Shadow Borne

by Rachael Slate

  The next creature he beheld would be the one to damn him.

  Psyche. Bloody hell, he’d frightened her. The entirety of his fury he’d directed toward her, and he’d scented the fear within her.

  She would never love him.

  Another century of loneliness and imprisonment awaited him instead.

  Sinking to his knees, he groaned in despair. There existed yet another solution. If he pricked himself with one of his lead arrows, he’d feel aversion—not attraction—the moment he gazed at Psyche. A small chance it might work. Eros snorted, tossing his head. Nay, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  The hairs on his neck pricked. Something was happening amongst the automatons, the ones on the border of his lands. Most specifically, those things.

  Damn, no. When he’d told her to leave, he hadn’t meant… But she had and those hellions would devour her.

  Eros didn’t control them. The ones on the borders had gone wild, and the first rule was in place to ensure his guests weren’t accidentally consumed. He flashed to the front gates, one forearm shielding his face. The choice was impossible. His hand was forced. Psyche or a monster. He would be victim to lusting after one of them.

  “Psyche!” he called into the woods, keeping his focus on the dirt path.

  Muffled cries drifted to his ears from the left, followed by a singular, shrill hiss. It was alone, then, thankfully.

  “Come here, you fiend.” He stumbled forward, not daring to lower his hand. He’d fight the monster blind if it charged him.

  A weight knocked him off his feet and he squeezed his eyes shut, swiping his arms until his hands found purchase and he snatched an iron leg. Wrenching, he detected a metallic snap and the spider’s wailing shriek. Eros lunged, tackling the arachnid and wrestling it to the ground, his hands sliding upward until they wrapped around its neck. With one hard jerk, he ripped the monster’s head from its body. Ooze dripped down his fingers and he washed it away with his powers.

  He knelt on the ground and slowly exhaled. A muted whimper whined from behind him. Psyche. He couldn’t pine after something that was dead, so he opened his eyes and regarded the lifeless arachnid. The size of a large dog, its rounded metallic body continued to spurt a slick, inky substance onto the earth, pooling around its severed neck.

  He glanced at his hands and frowned at the tremble in them. How had he been so affected by Psyche’s endangerment?

  Eros shut his eyes and spun, fumbling for her form. Thick vines twisted about in a tight web around her body. He seized a handful of them and gave a hard tug. Sticky ooze seeped from them as he ripped the rest from her and lowered her to the ground.

  Still as death, Psyche didn’t make any sounds. A warm, copper-scented liquid mingled with the tar from the vines. Blood? “Psyche? Speak to me. Are you unharmed?”

  He prodded her face, cursing his blindness. His ears detected her breaths, but they were shallow and strained. She bled from somewhere, and if he didn’t determine where, he wouldn’t be able to heal her.

  His shoulders hunched forward and he bowed his head in resignation.

  The only way to save her would also bring about her doom.

  Psyche inhaled a raspy breath and her body convulsed as fresh, crisp air burst into her lungs. Delightful warmth spread across her lips and a solid weight wrapped about her middle, holding her upright to sit. The beast?

  No, not a beast. He had arms. Human arms. This was proof he wasn’t an animal, not that she’d presumed him to be one. Her instincts told her this wasn’t one of his many forms. Rather, in the panic of the moment, he’d been his true self.

  Blinking rapidly, she wheezed and coughed while her lungs struggled to function on their own. She pressed a hand to the gash on her belly, which had miraculously healed. How?

  Dark, foreboding woods met her scrutiny and the weight about her middle lowered her to the ground. Soft earth spread beneath her, its robust, damp scent clearing the spinning in her head.

  “Wait. Don’t leave me.” A chill spread into her bones and she rolled to her side, struggling to her hands and knees. “Where are you?” Suddenly, emptiness surrounded her. Alone. The spark of warmth on her lips faded and she rubbed her hands across her arms. He’d saved her life, after threatening it.

  Why?

  The questions burned through her. Staggering to her feet, she plucked her blade from the ground, tucked it inside her boot, and stormed toward the castle. If he didn’t answer at least one of her questions, she would depart this place forever.

  Psyche treaded inside the gate, its creaky squeak echoing as it sealed shut behind her. She marched into the library and stood, waiting. After a moment, the hearth flamed to life. The beast was near.

  His form drifted into the room, the shadows not wrapping around him as tightly as they had before. She glimpsed a brief view of a man’s leg and whipped her perusal to where his face must be, but the mists shrouded that part of him.

  Rule number three.

  “You’re not a beast,” she accused.

  “Am I not?” He paused, then circled toward her. She held still, shoulders set, while he stalked behind her.

  “You were warned never to leave.” The warmth of his breath fell across her neck and, from the direction of his voice, she gauged he must be tall.

  “You told me to.” She folded her arms and tilted her face toward him.

  “To depart my presence, not my castle.”

  “Well, next time, be more specific.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t have fled if you hadn’t threatened me.”

  He puffed deeply. “I never intended to frighten you, and I would never cause you harm. You can trust in that.”

  “Can I?” She scoffed. “You refuse to answer any of my questions. You play games with me and never explain yourself. And your manners are quite barbaric.”

  A chuckle rumbled toward her. “My manners are barbaric? You’re the one who hasn’t thanked me for saving your life.”

  She bit her lip. Well, that was true. “Thank you for saving my life, although it wouldn’t have been in danger if you’d been honest with me.”

  “You are welcome.” He strode from behind her to stand by the hearth.

  “How did you save my life? The arachnid was fearsome and I,” she pressed a hand to her abdomen, “I was wounded.”

  “That’s not important. What you must remember is rule number one. There are more of them in the woods.”

  More arachnids? She shuddered, fighting images of sticky vines and sinister crimson orbs.

  “But if you insist on honesty,” he droned, “very well, then. Three.”

  “Three questions?” She lifted a hopeful brow. “You will answer them?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She cleared her throat and determined her first query. “Why am I here?”

  A long pause stretched between them. “I need something from you, and no, you cannot ask what.”

  ***

  Eros studied Psyche, the longing in his being aching with growing hunger. That blasted arrow had cost him. Though he’d been determined not to, he’d allowed Psyche to view his body. Only spying his face would end the wager.

  But hell, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her. Not now.

  He was going to lust after her, ravish her, and soon, the exquisite pleasure would press her curious mind to pursue the answers that would lead to her death.

  There was no way to defeat this damned wager.

  He saw that now. It was a game he couldn’t win. Century after century, he’d be forced to play it out. The end always the same.

  The betrayal of his mother stung the greatest. Had another god entered into the bargain with him, he might understand, but not her. Why punish her son for an eternity?

  He couldn’t save Psyche from the undeniable outcome, but he might stretch this game, a decade or even two. He’d protect her for as long as possible.

  At least offer her that much.

  The memory of her soft lips against his drew
his attention to her mouth. He hadn’t intended for her first taste of his divine breath to be while she was unconscious, but it was better this way.

  “What you need from me, will it cause me harm?” She posed the question, bravely setting her shoulders.

  “Nay, I would hope not.”

  “Is it my body?” The muscles in her throat flexed lightly.

  “No,” he murmured, the sobriety of their situation striking him again. “And that is your third question. Sleep now, Arete.”

  “That’s not my third—argh!” She stomped a foot and stormed past him.

  He clenched his jaw, yearning to go after her, but he had another being to tangle questions and answers with.

  “Mother.” Eros flashed into Aphrodite’s chamber. He didn’t care if she was alone—he never had. She might be his mother, but he was the god of erotic love, and should her passions ever dim, he’d be sure to send her someone to light them again.

  No one deserved to live unfulfilled. A truth he was grasping more and more each moment. His body ached and panged in places he’d never before associated with lust. His chest, his head, his hands.

  “Eros, how lovely to see you again so soon. How is your new guest?”

  “You bloody well know how things are going.” He bared his teeth and stalked toward her.

  She rested on a chaise longue, surrounded by half a dozen nymphs who fawned over her, brushing her hair, polishing her nails. With an elegant sweep of her arm, she waved them off.

  “You did this to me.” He plucked the spent arrow from his jacket pocket and waved it beneath her nose. “Why?”

  “Careful with those, my dove.” She raised thick, curled lashes to smirk at him.

  He narrowed his stare at the smug gleam in her blue depths. Aha. She had planted it.

  “Well? Does she adore you now?” One fine brow arched at him.

  “Argh, damn Hades.” He scraped a hand down the side of his face. “You intended the arrow for Psyche? Mother,” he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I stepped onto it.” Anger and frustration welled inside him. “How many times have I told you not to sort through my things? These arrows are dangerous.”

  “Oh, darling.” Aphrodite clapped a hand over her mouth, her round eyes proclaiming her innocence, but the corner of her lush red lips curved. “You stepped on it. And did you glance upon the maiden, or perchance…the pig?” She burst into laughter, not bothering to contain her amusement.

  He shot her a glower, scoffing. Only a goddess would find entertainment in this horrible situation.

  A booming guffaw resounded from the adjoining bathing chamber. Eros froze at the familiar chuckling. Ares. Perhaps not only a goddess would find this amusing, after all.

  He wasn’t about to stay and let the war god’s musings goad him into a fight.

  Ares always wished to fight.

  Scowling at the both of them, Eros flashed from the chamber, back to his nightmare.

  ***

  Psyche awoke the next morning, sunshine streaming in from the long window greeting her. She yawned and stretched her arms, sighing into the mattress. Her lips tingled with a slow, burning warmth. Had the beast pressed his mouth to hers? She couldn’t fathom how he’d healed her, and damn him, but he’d tricked her into squandering her questions. Today, however, he might concede her another three. This time, she wouldn’t waste them.

  She rolled onto her side and yawned. By now, her family had probably noted her absence. Would they search for her? The only one aware of the truth behind her disappearance was the chambermaid, Elene, who hopefully had heeded Psyche’s advice and fled far from this place.

  It was a sad truth that she prayed her family would forget about her—and Lord Gallus’s loathsome proposal. Let Eudora or Sophia wed him instead. They were desperate for husbands.

  Psyche, well, she rather had her sights set on someone more…beastly. No denying the allure of him, the mystery and excitement of the puzzle surrounding this enchanted, cursed male. He was as frustrating as he was magnetic, and the yearning to learn about him couldn’t be shaken from her bones.

  Easing from the bed, she rummaged through the packed armoire and chose a green silk chiton. After changing and combing through her locks, she padded through the corridors. Oddly, fewer cobwebs and less dust coated the hallways. Had her presence affected the beast’s sense of decorum? Living alone for so long, he must have allowed many things to slip. Not only the cleanliness of his castle.

  His manners were rough as well. His temper too hot. His lack of propriety most unsettling.

  A vibrating hum drifted from the library. Music? Who played? She hastened her steps. These halls seemed so empty and devoid of life. She’d love to enjoy a comforting tune or two.

  She skidded to a halt at the archway to the library. In the corner facing the glass windows that led into the garden sat the beast; only, he wasn’t one, was he.

  His bare, broad shoulders flexed as he cradled a cello between his legs, his right hand ever so sensuously gliding the bow along its strings with delicate pressure while his left depressed the neck to create the notes. The tune cried a haunting melody that floated through the air, sending shivers trickling down her spine.

  Shadows fell diagonally across his powerful upper body, obscuring all but a handful of curled black locks that swept his shoulders. His legs spread wide on the low-backed chair, thickly muscled thighs encased in leather breeches and bare feet with human toes, not claws or hoofs.

  Where was the monster he was supposed to be? Could this be one of his many forms? Or mayhap his face was disfigured? Because certainly, the rest of him rivaled a god in beauty.

  She illuminated her hands with the soft golden glow of her gift of concealment and faded into the bookcase. Many times, her sisters had ridiculed her as a spy. They weren’t entirely wrong. Often, she spent more time observing the inner workings of her household than partaking in them. The servants were kinder to her than her family, who’d preferred her to be as nonexistent as she was when concealed.

  Psyche flung aside those painful thoughts and studied the beast instead. She licked her lips, drinking in the sight of him. How he moved, the manner in which he slid the bow along those strings, his strong fingers so gentle and caring. As though the cello were a female in his loving embrace. How would it feel to be enveloped in those sturdy arms, his skilled hands playing masterfully across her body?

  Heat spread through her core and she wrung her hands in front of her. Though she’d awoken with visions of her family churning through her mind, she had no wish to return to them.

  This was precisely where she ought to be.

  The beast required something from her. Which, she sensed, none of the other sacrifices had been able to give him.

  Would she?

  If only he would tell her what.

  He slanted to the side, his body swaying with the music, and he appeared so absorbed in his efforts. She could watch him like this for hours.

  No angry growls or silly rules.

  Just a man attaining peace.

  She spread her fingers across her throat, imagining his hands caressing her as he did the cello. A man who played so tenderly had to be capable of more than what the monstrous legend deemed him. She yearned to know him, to learn what had caused his cursed fate. One day, he might trust her with the truth. His trust would be difficult to earn, with no one but mechanical servants to keep his company in the long centuries he’d been cursed.

  She couldn’t fathom his suffering, but she was no stranger to loneliness. Her family had always brushed her aside, striving to marry off her elder sisters. Psyche had been overlooked.

  She didn’t belong with them, but she might find her home in this place.

  The tune came to a close, the last vibration ringing in the air, and the beast twisted his body toward her. “You cannot hide from me, Psyche.”

  Caught, she whispered, “That was beautiful. Will you play another?”

  He extended his hand t
oward her. “Only if you come closer.”

  ***

  Eros treaded a fine line. The beams of sunlight slipping in from the glass doors would reveal his face, if Psyche wandered into the right angle. He could adjust his image, as he had before with the others, but Psyche’s request prevented him. She wished for his honesty, so he would offer her as much as possible. The natural golden hue of his locks would be too much of a clue, though. Dark hair it would have to be.

  He fortified his shadows and leaned back, beckoning her with a crooking of his fingers. The moment she obeyed, he began a new song, one sensuously keyed.

  After the song finished, he twisted aside the cello, rose, and bade her yet nearer. “Close your eyes and come to me.”

  His symptoms from the arrow hadn’t worn off, enhancing the danger of this game. He might not be able to control himself.

  She stepped into his open arms, her face resting at the height of his chest. He spun her about, gliding his fingers softly across the slender column of her neck. She tensed but eased as she exhaled.

  “Would you like me to teach you how to play?”

  She gave a hastened nod, though he hasn’t specified what they would play. The corner of his mouth quirking, he caressed his fingers back and forth along her neck, stroking lightly. His other hand, he skimmed along the length of her torso, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the full outline of her breast, before they dropped lower, rising once again over the curve of her hip.

  “Arete,” he purred, “will you let me touch you?” Longing ached in his muscles, spreading through every part of his body.

  She tilted her neck to allow him better access and the growl in his chest hummed low. He dipped his fingers to the apex of her thighs, caressing her through the silk of her chiton. She gasped and stiffened for a moment while he continued his delicate movements, until she widened her stance, coaxing him to press more deeply against her sex.

  As the god of erotic love, he could cause her climax with a mere thought, yet he rather preferred earning her release. His touch would awaken her.

  He’d be the one to make her scream in pleasure she’d never dreamed of.