Unchained by a Forbidden Love

by Heaton, Felicity

  Fuery’s shoulders tensed beneath his black tunic the second she appeared, his steps slowing as he walked towards the reception room.

  “Who was that female?” she snapped, all the fires of Hell raging in her blood, driving her to confront him and not back down until she had an answer.

  He slowly turned to face her, his eyes enormous and wild.

  And very black.

  Sorrow swept through her, washing away her anger in an instant, and she whispered, “Gods, Fuery… your eyes.”

  They had looked bad when she had seen him just a few days ago, but she had fooled herself into seeing some violet in them, enough that it kept the hope alive in her heart, the dream that she could somehow redeem him.

  That hope threatened to fade and die as she stared into them and saw the truth.

  There was barely a glimmer of violet around his pupils.

  He averted them and she felt his shame through their bond as it raked him.

  She took one step towards him, and then another, drawn to him by her need to comfort him and tell him they would fix this, somehow. It didn’t matter that his eyes were more corrupted than she had thought, revealing just how fiercely the darkness that lived within all elves gripped him now.

  They would fix this.

  “Look at me, Fuery,” she murmured softly, hoping to encourage him, to coax him into looking at her and seeing that she would help him somehow. He kept his head bent, eyes hidden from her, and she risked another step towards him. “Fuery… look at me.”

  Pity washed through her, sorrow that had her venturing another step closer, her eyebrows furrowing as she monitored the feelings going through him and felt the shame growing stronger.

  She was about to ask him again to look at her when he lifted his head.

  Revealing silver-blue eyes.

  Tears lined hers, born of hurt that he would hide something from her, using a trick all elves could to blend into their environment, when they had always been open with each other.

  His jaw tensed as black emerged around the edges of his irises and it disappeared again, driven out by him as he struggled to hold the silver-blue colour.

  She shook her head, weathering the pain and the devastation that threatened to tear her apart as he continued his charade, pretending nothing was wrong with him, lying to her.

  “Don’t hide from me,” she whispered, voice breaking as the hurt grew stronger, beating fiercely in her heart.

  The black pushed again, together with a flicker of violet, and he growled as he looked away from her just as the silver-blue fled his irises, the pain in that snarl pulling at her because she knew it stemmed from his love for her—love that had him wanting to conceal the extent of his corruption from her because he couldn’t bear her seeing it.

  “Fuery.” She held her hand out to him, desperate to comfort him.

  He snapped his head up and hissed at her, his pointed ears flattening against the sides of his head as he bared long white daggers at her.

  Shaia stopped dead, halted in her tracks by his show of aggression, and then withdrew a step when she felt the conflict in him, the fear colliding with fury. She didn’t want to push him, hadn’t meant to upset him. She had only wanted to comfort him.

  The black in his eyes began to spread, devouring the remaining corona of violet, warning her that she was on the verge of losing him to the darkness.

  “You had such beautiful eyes,” she murmured, unable to stop herself even when part of her was aware it would hurt him. “Flecked with pale lilac.”

  He bared his fangs at her again as his face crumpled, his pain staggering as he stumbled backwards as if she had physically struck him. He slammed into the wall on the right of the broad corridor, his left shoulder striking the black stone hard and sagged against it.

  “Do you not remember me?” She slowly stretched her hands out towards him, afraid of frightening him or driving him deeper into the hold the darkness had on him. “Is this your life now… killing and sleeping with other females?”

  He snarled at her. “I do not kill females. Hartt said I did not kill the fae… it was the demons… and I killed them.”

  Her heart bled for him. He had muddled her words. She opened her mouth to unravel them for him.

  He spoke first.

  “I am sorry I killed you.”

  Shock struck her hard and fast, his pain blazing in her heart and stealing her breath as she stared at him and realised he believed what he was saying.

  The things he had said when she had last seen him came rushing back, rocking her harder. He had said something similar then.

  He thought he had killed her.

  Shaia shook her head and risked a step towards him. “You never did such a thing, Fuery. I am not dead.”

  Pain flitted across his handsome face and then he growled, shoved his fingers through his shoulder-length hair and tugged at it, pulling it free from the clasp that held it tied back. He tipped his head back, his lips peeling off his teeth in a grimace as he snarled again, the pain in it tearing at her, driving her to take another step forwards.

  To comfort him.

  He suddenly dropped his chin and stared at her, tears in his eyes as he clutched his head in both hands.

  “I wish that was true,” he croaked, his black eyebrows furrowing.

  Shaia crossed the span of black flagstones between them in a heartbeat and placed her hands on his arms, drawing his hands away from his head before he hurt himself.

  He stared at her, his eyes growing wider, disbelief echoing in them as they dropped to his arms and her hands where she touched him.

  His single whispered word tore at her.

  “Impossible.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Fuery stared at her hands where they clutched his wrists.

  He had truly lost his mind.

  It was warm where she touched him, and his armour peeled back beneath his jacket, his need to feel her delicate hands on his flesh making it clear his wrists before he had even issued a mental command.

  He trembled as her skin met his, the sensation overload of feeling her warmth on him, the soft press of her fingers, too much for him to take. It felt too good.

  But it wasn’t real.

  Gods, this was the worst form of torture.

  He had been beaten, ripped apart and left balanced on the brink of dying, injuries so extensive it had taken him months to heal his broken body, but the torture and pain he had felt then was nothing compared with the agony that pulsed through him in waves that radiated outwards from the points beneath her hands.

  He couldn’t take it.

  He hissed and jerked his hands away from her, stumbling backwards until his back hit one of the columns in the entrance hall. He sagged against it and stared at her through eyes rapidly growing blurred.

  “You are not real,” he whispered, his throat raw and heart burning. “I wish that you were. I prayed so hard to reverse what I had done so you were not dead, but the gods would not listen to me.”

  Tears filled her beautiful amethyst eyes, put there by him because she was a figment of his wretched imagination, and it was his pain reflected in her.

  She reached for him again. “Fuery, I am not dead.”

  She had said that more than once now.

  It was a lie, his mind playing tricks on him, because he wanted her to be alive. He wanted his prayers to be answered.

  “I am alive.”

  Those three words struck him hard, stripped him of his strength and turned his knees to rubber beneath him, and he hissed at her. Desperate to escape her, he turned and pushed away from the wall, and darkness swallowed him, jagged and freezing, chilling his flesh. He landed hard in the reception room just metres from where he had been, stumbled a few steps forwards and grasped the back of the black velvet couch to stop himself from collapsing.

  He breathed hard, the agony of seeing the ghost and hearing her sweet voice colliding with the sharp drain on his strength from the teleport.


  When he heard footsteps ringing in the corridor behind him, he broke away from the couches and staggered across the large room towards the hallway in the right wall, the one that would lead him to his quarters.

  He glanced back over his shoulder when he was halfway there.

  Shaia charged around the corner, a wild look in her violet eyes.

  “No.” Hartt’s barked words echoed around the room. “You said you would wait. Leave.”

  He looked at Hartt, confused for a moment. Wait? Leave? His confusion only increased when he discovered Hartt wasn’t even looking at him. He was looking at Shaia, as if he was speaking to her.

  Which made fuck all sense to Fuery.

  She was a ghost.

  Unless she could make herself visible to others too.

  He laughed, low and vicious.

  Or he had completely lost his fucking mind and was imagining the whole thing.

  Shaia’s gaze swung his way and she started towards him, but she didn’t make it far. Fuery could only stare as Hartt swept into her path and did something incredible.

  He grabbed her shoulders to hold her back.

  Said something Fuery didn’t hear.

  Because the second Hartt’s hands touched her, a red veil descended and rage boiled through him.

  Stupid, considering she wasn’t really there, and this whole thing was just his fucked up mind playing tricks on him.

  She wasn’t real, because he had killed her.

  Yet he turned on a pinhead and roared as he launched himself at Hartt, unable to stop himself as the unmated male laid hands on his female.

  His female.

  He would kill the bastard for touching her, for trying to take her from him, when she was his everything—his world.

  His beautiful mate.

  Hartt grunted as he slammed into him, lost his grip on Shaia and went down hard with Fuery on top of him.

  Fuery snarled, gripped his shoulder and pulled him onto his back beneath him on the flagstones. He grinned as he punched Hartt in the face. Once. Twice. A third time. A sickening crunch was his reward as Hartt’s nose broke. The male growled and bucked up, launching a hand at his face. He shoved Fuery under his chin, tipping him backwards and off balance, and teleported from beneath him.

  Fuery shot to his feet and turned in a fast circle, his eyes scanning the room and his heart pounding, his senses on high alert as he waited for Hartt to reappear.

  The air shimmered off to his left.

  He roared and kicked off in that direction.

  Hartt hit him in the back, and Fuery growled in frustration, cursing himself for falling for that trick when he had seen Hartt use it countless times on a foe. He spun on his heel and blocked Hartt’s attempt to grab him, caught him around the back of his neck and pulled him towards him at the same time as he lunged forwards. His forehead cracked against Hartt’s, ripping a pained grunt from the male, and sending lightning spider-webbing across his own skull.

  He released Hartt as the male staggered backwards, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  The second the pain ebbed, he growled and attacked again, landing punches on Hartt’s face and side, determined to make the male pay for daring to touch his beautiful, sweet mate. Hartt finally fought back, his eyes bright violet as he bared fangs at him and blocked his blows, and landed some of his own.

  “If you will not bloody listen to me, I will beat you down until you do.” Hartt growled, managed to grab him by the throat, and the world twirled around him as the male tipped him off balance and slammed him onto his back on the polished stone floor, knocking the air from his lungs.

  The male had been speaking to him?

  Fuery recalled his lips moving, but he had heard no words above the thunderous rush of his blood, and the rage that burned in it.

  Hartt backed off, breathing hard and almost tripping over his own feet. Blood streamed over his lips from his nose and from a cut beneath his right eye.

  Fuery’s rage burned hotter, the violent clash and Hartt’s resulting injuries not nearly enough to satisfy it. He wanted to paint the black walls crimson with Hartt’s blood and entrails.

  He flipped onto his feet and kicked off, a grin stretching his lips, put there by the pleasing images and the thought of making them real.

  Shaia appeared between him and Hartt.

  Fuery skidded to a halt, his fist stopping close to striking her. It began to tremble in the air between them as he stared at her, his eyes slowly widening as what she had done swept through him like a violent rush of ice in his veins, extinguishing the fire.

  He dropped his hand and shook his head as he backed away, confusion colliding with conflict and pain so intense he felt sure a part of him was dying.

  She had defended Hartt.

  She had protected him.

  A low feral growl curled from his lips as the fire swept back in and he quaked with the need to rip the male apart so his female would look at only him.

  But at the same time, a thought went through him, unwelcomed and unwanted, one that cut him to his soul, plunging the blade in deep and causing him agony the depth of which he had never experienced before.

  She deserved a decent male like Hartt.

  Not a tainted bastard like him.

  He stumbled backwards, still shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the pair of them and saw them as a couple, the two people he loved most, needed most, turned against him and leaving him bereft, alone in a world he wanted no part of without them at his side.

  “This is not real.” His voice hitched. “Please… I cannot take this torment.”

  His left knee gave out, striking the black stone tiles hard, but he picked himself up again. When he straightened, Shaia had moved.

  She stood mere inches from him.

  He shook his head again and tried to back away.

  She caught his wrists, and when he attempted to break free this time, she didn’t let him. She tightened her grip.

  Gods, the pressure around his wrists felt real enough.

  He stared at her hands and then lifted his head and met her gaze.

  She whispered, “You did not kill me.”

  “I did.” He remembered it vividly, because he saw it every night, every time he closed his eyes.

  He had seen it happen in a thousand different ways and all of them had destroyed him.

  She gently shook her head, her mane of wavy black hair brushing slender shoulders that were shaking. He could feel her trembling. She was afraid. Of him?

  “You remember wrongly,” she murmured softly. “You are just muddled, Fuery. The darkness has mixed your memories up.”

  Vail had said something similar. That was the only reason she was saying it now, because someone else had told him that and at the time he had wanted to believe it might apply to what he had done to her too—that he might not have killed her.

  “If I was a ghost, as you believe, why would I be dressed like this?”

  He looked at her clothing—a pair of worn tan trousers, old brown boots, and a washed out grey tunic.

  “Because I cannot bear to see you as you were.” He was sure that was the reason she was wearing male clothing and not the beautiful dresses she had worn in all the times he had seen her in the past.

  Before he had killed her.

  She sighed, the sound light and melodic, but holding a weight of hurt and a dash of frustration. “My poor, beautiful warrior.”

  He growled at her, despising the way she said that, as if she pitied him. Pity. It sent him spinning back to that night he had been dreaming of, to the grand ball where they had first kissed and first touched. He didn’t want anything given to him out of pity.

  He wanted to earn everything, including her heart.

  He had earned it, hadn’t he?

  Before he had killed her.

  He tried to break free of her again, but she refused to let him go, and he stilled again as her thumbs brushed his flesh on the inside of his wrists, a soot
hing touch that had his fight flowing out of him.

  “I am mad… not muddled,” he whispered to himself, feeling it as he looked at her, as he felt her hands on his skin, squeezing his bones.

  He had finally lost his mind.

  “You are muddled, not mad,” she countered. “I am not dead, Fuery.”

  His throat closed, and he couldn’t squeeze air past it as he considered the possibility that she really wasn’t dead. It was too much. He had lived for millennia believing he had killed her.

  Hartt adjusted his torn black tunic, frowning down at it, catching Fuery’s attention. When Fuery looked at him, he lifted his head, locking eyes with him. Fuery wasn’t strong enough to say the words, to ask the question balanced on the tip of his tongue, because he feared that if he put it out there, it would build hope in his heart that would kill him if Hartt told him the wrong answer.

  Was this really Shaia before him, alive and not dead?

  Hartt nodded, and softly said, “She is real, Fuery. I wanted her to stay away until you were stronger. The light you felt inside you… it was Shaia reaching to you through your bond.”

  Fuery’s breath left him in a rush and he sank to his knees, dragging her hands down with him.

  It wasn’t possible.

  He stared up at her and tried to believe that Hartt was telling him the truth and that it really was her standing before him, gazing down at him with soft eyes filled with understanding and concern.

  He reached for the connection they had once shared, the one that had died when she had, or maybe before then. Something inside him had snapped the night he had first lost himself to the darkness.

  His connection to her?

  It had felt as if all the light had flooded out of him, and the darkness had swept in to replace it.

  Light that had sparked to life inside him only a few days ago.

  A light that Hartt said she had put there by opening her connection to him.

  He focused on that connection, fostered it as he stared at her, deep into her eyes.

  Light flickered inside him.

  The darkness rushed to swamp it and extinguish it, and he growled as he broke free of her grip, shoved to his feet and staggered away from her, slamming the connection shut again. His hands shook as he gripped his head and snarled through his fangs, fighting the darkness as it writhed inside him, pushing him towards the edge, stirred into a dangerous frenzy by that echo of light.