And more––if he wanted to deliver salvation to his people.
“What does that mean?” The female before him stumbled a step away, her voice hoarse with disbelief.
“Earlier, you called me king,” he offered in explanation. “But though my father is dead, I have not yet been given the crown.” Near dizzy from the extremes of his emotions, Toran stepped towards his faine again, his skin prickling with the need to close the distance between them. It was as if they were locked in a slow yet frenetic dance, each desperate to find some sense of ease. “It is decreed by law that I cannot assume the throne until I wed and plant my seed into my fated female.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Toran was rocked by the expectant, hopeful even, expression that lit up her face.
Gods, what is that look?
His breath hitched just as his heart began to race.
This faine had the wrong idea.
“You misunderstand me, faine.” Toran stepped back, waving his hands in a frenzied attempt to dispel her wrongly held notion. ”You are not my fated female.”
She gasped out, her cheeks blushing a cherry red. “But you just said I was marked for you from birth.” Unable to choke out an answer, he said nothing. At his silence, she whispered, “You didn’t bring me here to be with you?”
“Gods, no.” He didn’t even attempt to disguise the disgust that laced his voice.
“Oh mother of all things holy, help me.” Dropping her face into her hands, she groaned. “I don’t understand.”
At her obvious distress, Toran clenched his jaw, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest adding to his confusion. He found himself hurrying to explain, “When the faine were destroyed, it changed everything.” He felt her flinch again, but he shook it aside, desperate to get this done and over with so he could escape her baffling presence. “There was no one left to counter the strength of the venna. Over the years, it has become impossible…”
His voice dying away, he raised his gaze past the faine to study the wall behind her.
The real truth as to why he needed her was immaterial.
And it was unnecessarily cruel for her to know.
But Toran knew he had to give her something to convince her to stay without putting up a fight.
Everything depended on it.
Taking a steadying breath, Toran offered up the one truth that, in his heart of hearts, always rang true.
“I can’t in good conscience bring another of my kind into this world… not as things stand now.” He stepped towards her again. “I need you here, faine, so that my sons will have an easier life than mine.”
*****
Toran's gaze held steady, though a slight tremble in his hands betrayed the fact he desperately wanted to turn and run.
Despite this, Liv sensed his sincerity. It was the one clear-cut emotion she had felt this entire time with him.
“You want me here to watch over your sons?” she ventured.
He nodded slowly.
“I want you to stay here to serve me and my household, yes.”
Those words again.
Liv narrowed her eyes, trying to see past their meaning. And, what did he mean by “his kind”? Did he consider himself different from other Vimora? Or, did all Vimor daemons face a similar need for the soothing presence of a faine since they had murdered all of her people?
And if that was the case, what did she owe them? Since the night she had been lost to her homeland, Liv’s entire life had been a struggle, a day-to-day battle to take in just enough strength to carry on.
Why the hell should she help the Vimora dig themselves out of their misery?
These were questions she knew she should be demanding answers to. But, at this very moment, she just didn’t have the strength to contemplate any of them.
Instead, Liv found herself saying, “But you have no children now.”
“No. Not yet,” he conceded. “For now, I will be content to evaluate how this works between us.”
“Evaluate?”
“Look, I’m proposing a simple, mutually beneficial arrangement.” She was shocked when he reached out and took her hand in his, her heart lurching as a frisson of energy passed between them.
“If you cooperate freely,” he said, “I will give you all the strength you need to live whatever life you choose to live.”
At his words, Liv snapped her head back to peer into his face. She blinked rapidly as her mind processed all that the daemon was offering. Liv had no super power, no super strength. She was totally dependent on the strength of others.
What Toran offered was almost beyond her comprehension.
“You’ll freely give your venna?” she breathed.
In answer, a gentle wind whispered around the room as Toran unleashed just enough venna to sway the tendrils of her hair.
Her eyes grew wide, her chest expanding to take in his potency, her skin heating pink with vibrancy.
Ah, gods, that’s good.
He dropped her hand. He stepped away to say, “My one, non-negotiable term is this: I come to you.”
Flushed and tingly, Liv struggled to give him back her full attention.
“What do you mean?” she managed to say.
“When I offer my venna, you are free to take as much as you desire.” He scowled. “But under no circumstances are you to siphon away my strength––or that of my warriors.”
Wrinkling her nose in confusion, Liv tried to set things straight. “I don’t siphon…”
“Spare me your lies,” he bellowed, his thunderous voice reverberating about the room.
Lies?
“Just tell me you understand what I’m offering,” he bit out.
For a tense moment, she studied him before venturing an answer. Despite his aggression, somewhere deep in the roiling mix of his emotions, Liv sensed… something. Something that gave her just a bit of courage, of hope.
Plus, she had her mother’s promise.
Liv tested the waters.
“If I stay for the sake of your future children,” she said, “you’ll let me feed so that I can make a life of my own with another.”
The castle’s foundation rocked as a boom of venna threatened to bring down the walls.
Aha.
In the wake of his violent reaction, the daemon stood before her in wild-eyed, jaw-clenched silence. At last, he said with a shaky breath, “Yes, that is exactly what I’m offering.” When she said nothing in response, he ground out, “Do we have an agreement?”
She peered up into his face, searching for her answer.
Truth be told, she didn’t need what Toran was offering.
Not really.
If she chose, Liv could live like a ghost. She could choose to never feel the warmth of the sun against her skin.
The problem was, she craved touch. She lived to feel. Once, she had spent days wandering through smoke-filled casinos sucking up the seedy dregs of Las Vegas emotions… just so that she could feel the furry joy of newborn kittens.
Sad, but true.
Over her long life, Liv had done similar things, trying to experience life in ways most creatures took for granted. Liv had managed to accumulate a list of accomplishments, her bucket list of sorts. She had even kissed––really kissed––a man once before. That sensual touch had been the highlight of her life until, mere seconds later, she had lost herself in the moment, every ounce of energy drained away by that fleeting kiss. Afterwards, she had been debilitated for weeks. The push and pull of maintaining energy on a daily basis was grueling enough. When it came to experiencing that part of life, Liv knew the more she craved, the more she burned.
The more she burned, the less she felt.
It was maddening.
It was also totally exhausting.
But now? With venna gifted by the near-king of the Vimor daemons?
Her dream of being with someone––maybe even having a family of her own––well, that dream was within reach.
She owed it to h
erself to give Toran a shot.
Liv wasn’t content, though, to settle without putting up just a little fight.
“What about my friends?” she found herself asking.
The daemon narrowed his eyes, and just like that, his mood shifted darker. “What friends? The witch… or others?”
“Does it matter?” she asked with surprise.
“Your friend, the witch, can visit as she pleases. No one else.” He threw out his hands, a hiss of blue concussing the air between them. “That is the only concession I am willing to make.”
It was now Liv’s turn to narrow her eyes. He stared right back at her, his jaw locked tight. A vein ticked at his temple.
She could swear she sensed the musky tinge of jealousy emanating from the daemon.
Interesting.
Though Liv knew she shouldn’t push him, she found herself doing just that.
“Just to be clear then,” she said, “I’m not a prisoner here.”
He jerked his head no.
“So I’m free to leave?”
Instead of answering, Toran stepped back into her space and kept coming at her and coming at her until he had her backed all the way up against the wall. Breath quickening, Liv trembled at the sheer size of him. Though at no point did their bodies touch, the pure promise of his heft pinned her in place.
“Why are you so intent on leaving?” he asked. He tilted his head down, his breathtaking face just inches from her own. Liv followed his eyes as they roamed her features before his fingertip skimmed, whisper soft, across the apple of her cheek. As she licked her suddenly dry lips, his eyes flickered blue. Toran's barely restrained power pulsed through his finger, lighting her skin on fire beneath his touch. So close, his very essence threatened to overwhelm her, pinprick points of unfamiliar pleasure erupting across her body.
She fought to keeping standing.
“As a faine,” he said through her heated haze, “you live to take what I have to give.” Pressing his lips against the corner of her mouth, he whispered, “And I’m eager to give it to you.”
Screwing her eyes shut, Liv inhaled the heat of his breath and opened herself up to the delicious sting of his venna. Too soon she cried out, nearly crumpling to the ground when, in a shimmering rift of the Mythos, he was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The first thing Toran heard the next morning upon returning to his home was the trickling sound of laughter.
Exhausted and unsettled, he stood just inside the great room door and strained to listen. He couldn’t make out what was spoken. Along with the scent of fresh bread and coffee, only the soft lilt of female voices wafted up from the kitchens below.
His heart gave a heavy thump just as his stomach let out a growl.
Ignoring both traitorous organs, Toran turned away and marched in the direction of the throne room. He didn’t have time for food. Nor did he have time for the confusion that had haunted every minute of the miserable, sleepless night he had spent away from his faine.
He tossed the thick file he carried onto his desk.
It landed with a thud.
Sitting heavily, Toran pulled the documents towards him and, flipping open the cover, he began to read. As if he didn’t have enough problems to deal with on the home front, war had flared up again amongst the Strong. The Vimora desperately needed alliances to make it through another conflict. Long ago, multiple factions would have courted the Vimor daemons, making their case as to why and for what Toran and his warriors should fight. Now, few within the Mythos could be bothered to strike a deal, leaving Venn Dom vulnerable and near friendless.
Toran knew that if he was unable to take the reins of power soon, all could be lost. He needed to act fast to take his throne.
How fast depended on…
“Good morning.”
Toran lifted his head to find the faine standing in the doorway. She was smiling and holding a cup of coffee.
Combing his fingers through his hair, he mumbled a gruff “morning” as she walked into his office like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Eyes glued to her moving form, Toran watched from the periphery of his vision as she skirted around the desk to place the steaming mug at his elbow, her rounded hip just inches away.
He kept his head ducked down, his heart thundering inside his chest, the paperwork before him completely unseen.
“I brought you some coffee,” she said, her gentle voice like manna to his soul. “Wynda says you take it black.”
The leather of his chair creaked under the weight of his body, his muscles straining to govern the unruly venna begging to escape his grasp.
It wanted inside her.
Badly.
Flexing a hand beneath the desk, Toran held his breath, trying to beat back an ungodsly desire to touch her.
Luckily, he was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.
Lifting his head, Toran was met with the sight of Arman and Diogo, his uncle’s faithful lackey.
Diogo’s gaze was glued to Toran's faine.
Toran shot up from his chair. He pushed the female behind him, intent on shielding her from the daemon’s lascivious eyes.
“I am so sorry,” his uncle said. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Tense and alert, Toran said nothing. The faine’s tenseness matched his own, her hand pressed lightly at his lower back. Where they touched, venna flowed freely between them.
Nearly groaning aloud, he forced himself to step away.
“Arman, the faine,” Toran said in aggravated introduction. He didn’t deign to acknowledge the Elder who now watched him with suspicious eyes.
“Oliviera, is it not?” Arman asked smoothly, making a move forward in greeting.
“Liv. My name is Liv,” she stammered. Her eyes flickered up to Toran's.
“This is Diogo,” Arman continued, “a Vimora of Elden blood.”
“Faine,” Diogo said. The Elder’s arm swept out as he took what, in Toran’s estimation, could only be described as a mocking bow.
At the insult, Toran tensed to lunge forward. He was stopped by the faine, her fist wrapped tight in the fabric of his T-shirt at his lower back. He found himself tethered in time, his aggressiveness––and his anxiety––held at bay by her all-consuming touch.
It took every ounce of his strength to, once again, pull away.
“It smells like there’s breakfast downstairs in the kitchen,” Toran said to his faine once there was some safe space between them. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, I’ve eaten,” she answered with a shy smile. Licking her bottom lip, her gaze lingered on his face. “I thank you.”
Venna from three separate souls rocked the room. The two older daemons, shocked and appalled, gaped openly at the faine. Toran, completely gobsmacked, stared mutely at her upturned face.
“Now, I feel like going for a walk down to the village,” she continued brightly. “I’m eager to see how it’s changed these years I’ve been gone.” She tilted her head and smiled wider in invitation. “You want to come? I can wait until your business is done here. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
Turning his head slowly, Toran looked out the lead-glass windows that lined the wall.
The sky was as blue as the venna in his veins.
He would have never noticed.
Angling his head back in her direction, Toran lost himself for a moment in the ocean of her eyes. Despite his scrutiny of her, he was the one who felt exposed and raw at their encounter.
From deep within his stupor, her very presence messing with his insides, Toran found himself murmuring, “No, you go ahead. I’ve got things I need to do today.”
Leaving him with a small smile, she nodded his guests a curt goodbye.
As Toran watched her walk away, the oddest sense of something pinged inside his chest.
It felt like the barest hint of… joy?
*****
The euphoric haze that now enveloped his nephew was
a sight to behold.
It was as disgusting as it was promising.
Arman also recognized it for what it truly was––a potent reminder of how delicately he must approach his tasks at hand.
There was no question it was risky to push his nephew into the path of a full-blooded faine. Yet, while others would believe it was playing with fire, Arman was fully intent on lighting the fuse.
“The faine,” Diogo sneered into the silence, “she is to stay with us, I see.”
Par for the course, Toran ignored Arman’s old friend, years of unspoken animosity burning between them. Instead, seeming to shake himself out of his stupor, Toran picked up the phone and dialed. “Ales, she is headed to the village,” he said into it. “Watch her.”
Arman lingered off to the side, watching, waiting, biding his time.
After setting the phone back inside its cradle, his nephew took a seat and tapped his mouse, his monitors coming to life.
As Toran attempted to go about his business, Arman let his gaze rest heavily upon him.
“What are you looking at?” Toran growled at last.
“Take care, son,” Arman warned, figuring now was as good a time as any to get his true plans underway.
“State your business, uncle,” Toran answered, sifting through some papers. He glanced up and jerked his chin towards the door. “Then both of you leave,” he ordered. “I’m busy.”
Arman held his ground.
“Diogo, give us a moment, please,” he murmured. Per his plan, he had met in secret with certain Elden to negotiate a temporary reprieve for the faine. It had been a contentious meeting, but the Elden had eventually, if begrudgingly, accepted Arman’s terms. While Diogo was certainly on board, Arman saw no reason to completely tip his hand.
This next conversation had best be had in private.
As the door clicked shut, Arman heard Toran blow out an irritated breath.
He smiled.
“You know,” he began, “the connection between a faine and her Strong during feeding can be very intense, even sexual in nature.”
“Sweet gods!” Toran roared, taking the bait. “We are not having this conversation.” Tossing a pen across his desk, his nephew leaned back and pulled his fingers through his thick black hair––the exact same hair Arman had enjoyed in his centuries of youth.
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