Unchained by a Forbidden Love

by Heaton, Felicity

  By her.

  He looked back at her and she lowered her gaze away from him, pinning it on the floor. Gods, she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him, to see what he had become. He needed her to look at him, ached with a desperate desire to have her eyes on him again, looking into his and telling him that all was not lost. She refused though, keeping her violet ones turned away from him, and he growled as pain so fierce it shattered him speared his chest.

  His eyebrows furrowed as a need to escape surged through him, a desperate need to distance himself.

  To spare himself.

  She couldn’t be real.

  And even if she was, it wouldn’t change a thing.

  She would never be his.

  He only wanted her to be his. That was all he had ever wanted. His only dream. One that had slipped through his grasp and was so disgusted by him that she refused to look at him.

  Because he was tainted. Evil. Darkness made flesh.

  He deserved her scorn.

  He growled and squeezed his head, his claws forming over his fingers as his armour completed itself to protect him from the threat he felt, one it could never shield him from, because it came from inside him.

  The darkness.

  He sank into the despair that was now his old friend, a constant companion that had been with him for longer than he could remember. It had been born inside him when he had stepped into the darkness and embraced it, and had realised that he would live forever, until the darkness consumed him or he was killed.

  It had become part of him when it had hit him that she was gone and he no longer had a reason to live.

  He had doomed himself to an eternity alone, a shallow existence that slowly ate away at him.

  When Hartt had given him a new path, he had taken it, his despair driving him to take on any foe, regardless of their strength, in the hope one of them would end his misery.

  Because he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself.

  How many times had he asked himself why he was still breathing? How many times had he asked himself why he fought back against his enemies, rather than let them end him? Why, when he was injured and in danger of being killed by his foe, did the need to live surge through him, driving him to fight harder?

  To survive.

  There was no reason for him to live, yet there was a piece of him that clung to hope—to life—unwilling to let him die.

  Why?

  He stared at Shaia.

  Because that part of him had always known she was alive?

  A shiver chased over his flesh beneath his armour and clothes, and gods, he wanted to believe that, ached to believe that she was standing before him, but fear was slowly building inside him, whispered words that had him backing away from her, distancing himself when he wanted to move closer to her.

  She despised him, would only look upon him with hatred and disgust if she did raise her beautiful eyes to his face.

  He was tainted.

  Damned.

  The darkness was strong in him and he had embraced it, desiring oblivion, wanting an end. He had tried fighting it, but there had been times when he had coaxed it, had needed to feel it washing through him. He was no longer the male he had been when she had loved him.

  He was a ghastly shadow of that male. A wraith. A monster.

  He might have been good enough for her once, but no longer.

  He would never be good enough for her again.

  There was no coming back from the evil that lived inside him.

  As his despair mounted to a crescendo he felt sure would break him, the darkness so intense that no drop of light remained, and he wanted to sink into it and lose himself, never to return, she finally raised her eyes to meet his.

  There was no scorn in them. No disgust. No trace of the feelings he felt sure beat in her heart—ones all elves felt towards the tainted and the lost.

  Shaia lifted her hand and held it out to him, and gods, he wanted to take it, but he couldn’t, and it killed him.

  He couldn’t taint her too.

  He backed away from her, and when she took a step towards him, Hartt moved and placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

  That single action reignited Fuery’s rage but made it hit home at the same time.

  She was real, alive, and as beautiful and pure as he remembered.

  And gods, maybe he was wrong, maybe she didn’t despise him, because she was looking at him with love in her eyes.

  It was too much. The room closed in on him, the emotions that rushed through him causing a torrent that threatened to sweep him under and left him feeling as if he was drowning. He needed space and air, both to stop himself from attacking his only friend again, the only one who had stuck by him through the long and weary centuries, and to process the reality that she was alive.

  His beautiful ki’ara was alive.

  He took one last look at her and then drew on his strength, called on all of his power, and focused on his body. Dark jagged lines chased over his arms and the world around him disappeared as he managed to teleport.

  But he still saw Shaia.

  He saw her hurt as she realised what he was doing, and felt her pain go through him.

  And he couldn’t bring himself to go far away from her, to a place where she couldn’t reach him.

  She was his mate, and she needed him.

  He landed in his quarters and dropped back to his knees.

  He hadn’t been there for her though. He had left her alone for centuries, his connection to her closed, believing her dead when the truth was so much worse.

  She had been alive all this time, alone, believing him dead.

  All this time she had been out there, and now he knew the part of him that had pushed him to live had been aware of it, aware of her and that she needed him.

  His heart.

  He pressed his left hand to his chest and breathed through the pain that beat in it. His pain. Her pain. They mingled together to steal his breath and burn his soul to ashes.

  He had thought her beyond his reach once, but she had stepped within it, had believed him worthy of her.

  But he had been mistaken back then.

  Now she was beyond his reach, the darkness inside him a gulf between them he could never cross.

  And nothing he did would ever make him worthy of her again.

  CHAPTER 15

  Shaia lowered her eyes away from Fuery as he fought with himself, his body trembling violently and eyes on the verge of becoming pitch black. Gods. She knew he would hate for her to see him like this—a warrior weakened and rendered vulnerable. A shadow of the male she had known four millennia ago.

  It was hard to keep her gaze off him as he struggled, an echo of his emotions ringing in her blood as he waged war against whatever darkness gripped him. She wanted to know, wanted to lift her eyes, close the distance between them and take him into her arms and hold him until the battle had passed and he was on even ground again. Then, she would ask him what it felt like whenever the darkness gripped him, would make him tell her so she could understand and find a way to aid him.

  She wanted to shake its hold on him forever.

  She wanted to guide him back to the light.

  She hadn’t been there for him when he had needed her, had left him alone in this world to face the darkness without anyone there to support him, to help him hold it at bay and vanquish it.

  Hartt moved, a slight shift of his weight but enough to remind her of his presence in the huge black-walled room with her and Fuery. It reminded her of something else too. Fuery hadn’t been alone, or at least he hadn’t been alone through every year of the four thousand she had been apart from him.

  Hartt had been there for him, had been the guide drawing him back to the light in her place, had bonded himself to her mate in an attempt to save him.

  It should have been her.

  She felt wretched as she thought that, as she felt it in every drop of her blood and fibre of her being.
r />   She had failed her beloved.

  Now, she stood with her head bent, her eyes locked on the black stone tiles beneath her boots, failing him again.

  Hartt hadn’t taken his eyes off Fuery.

  The elf male offered support to him as he fought, made it clear that he was there if Fuery needed him, silently showing him that he only needed to ask for his assistance and he would give it to him, regardless of the danger to himself. He would fight to bring him back from the darkness once again, even if it attached itself to him in the process.

  Gods, she had thought she was sparing Fuery by keeping her eyes away from him, but the hurt in him was mounting, a sense of desperation that made it blindingly clear she had been wrong.

  Her actions hadn’t spared him.

  They had wounded him.

  They had allowed the darkness he had been fighting to grip him harder, because she had weakened him by refusing to look at him, had stirred black thoughts and feelings that beat in her chest—in her heart.

  He was wrong.

  She lifted her head and held her hand out to him, desperate to show him that she hadn’t meant her actions in the way he thought, that she had only wanted to spare him because she had known he would hate her seeing him like this.

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him.

  He hesitated, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he would take her hand, and then jagged black tendrils snaked over his body and he disappeared.

  She lunged forwards, desperation driving her to seize him before she lost him again, and her hand cut through the shimmering air where he had been.

  Her senses reached out, seeking him as her heart throbbed, pain pulsing in it as she cursed herself for doing everything wrong. Her fear and her pain settled as she found him nearby, still inside the guild.

  In his quarters?

  The tension drained from her shoulders and she sagged as she eased back onto her heels and stared towards the direction she could feel him in, a desire to follow him rising swiftly inside her and urging her to go to him.

  To make everything right.

  Somehow.

  “Stay where you are this time,” Hartt muttered and took swift steps across the polished stone floor before she could respond.

  He disappeared down the corridor off to her right, and she shifted foot to foot as she waited, growing aware of the fact she was alone in the grim reception room of a guild of assassins.

  Loud footfalls echoed behind her.

  Her head whipped around, gaze leaping over her right shoulder. One of those assassins strolled in, his face a black mask as he rubbed at his shoulder through a tight black short-sleeved garment, and muttered something beneath his breath. He huffed and pushed his wild silver hair out of his face, and a deep sigh escaped him as his silver eyes closed.

  He drew down another breath.

  Stopped dead a few feet from her.

  Those bright silver eyes flicked back open, locking straight on her.

  “Anyone told you it isn’t wise to wander into a guild of assassins, Little Female? Especially this one.” His voice was a deep rumble, but there was a note of warmth in it she hadn’t expected, one that seemed at odds with his cold expression and lethal air.

  “I-I am waiting for Hartt.” She wanted to curse herself for stammering, making herself appear weak in front of the male.

  English was not her first language, but she had tutored herself in it during her years in her small home, together with a smattering of other languages, ones her parents would never have allowed her to learn. In society’s eyes, females of her species had no need to know anything other than the elf tongue.

  He eased back onto his heels and looked her over, taking in her masculine clothing with an arched eyebrow. “You don’t look like a whore, and last I checked Hartt wasn’t interested in that sort of ‘business’ anyway.”

  Her cheeks blazed, and her temper caught fire with them. “I am not a whore!”

  “Good thing.” He casually cocked his head to his left and ran another assessing glance over her. “You’re not a patch on Iolanthe and I figure he’s got a pretty big crush on his ex-fiancée.”

  She frowned, her anger deflating as curiosity seized her.

  “Bleu’s sister? I heard she had been promised to a male.” She looked back towards the corridor, and tried to imagine Hartt with Iolanthe.

  Iolanthe was adventurous, a match for him in a way, but Shaia doubted she ever would have married a male against her wishes. It was tradition though. If an elf female failed to find their fated one before their thousandth birthday, they were married to a male of the family’s choosing.

  Thinking about that had Eirwyn popping into her head, and how she was promised to him, and would have married him if Bleu hadn’t come to her and told her that Fuery was alive.

  Shaia shoved Eirwyn out again, together with the shame that swept through her. She might have been strong enough to refuse her parents before the wedding had taken place. She might have been brave enough to stand him up, as Iolanthe had with Hartt.

  The male was saying something to her.

  She looked at him, and blinked, feeling awful as he scowled at her, obviously displeased that she hadn’t been listening.

  “You know Bleu?” The male tried again, and she nodded. He blew out his breath on a low whistle. “I bet that went down well with Hartt.”

  He jerked his left thumb towards the door in the corner of the room that led to the offices, winced, and rubbed at his shoulder again. “I’m guessing he’s not in, since you’re stood here brightening the room?”

  Brightening it?

  He had an odd way of speaking, and she doubted his clothing came from Hell. She had never seen so many pockets on trousers, or boots with such strange soles. They weren’t made of leather or wood. He looked down at his feet, his silvery eyebrows dipped low, and then he raised his eyes back to her.

  “I can get you a pair if you want… the, uh, clothing thing… you into cross-dressing or just find it comfortable? I mean, a lot of females in the mortal world wear trousers and shit, but I haven’t seen many down here dressing like that.” He ran a finger through the air, up and down, and then his frown melted away into a grin that lit up his eyes. “Aya loves tight jeans and t-shirts. Fuck… the way they hug her arse makes me want to growl and grab it every fucking time I see it.”

  Shaia presumed Aya was this male’s mate. “I thought the guild did not allow females here. Hartt said—”

  “Hartt’s cool with it,” he spoke over her and then added, “It’s Fuery who loses his shit. I have to keep an eye on the mad bastard when Aya visits.”

  She growled and flashed fangs at him, her pointed ears flaring back against the sides of her head as fury rippled through her on hearing him speak of her mate in such a vicious, cruel way. His eyes widened, shock sweeping across his face.

  A gasp left her as she realised what she had done and she lifted her hands to her mouth, her eyes growing round. “I am sorry… I…”

  “Have a thing for Fuery,” he said in a low, slow way that made her feel he was peeling back her layers, seeking the truth inside her, and he wasn’t going to stop until he knew it.

  She didn’t want him prying into her personal life, and she refused to allow him to fluster her into saying things she wanted to keep private, so she put it out there before he could speak again.

  “Fuery is my mate.”

  His eyes widened further.

  “Well, fuck… my condolences.” He closed the gap between them and slapped a heavy hand down on her shoulder, a twinkle in his eyes that said he wasn’t being serious but didn’t stop her from growling at him.

  Her growl sounded deeper than normal, and very dangerous judging by the way the male paled and eased his hand away from her.

  “I would suggest it is unwise to lay a hand on the female, Harbin,” Hartt snarled and stepped around her, coming to stand between her and the male. “Unless you want Fuery swinging you around this room by your tai
l?”

  Harbin swallowed and blanched further, and then shrugged stiffly. “I was just playing.”

  Hartt’s expression remain cold and hard. “I am not sure Fuery would see it that way. Shaia is his mate… and you know how a mated male would view what you have just done. Next time, before you act or speak to Shaia, think about how you would feel if someone spoke or acted towards Aya that way, and then multiply whatever black desire you feel by a thousand, and that is what Fuery will do to you in response.”

  The edge to Harbin’s eyes said it didn’t really bear thinking about.

  He ran a glance over Hartt’s ruined tunic, looked as if he wanted to mention it and ask whether Fuery was responsible for his appearance, and then bent his head. “Noted. I’ll file my report later.”

  Hartt nodded, but caught the male’s arm before he could pass him, and glanced across at him. “Shower… because if Fuery smells her on you, it’s your funeral.”

  Harbin swallowed hard again and hurried away. Was Fuery that terrifying?

  She looked to Hartt for the answer, and saw it in his grim expression as he turned towards her, his violet eyes troubled and laced with concern, worry for his friend.

  “Is he… well?” She wasn’t sure that was the right word to use, because she wasn’t sure he would ever be well again.

  Even if she could drive the darkness from his soul, he would still be vulnerable to it. It would never truly leave him. He would always be in danger of falling into it again.

  Hartt sighed, rubbed the back of his neck and stared at her, conflict shining in his eyes as he studied her in silence. The minutes dragged by as she waited for him to speak, her fear growing, whispering to her that he was going to make her leave again when she desperately needed to stay.

  “As well as can be expected,” Hartt finally said but the tension building inside her didn’t dissipate.

  She waited for him to continue, feared the words she knew he would say next, and was ready to rebel against his wishes and fight him on it. His violet eyes flicked towards the hallway that led to Fuery, and then leaped back to her, and she braced herself.