mine.
He’s the picture of savage regality, dressed in a fine garb that contours to the grooves of his chiseled physique—so impeccably tailored, it’s as if Dolcie dipped him in shadow ...
I glance away before my mindset erodes any further. Dolcie and her measuring tape can drop in a ditch.
Rhordyn’s shoulders square and he offers me the crook of his arm.
Ignoring it, I sweep past, careful to breathe through my mouth—the sound of his hearty chuckle grating my nerves as I stomp down the stairs.
He’s giving me his smile again, but it’s tainted now.
That smile belongs to somebody else.
The distressed-wood door does little to soften the chattering coming from behind it.
People.
My twisted fingers betray my skittish nerves, as does the sweat collecting down my spine.
Rhordyn severs my sight of the door, a galvanized shadow slipping into place. But I don’t want to look into his unnerving eyes right now, so I stare at his chest instead ... only mildly less intimidating.
Reaching for the stone and shell hanging around my neck, he tucks them down the front of my top, pinching buttons through their holes until they’re secured all the way to my throat.
I swallow, painfully aware of his closeness—his paused fingers.
The silence between us seems to draw its own breaths, bearing a full-bodied weight and pressing against me, demanding attention.
He shifts, hands landing on my shoulders like weights, and I dare a peek at his eyes ...
There’s a sincerity there—an openness that binds me with his attention, tending wounds that were beginning to turn septic.
I can’t help but revel in it.
Does he know he sustains me? Gives me everything and nothing all at once?
My next breath is nowhere near as satisfying as the last, as if nothing compares to the sips of him he feeds me.
Tortures me with.
“Orlaith,” he says, voice a little raspy. “Are you ready?”
No.
Beyond those doors, we cease to be alone.
Beyond those doors, what we have in this small, disencumbered moment becomes overburdened with the weight of reality.
Even so, I nod.
His hands fall and he spins, shielding me while he tugs the door open, the rusty hinges releasing a pained groan.
The rush of chilled air hits me.
Gray light spills from the expanding void as Rhordyn steps forward. I follow, leashed to his essence—a puppet to every shift of his booted feet.
Murmurings abate as we move into the room crammed full of restless energy. I glance around, taking in the rocky dome of space that’s much like a tomb, or at least how I picture tombs to be from the books I’ve read; a gloomy void, dull and dramatic.
A blade of muddy light shafts through a single open window cut from the peak of the dome, landing on the round stone table dominating the room. The light penetrates the rusty grate covering a hole in the middle of it, piercing down into the guts of who the hell knows what.
I hate this room—can feel the ghosts of past conversations caught in the crypt of it like they’re tangible things. And it’s cold.
Bone-jarring cold.
When I first cracked open that old wooden door to discover this place tucked into the castle’s heart, I backpedaled like my ass was on fire.
One peek, that’s all I needed to know this is not a happy space. It just ... bothered me. Still does, the feeling slightly overridden by my heart-cinching anxiety at the sheer amount of people seated around the huge, circular table, looking at me with barely veiled curiosity.
My skin pebbles, spine stiffening.
There must be over fifty pairs of eyes on me—one big circle of nope.
Rhordyn grips the back of one of the few spare chairs and lifts, walks it back a step, then places it on the ground again.
My gaze docks in his pewter eyes.
He motions for me to sit with a jerk of his chin, hands still gripping the seat. But my feet are mortared in place.
Chairs scraping across the ground only bother me a little, yet he must have noticed ...
“Milaje.”
His beautiful, carved lips shaping themselves around the nickname has me jerking into action.
The chair shocks me with its chill, threatening to tug all the remaining warmth from my body. I shiver, tucking my hands between my thighs to
conserve heat.
Rhordyn takes a seat beside me, and conversations start again.
In an effort to avoid the furrowed brows and stolen glances nipping at me, I look to the hole in the ceiling; to the peek of bulging clouds it allots me.
There’s no glass to prevent the gentle mist of rain from entering.
I let my attention plunge to the halo of smooth stone circumnavigating the rusty gate in the center of the otherwise unrefined table, directly below the hole in the roof ...
I wonder where the water goes.
Shivering again, I feel the cold brush of Rhordyn’s stare and peer sidelong at him.
“What?” I whisper, and he releases me from his scrutiny, stare stabbing out across the table.
“Your lips are blue.”
“That’s because you dragged me into a cellar,” I bite out, and he grunts in response.
The door opens behind me, offering the softest breath of warmth before it shuts again, and heavy footsteps preface the grind of wood against stone.
I grit my teeth, feeling a heat brush over my face, drawing my gaze to the man who just entered.
Twin cerulean orbs assess me in a way that feels far too intimate. Not a sexual sort of intimacy, but one that goes far, far deeper than that ...
The man from the garden.
He reclines in his chair like a cat lazing in the sun, draping a leg over the arm of it. The movement crumples his fine Southern threads—a tunic that accentuates his muscular physique and lends a drop of nonchalance to his already casual façade.
All the while, his stare doesn’t waver.
So, I study him with the same unwavering intensity.
He’s attractive, I’ll give him that, harboring a strong, exotic sort of masculinity I’m not familiar with.
I’ve seen Bahari males before—there are two others currently seated around the table at various intervals—but never one like him.
I’ve not seen skin such a perfect shade of bronze.
I can tell he thinks highly of himself by the way he holds his chin, his shoulders. The way he so boldly examines me, as if he couldn’t care less about the male by my side filling this space with his expanding essence.
A hand nails to my shoulder and I jerk, then relax into my seat as I tune into the calming presence behind me.
Baze.
To Bleed a Crystal Bloom Page 23
