Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong

by Amy Knickerbocker

Sure, with Toran's venna quickening her senses, indirect though it was, she was stronger than she’d ever been.

  So, in a way, he had already gifted her with something of a life.

  Was that what her mother had meant?

  Maybe.

  Looking around the table at Toran's men, she sensed that if she were so inclined, she was strong enough now to try to take a male to her bed.

  Now, that would be more of a life, for sure.

  What was there to stop her from trying?

  Fear?

  Or was it something more?

  Though she had long lost track of the dinner conversation, Liv paused her thoughts to laugh along with the others at something Merus had said… and, once again, felt the prickling heat of Toran's venna.

  And, there it was.

  Despite his continued disinterest, in her silliest moments of weakness when she felt the brush of his venna and the heat of his gaze, Liv prayed he’d come to want her.

  Pathetic. But true.

  *****

  She smiles at others.

  Though business with his uncle had eaten into his time with his faine this afternoon, Toran could see that coming to dinner to be near her was a mistake.

  As she laughed with his men, his resentment raged.

  It was never supposed to be like this.

  Over the past few weeks, Toran had followed as much of the doctor’s orders as he willingly could. He had spent countless hours with the faine. This, despite the fact that he could barely stand being in her presence.

  He did not like the way she made him feel.

  How she made him want.

  When he had found her, he hadn’t expected to feel anything other than cold satisfaction.

  So what the hell is this I feel?

  Even from a distance, she called to him.

  And, just as he had since the day he’d found her, Toran battled the urge to answer.

  Thus, the one compromise he found he could not make, regardless of Anara’s insistence––and his uncle’s ever-present prodding––was that he be near the faine as much as possible. Toran could not spend his nights in his bedroom, connected by just a short passageway to where she lay. The thought of her lying so close––so accessible––made him feel raw to the bone.

  Even though he purposefully put miles––sometime entire ‘els––between them, each night after he left her, he ached for hours.

  The faine should have brought him some measure of comfort, some modicum of relief. After all, it was her duty to do so. Instead, Toran was lately hanging by a thread.

  More so than ever.

  Her smiles, her everyday kindnesses, her ruthless yet joyful competitiveness he’d seen the time or two she’d challenged him to a video game, all these things made him want to be near her more and more.

  Though he felt as physically strong as ever, she was making him weak… with need.

  Unable to endure much longer, he had met again with Anara earlier that morning. At the end of his rope, Toran had agreed to some last-ditch test, some far-fetched genetic look-see conducted at a renowned research hospital on the mortal ‘el.

  According to Anara, the humans might be able to shed some light on his condition.

  But, gods, he was frustrated with the doctor’s lack of progress––and his own. For weeks, Toran had poured over the charred scraps of the ancient texts, searching for clues on how he could best harness the power of his faine––without having to endure the indignity of touching her body.

  Yet, just like Anara, he had failed to uncover anything to save himself from that lamentable fate.

  It seemed physical touch was the best, most efficient way she could take in all that he needed to give.

  For him, he was beginning to fear it was the only way.

  What had Anara told him the faine had shared with her? That she was a masseuse on the human ‘el? Anara had then helpfully explained that the faine had been one for a reason.

  His gut burned at the thought that other males had fed her senses.

  Motherfucker.

  Furious with himself, Toran jabbed at a piece of meat on his plate, a hiss of his venna kissing the air.

  He fucking refused to go down that route.

  It had been nearly two months of daily contact with the faine––hell, he had graced her with the presence of his venna multiple times a day.

  Surely what he was doing was enough.

  And, surely, he could survive just two more months without…

  Unable to stop himself, Toran glanced in the faine’s direction. He found her talking with one of his men, a soft and happy glint in her eye. His fingers gripped the knife he used to cut his meat, the metal softening under the heat of his venna.

  Just today, his uncle had again made the point that Toran had the very means––the faine here in his house––to end his misery.

  Immediately and without question.

  So why the hell was he being so stubborn?

  All he had to do was touch her body…

  His brain shorted out.

  For long moments, he sat there, completely dazed, his eyes unseeing.

  Somehow, he managed to shake himself out of his stupor.

  Enough of this bullshit.

  Toran pushed aside his forbidden thoughts and looked around for something more appropriate to occupy his mind… and his bed. Scanning the room, his gaze landed on a young daemoness, a servant girl who helped in the castle kitchens. His soldiers had made it well known her favors were easily bought.

  Therefore, just like last time, he could simply pay.

  Toran dropped his fork. He stared down at his plate, the runaway beat of his heart pounding in his ears.

  But no, Toran was quick to reason as he lifted his head, everything would be fine.

  There was no cause to worry.

  There was no reason to suffer any longer.

  He knew what needed to be done.

  Toran called the servant girl over, the patter of his soldiers’ conversations falling silent at the harsh bite of his voice.

  He could feel their curious eyes upon him.

  The daemoness came forward to stand obediently at his side. Toran didn’t bother to hide his intent from the guests at his table as he looked the female up and down, sizing up her strength.

  She’d do.

  Placing a possessive hand at the female’s hip, he raised his head, fully aware that the glint in his eye matched the hard look in his cousin’s own. Turning away from Merus’s reproving gaze, Toran stared down the faine, his pique fed now by the dampened expression in her eyes.

  There was simply no room for his petty pride… or his shame.

  Toran gave the wench a knowing nod. Though a flicker of fear flared in her eyes, she licked her lips and acknowledged his desire, his need evident in his hungry gaze. With a jerk of his chin, he sent her away.

  Decision made, Toran began to eat.

  It was time to man up and get this done.

  This very night, he’d let the faine feed.

  Then, he’d happily slake his hunger on another.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I say we go in tonight and take the faine,” a drunken voice slurred into the darkness.

  Loud assents came from all points around the campfire.

  Only Kellen the 8th held his tongue.

  “Now that she’s been returned to him, the prophecy can be fulfilled,” a daemon called out. “We can’t afford to let that happen. All that we have worked for––and died for––will be lost.”

  “Yet, as usual, the daemon prince hasn’t acted,” said another. “What the fuck is he waiting for?”

  “Each and every day, the Tenn grows stronger in her presence,” Kellen murmured. He shifted his body, trying to find some comfort on the cold, unforgiving ground. He and his men were camped high atop a cliff, hidden away, as always, by magic.

  A chorus of voices rose in the night, each note united in dissent.

  “That’s heresy,�
�� a brave soul ventured.

  “Maybe,” Kellen answered, “but it’s true.”

  Despite his fellow daemons’ knee-jerk impulse to vilify the faine, Kellen knew venna––all energy really––wasn’t some zero sum game. His mother, a lowly human seer who had somehow clawed out a life amongst the Strong, had taught him that well enough. True, the faine fed off of venna and raw emotions. But they weren’t furtive thieves in the night, draining strength in pursuit of iron-fisted control over the soul of Venn Dom.

  No, it was much more complicated than that.

  Especially when it involved the would-be king of the Vimor daemons.

  Because, if Kellen knew anything, it was this: Toran was broken without his faine.

  He could see that now.

  And Kellen had spent his entire life fracturing the pieces. Since his mother’s death, he had killed Vimora Elden with gruesome regularity, unleashing untold amounts of venna to fan the flames of Toran’s weakness.

  Like pouring gasoline on a fire.

  He could also see now that his murderous ways hadn’t been just about punishing the Tenn with agony; Kellen had been preparing the future king to face his destiny.

  A destiny Toran apparently wanted no part of.

  An explosion rocked the night, a wall of flames erupting in the valley below them.

  The rebels continued eating their supper, long used to the Sumari’s assaults on the unfortunate Vimora villages along the border.

  Kellen found himself staring down the hill, searching for answers in the dancing flames. If he were a praying man, he knew he’d pray for the strength to escape his mother’s obsession, to just walk away from the misery her rambled words had wrought.

  Feed his hunger, stoke his need…

  For just once in his life, Kellen wished he could be content to just cheer on the Tenn’s downfall from afar… to simply trust that nature would run its course.

  After all, for a Tenn, the faine’s pull was strong.

  Toran's father had certainly fallen into his own well-laid trap.

  As if reading his thoughts, one of his men called out, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Tenn’ll have a touch of his old man in him.”

  Kellen’s heart leapt at the thought.

  “That’d be fucking rich,” laughed another. “I’d give my left nut to see the bastard self-destruct at the hands of that faine.”

  And, just like that, Kellen’s heart settled back in his chest.

  He knew Toran was nothing like his father.

  Thus, Kellen could see that his life’s work was nowhere done.

  “Nah, I hear the Tenn is making a different move,” one of Kellen’s few detractors said with a sneer. Jerking his chin in Kellen’s direction, he said, “I hear he’s set to marry your sister at year’s end.”

  “Mind your tongue, Finn.” Kellen spat in the dirt. Though they shared a sire, he’d slit his own throat before he claimed that bitch as kin. “That marriage has yet to take place. In fact, it’s weeks away.” He paused a moment before adding, “Many things can change in that amount of time.”

  His men laughed with heady anticipation.

  Kellen closed his eyes.

  For long moments, he listened to the distant screams of the villagers as they fought for their lives against the Sumari’s onslaught.

  He took a breath.

  “But now is the time for patience,” he said, resigned to the fact he’d once again been dragged into the thick of Toran’s bullshit. He had heard whispers amongst his contacts in the Strong of a hit against him and his men. Given the Tenn’s curse, Kellen could see that a deadly confrontation was the perfect move to destroy Toran’s chance at sparking his legacy, to triggering the prophecy…

  It was fucking brilliant.

  And though the word around the ‘els was that his father was behind the plot, Kellen knew the old bastard didn’t have the brains––or the stones––to try to take down the Tenn. If anyone was out to cause trouble, Kellen’s money was on Toran’s uncle.

  It was Arman who stood the most to gain.

  But only if Toran was somehow pushed aside once he managed to take his place as king.

  Which would be an interesting play, a complicated play––one that might merit watching closely… especially if Kellen could leverage the old daemon’s actions to at last achieve his own two goals in life: killing his father and somehow, someway finding a way back to her.

  Could that be what this was all about?

  He hadn’t a fucking clue.

  He didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  All these years, Kellen had believed the faine was dead.

  After all, it was he who had killed her.

  Yet here she was––alive and breathing.

  And he needed to do something about it.

  “If what I’ve heard is true,” Kellen continued on half a lie, “my father is keen on taking our heads.”

  “Let him try,” came the general chorus.

  As the daemons laughed, Kellen once again held his tongue.

  “There’s no way your old man can find us, given your magic,” said one of his men. “Hell, your own brother’s been chasing us for centuries without once sniffing our trail.”

  “You’re right, Neran,” Kellen readily agreed. “The Enoth assassins will never find us.” He paused before adding, “That’s why we’ll be taking the fight to them.”

  His words were met by the crackle of the campfire.

  “You’ll expose yourself to the Tenn if you do,” Neran called out at last.

  “I will indeed,” said Kellen in answer.

  When the time was right, he’d let it be known he was stepping out of the shadows. He’d face his own death if that’s what it took to force the Tenn into the arms of his faine.

  It seemed he was helpless to stop himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was well past midnight when Toran finally came to let her feed.

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Liv turned away from the narrow window and went to warm herself by the fire. As she stood before the flames, she shivered.

  It wasn’t the coolness of the night, though, that made her tremble.

  Liv could feel his approach. Even from a distance, the daemon's very essence roused her senses.

  It was unlike anything she had ever known.

  She closed her eyes, grasping at the fleeting tatters of her courage. After their meal, Toran had cornered her in the hallway, his massive body so close she could feel the vibration of his venna dancing on his skin. Still refusing to touch her, he had demanded she retire immediately to her chamber.

  It was obvious what he wanted.

  What had changed?

  Her heart leapt at remembered moments of his heated eyes watching her every move, the possessive brush of his venna hot against her skin.

  But she had also seen how he had looked at that other female––that daemoness at dinner. It was obvious what had passed between them. Her stomach echoed hollowly at the thought that he was on his way to be with her… all the while harboring the intent to bed another––maybe this very night.

  Could he use her that way?

  Could he be so cruel?

  She hadn’t a clue.

  But she did know one thing––she needed to be careful.

  But while his behavior made her hesitant, her curiosity––and brazen hunger––burned.

  So very ready to at last taste again the daemon's vibrancy, she prayed his touch was worth it.

  The door to her bed chamber clicked shut.

  “We do this now.”

  With neither fanfare nor pretense, Toran planted himself in the middle of the room, huge, black-booted feet wide, eyes determined. A lock of chestnut hair fell across his forehead, giving him a deceptively youthful look. The virile intensity pouring from his battle-hardened body, however, announced the daemon in her room was a full-blooded, and ready, male.

  In the dancing light cast by the fire, she saw he had changed f
rom dinner. Where before he had been dressed in black combat gear, Toran now wore a long-sleeved black-button down shirt, casually untucked but perfectly tailored to his expansive chest. The expensive fabric tapered down to powerfully narrow hips, his muscular thighs encased in worn, dark denim. Blue venna hissed around him, a palpable force that filled the room with edgy tension.

  Everything about him screamed power, poise, and purpose.

  Nodding, Liv stepped toward him on shaky legs.

  She stopped when they stood front to front, mere inches apart. Well over twice her size, the daemon towered over her, her eyes just level with his heart.

  An insistent heat simmered in the air around him.

  Breathing in his masculine scent, his life force was a feast to her senses, a heady blend of hesitation, trepidation, and excitement.

  Beneath it all lay naked, barely restrained hunger.

  Not just hunger, absolute famine.

  For her?

  She trembled at the fragrance of his desire, her senses coming alive without a single touch.

  He tilted his head down, an inscrutable expression afloat in his chocolate-brown eyes.

  She swayed under the intensity of his gaze.

  He was ready.

  On a shaky breath, Liv placed a palm softly against his breast and opened herself to him.

  *****

  The faine stood completely exposed before him, her gentle touch a conduit between her sacred duty and his noble destiny.

  Gods, he had wanted to come to her earlier that night, but duty had called him away. There had been trouble at the border, a surprise attack by the Sumari exploiting a sudden weakness in Venn Dom’s protection spell.

  Toran and his men had beaten the fire daemons back, but three of his soldiers had been injured, one critically.

  It seemed the fire daemons were keenly aware of the spellcaster’s games.

  Fucking Feliks.

  All the more reason to get on with this.

  Impatient, he leaned into her touch… and groaned.

  Unbidden, his eyelids slid shut as he marveled at the preternatural relief that washed through him as restless, pent-up energy flowed freely into the female’s welcoming body.

  Is this what my father felt with his faine? he thought. Instead of the cold indifference of my mother?