by Blake, Laila
“Am I hurting you?” he asked in the end, pushing against the tiny ring of skin again. Moira, however, shook her head fast and hard. For a long moment, she managed to keep her eyes open, feverish and shining.
“Please … ?” she whispered, “Please … ?”
He wasn’t sure she knew exactly what she was asking for but she was asking and he couldn’t deny those eyes of hers. Those luminous, emerald eyes.
Slipping out his fingers, he brought them back to that little nub, rubbing another few moments until she was all but goo underneath him, wriggling and billowing. His hand found his cock and he said a silent prayer to the moon. Don’t let me hurt her. Please, don’t let me hurt her.
He brought it against her slit, rubbing it up and down the slippery fold a few times before he gently started to push against her entrance.
“Breathe … ” he had to whisper again. This time, she was actively holding her breath. “Breathe, little Momo.”
When she did, he breached her entrance and his mouth quickly stifled her loud moan. Slowly now, he reminded himself, trying to hold on for dear life, nibbling at her lips, sucking one by one into his mouth and slowly, slowly pushing just the head in and out, in and out, a little deeper each time.
He heard her mumble his name against his lips, vows neither of them would be allowed to keep and finally, he pulled back and pushed in fast — breaking the ring of skin in one swift motion as his hand tightened around her wrist and her lips vibrated against his with her muffled cry.
He halted inside of her for a long moment, pulling back enough to look at her, check on her. But Moira raised the corners of her lips in a shaky, needy smile and he kissed them both — the right one and the left one and then the dimple on each cheek as well before he pulled out and pushed in again.
Slowly, he allowed himself to take more of what he needed and his strokes became longer and harder. He started to nuzzle against her neck, licking and biting like the wolf inside him needed to. “Momo,” he exhaled and heard her whimper his name like an echo, a much prettier one in his mind.
After holding back for so long, Owain knew he neither could, nor should, draw it out for too long, he managed to reach between them, find her nub again and rubbed.
Moira was floating and at the same time, felt like she was being hammered deep into the ground, into the earth’s cavernous depth. Everything felt vibrant and stark, her body was tinglingly alive. There was an edge of pain but she almost wasn’t aware of it at the face of such overwhelming pleasure that forced a moan of acknowledgement out of her throat with every breath, every push.
When he started to rub that special place again, it only seemed to take moments before she started to wriggle beneath him, losing control of her muscles and her voice until she reached that high point, the pinnacle with a hoarse cry. She felt her insides rhythmically clamp down on his erection as though her body was actively trying to hold onto him. He was grunting too now, much more quietly than she but she loved his noises — almost animalistic, snuffles and grunts against her neck while she was still pulsating around him, delirious and out of breath.
He pumped again. Once, twice, and finally with a hoarse cry, almost like a wounded animal, he pulled out, and something warm and slippery erupted over her stomach and his teeth clenched hard against her neck.
Breathing hard, he finally let go, pushing his sweaty forehead against her cheek. His hand around her wrists slackened and his weight was heavy and warm upon her. It was a glorious feeling, as though her flyaway body was safely rooted to the spot and she didn’t have to worry about where it might float.
“Momo … ” he whispered against her ear, kissing her neck. His tongue snuck out to lap at the clear bite-mark once, as though trying to soothe it, then he nuzzled it, marveling in her smell and her taste; so much sweeter than anything he had ever had the pleasure to be with. Finally, he managed to pull himself up enough to look down at her.
“Momo,” he repeated, but it sounded different now. His body, relaxed and heavy a moment ago, was suddenly tense and he pulled himself up further.
“Hmmm?” she asked, confused, looking up at him, at the sudden surprise in his face.
“You’re glowing … ”
“I … what?” She had no idea what he was talking about. His eyes lingered on her face, then her arms and breasts and instead of the adoring tenderness he’d held before, he was now frowning.
“Look,” he exhaled and almost roughly brought her hand down in front of her face. The room was gloomy, candles burned low and Moira gasped at the sight. It looked like there was a light inside of her, like her body was a candle.
“Wh … what?” she stuttered again and then her eyes filled with tears when Owain backed away and let go of her arm.
“You’re Fae.” The word held more venom than she had ever heard in his voice and all she could do was shake her head over and over.
“I’m not. I’m not … Owain, I’m not!”
“Fae glow at night,” he rasped, his own eyes filling with tears of confusion and pain. “You’re Fae.”
“Please,” she got out somehow, one hand stretching out to him. “Owain, please I … I’m not. I love you. Please!”
His mouth opened, and then closed. He shook his head and forced himself to take a breath and then another. She was Fae, his beautiful girl was Fae. Most people, he knew, thought them all gone or worse, just a myth. But he’d heard different. He knew they weren’t gone, knew their threat was still real. He wasn’t old enough to remember the wars of course, but he had family who did — and passed down through generations were the warnings of Fae retribution, the knowledge that they would come and take it one day. One day, they would try to repay the Blaidyn’s betrayal, multiply the suffering they themselves had endured after their treachery shifted the fortunes of war.
“Who are you?” he exhaled grasping for his shirt and stepping back further.
“Moira, I’m … I’m Moira! Owain!” Tears were streaming down her face now, each one like a glowing little diamond. It was beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful; but how could he trust her? How could he trust her now?
He was still walking backward, grabbed his trousers and his shoes.
“I have to … I’m sorry … ” shaking his head, he reached for the door and before she could get out another word, he had melted back into the shadows. Her door closed, leaving her shaking. Tears blurred her vision but she didn’t need it to be sharp to stare at her luminous skin — utterly lost.
Chapter Sixteen
It went like a shock through his system and from one moment to the other, Brock sat up straight in his narrow bed. He looked around and inhaled deeply. A warm shiver ran over his features. He was glowing, which was surprising. Trained in the arts of spies, Brock had all but quenched that natural function of his Fae body, exercising an amount of constant control few Fae were capable of. But here he was and he actively had to suppress the magic until the room was left in the gloom of the last embers in the fire.
He was out of the bed the next moment, slipping into his robe, and was out the door a minute later, gray-white hair flying behind him. It couldn’t have been the crossling. Not like this. He tried to concentrate, hard, even as the excitement and nerves were flooding his body. There was a Fae in the castle. That much he knew without a doubt in his mind — and for over a hundred years, the only Fae in the Bramble Keep was he, Brock, and he alone. He found himself almost running through the warren of corridors, past dark tapestries that flapped a little when he rushed too close past them. He wished he had taken the oil lamp at least, as his night-vision wasn’t great when he suppressed his magic, his glow.
It took him a moment to catch his bearing and prepare himself mentally when he realized that he was, once again, in Moira’s corridor. The intense feeling of magic came once more from her chambers. He blinked and breathed ag
ain. The smell of wolf was in the air; wolf in heat, and there was more.
He shuddered. He had never liked the idea, but he supposed Fae had always indulged in their pets this way; but how could Moira … ? He had to check. Much as it might endanger his disguise as the girl’s aged tutor, he had to check if it was her or whether some Fae had taken up residence in her room. In his castle, his very own domain!
Anger boiling in his gut, he knocked at the door. Only once and almost immediately, he heard feet rushing to the door.
“Owain?” a familiar voice whispered through the wood, and the force of another Fae’s glow this close was like a cool drink on a summer’s day. Choosing to stay behind Lakeside and keep an eye on the humans there had always had its drawbacks; it weakened the magic if it wasn’t combined with others. It suffered alone, shriveled a little and longed for the unity with other magic. This one was weak and young and small; it was odd, like something he had never quite felt before and the mystery thickened.
“Owain … please?” the voice asked again, a little louder. Not very careful, Brock thought with another note of disgust, but then he noticed the snuffing and suppressed sob at the other side of the wood. He was centuries old. He had fought and almost died in the last Fae War. Brock was an old and experienced man, but he was at a loss.
Moira had been his charge. The first human girl he had to pay a lot of attention as the two former heirs had been young men, growing up into Lordship. Moira was more complicated; and she was interesting, much too interesting for a mere human, he now realized. In fact, he had been so blind to think he finally understood why some Fae kept Halla and other human pets. He had even spun plans that had envisioned him ruling the Keep by her side, she as his obedient pet, he her lord and master and finally, officially, the lord of his domain.
And now there was some little blond boy, trying to catch her attention while she’d fucked some lowly wolf. And then she’d glowed and her magic shone clear and sweet through the door. None of it made sense, none of it was acceptable at all.
“Who … who is it?” the voice exhaled again and Brock’s face hardened against the strange little creature.
• • •
In the end, he rushed away, trying to make as little noise as possible as he headed for the visitor’s wing. That little bitch of a crossling better explain herself before he exploded. The lighting still too low, he allowed a hint of glow to emanate from his features; who was he hiding from now if the daughter of the house had suddenly exploded in a bright light up there? How could this have gotten past him? Was she a changeling? And who’d had the gall to bring a changeling into his domain? And why would she have felt so incredibly human all those years? Strange and odd, yes, but definitely human.
He quickened his steps, shaking his head as he went, gown fluttering behind him. The visitor’s wing was guarded; a fact that only caused him another growl of annoyance in a night where his control of the Keep seemed to running through his fingers like water or sand.
“Your witch,” he growled, “I have to speak with her. Now.”
The guardsman looked confused, but the hit of compassionate glow received through the wood of his door made it almost child’s play to bend his mind to the idea of letting this harmless old man pass. What harm would it do to let the old crone see a boyfriend? The boy even cackled a little when Brock rushed past him and toward the room in which the faintest of crossling energy glimmered.
• • •
“Explain yourself,” he growled, less than a second after throwing her door open. She was in her bed, awake in an instant and pulling a sheet over her nightgown. Humans.
“What?” she asked, blinking the sleep out of her eyes as they tried to adjust to the darkness. She was staring at him, swallowed and then shook her head. Oh, the guilty always looked the same.
“Now.” Brock closed the door behind him, his brows raised high and his arms folded across his chest.
Iris’s eyes were wide with fright; it was a state he liked them in. Frightened people told the truth so much more easily, especially frightened humans. He had seen it time and time again. There was nothing quite so effective than to threaten their teensy little brains with the loss of their worthless lives, or maybe just a limb or two. She didn’t look like she would hold up to much questioning.
“I thought we had an understanding, crossling; you tell me everything I want to know and I will let you live the few years you have left in that sack of old bones you call a body.” He paused for effect, glaring at her as he pulled the silver knife from his pocket. “But you lied to me. Lied straight in my face. It wasn’t you that day and you know it. What were you doing in her room?”
• • •
Again, Iris tried to take a breath but she faltered even there. Just a few hours ago, she had been confident that together, she and Maeve would find a way to fix it all; that Moira would be fine.
“How … ?” she stammered. In an instant, the Fae was upon her, his knee on her bed, his hand roughly pulling her hair back and his knife at her throat.
“I’m asking the questions and I believe I have. Talk. Now.”
“I was … I was trying to … see her. But she wasn’t there.” Iris stammered. Her body was rigid and shaking and she had utterly no control over it. She knew that heroes were the kind of people who kept their mouths shut. They were the kind of people who looked danger in the face and risked their lives to save others, but then she had never been a hero, had never cared for anything enough in her life, thanks to Fae like him. “Then … then she came back, g-glowing.”
“Why did you lie?” he continued, “and why are you here?”
“I … I just … I just came here to help him arrange a marriage that’s … that’s … ” her words faltered into a high-pierced, strangling sound. She could feel the knife cut through the outer layers of skin, and then deeper.
“You know … even a crossling like you … that blood of yours is quite valuable. I assume you use it for that excuse you call magic? You think if I took just a little, you wouldn’t mind, would you? A flagon or two?”
It was then that she started to shake in earnest.
“Please … please!” she spluttered out, breathing fast in and out and shaking her head like a crazy person. Blood. Always blood. Fae and their obsession with blood. Suddenly, she was two years old again, was tiny and helpless and there was blood everywhere, tinting her vision scarlet.
“Please. I’ll tell you, I don’t care, I’ll tell you everything … please!”
“Better … start talking,” Brock almost soothed. In that moment, he looked nothing like an old man. Not at all. It was like his disguise slowly started to melt before her eyes, but she still saw everything in a frighteningly red hue.
“I … I knew she’s not human so I went to see if I could sense it. If everybody could. I didn’t know about you.”
“How did you know?”
“I … ”
Her hesitation earned her another, almost gentle cut, right under the first one, both oozing blood. Her tears were streaming over the wrinkled and hollow cheeks; they stung in the wounds and watered the thick red liquid.
“I’m her sister,” she got out, then coughed and shook her head. “I … she was hidden here, and … I wanted to make sure she’s all right.”
“Why Fairester? And don’t even try.”
“He … there’s F … there’s crossling in his family history. We … I thought if she married him, she’d be hidden if her powers ever … well.” Her chest felt hollow. She could breathe again, but now she knew she deserved the pain and the panic and the life of loss and hardships she had lived.
“Who is we?”
“My mother … and I.” It was almost easy now, her voice all but lifeless. “M … Maeve.”
Brock exhaled a deep sigh and nodded. It made sense.
/>
“Goddess … ” he whispered and shook his head. “Where is she now?”
“Please … she’s the … the only thing I have left … ”
“Where?”
“The … the village. She … she didn’t know about you either. She just, she’s just trying to protect her daughter, that’s all. She’s not … she doesn’t want anything else. I promise!” Rambling and continuing to talk seemed the only way forward now, as though the moment he’d leave the room, her mother’s and the girl’s life were forfeit.
“Please! She’s just a girl and … and none of them … ” Again she shook her head, then rubbed her face, but Brock was already backing away. Almost tenderly, he scraped her knife along her throat and collected the blood on its blade. It sparkled in the reflection of his glow.
“You made a mistake, crossling. This Castle is mine. This fief is mine. This little girl … is mine. Don’t get in my way again.”
Shuddering at the way Brock was examining her blood closely, bringing the knife close to his eyes, then sniffing it and turning his head this way and that. Finally, he took a finger, dipped it into the blood and brought it to his tongue like a nobleman tasting expensive wine. Iris wanted to throw up. Instead, she looked away, trying to keep breathing.
“You went through our crossling rituals, didn’t you?” he asked almost quietly, lifting his eyes from the knife. “Declared non-Fae.”
Iris nodded, fear and spite fighting in her face.
“And then your mother thought, hmm … with this next one, I want to do what I think is best. And she abducted her from the hands of the Fae who tried to help coax out her magic … didn’t she? That’s why she’s on the run, that’s why she’s wanted.”
Iris wondered for a moment how much he really knew and how much was guesswork. How long had he been Lakeside and how long had it been since he had been Across. She looked down, for fear her thoughts could somehow be divined from her eyes and then shrugged.
