Heir of Beasts

Ch. 6.4- All Brightness and Bitterness

Sorry the updates have been a little slower. This is basically the end of part three and I'm taking my time to make sure certain threads are tied together etc. But this update is also absurdly long, so there's that. 

WARNING: descriptions of violence ahead. A little more graphic than usual. 

- S

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"And I know you're full of shit," he replies simply, kissing me before I have a chance to pull back. His lips taste like cinnamon and bitter earth. Like a grave, dirt and loam stuck between my teeth, dark roots grasping. His tongue surges against mine, hot and wet and urgent, not asking but telling. Daring. His wanting slips down my throat like smoke, choking me while my own rage rises as bile. Because how dare he.

We have this dance choreographed down to every turn of the head or twitch of the lip. We've rehearsed it relentlessly. I know what to expect. But something is shifting between us. I'm not on solid ground, and the more frantically I try to regain my footing, the more doggedly he pushes us off kilter. The usual rhythm falters, then fails. It began when he apologized, then continued as he spoke to me softly of love and loss and death, like he understood the exact diameter of the hole in my chest.

Maybe he does. He's the one that put it there, after all.

I've been a fool. Forgive me.

"You ask too much of me," I repeat in a hoarse whisper, jerking back. As our lips break I suck in a ragged gasp of air, like that's the only reason my chest is tight and my heart racing.

"I know," he returns, voice soft as silk whispering against my skin. "I've taken so much from you. So tonight, let me give you something instead."

"Keep it," I say, bored. "I have no desire for your paltry trinkets or lavish gowns."

"Are you sure?" He asks, eyeing the mori still clutched in my fist significantly. "There's nothing at all you would want from me?"

"N-no," I stammer, less than certain.

"I think there is," he says. My eyes widen as he pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion before tossing it haphazardly to the floor. Under different circumstances, the similarity to Roze's messiness earlier in the day might make me smile. Right now, though, I'm frowning with my whole face.

I trace the topography of his chest with my eyes, reading my defeat in each faint white scar. His body's been a battlefield all of his life, and somehow, through every one of those cuts, his heart kept beating. I thought earlier that he seemed immortal, but maybe he actually is. Or maybe, just maybe, I can read hope from those old wounds. He's been mortal enough to cut, and bleed, and heal. He's made mistakes enough to have daggers gouge him.

Maybe he's going back on his promise not to force me. I feel a wave of panic rising, and tamp it town, sink it with heavy rocks in deep water. It still resurfaces. Maybe all of his soft candor was a ruse, a way to get me to let my guard down so it would be even more devastating when he dragged me kicking and screaming to the bed...

No, I tell myself, sharp and hard and final. No, you will not let fear take control. You will not let him win. You will not run. If it comes to that, you'll fight him to your last breath, and you will not bow to fear. You will not bow to anyone.

So I force my face back to a neutral, even bored, expression, and give a small laugh. "I assure you, my lord," I say dismissively, "I certainly do not want that with you. I'm not that lonely."