“This room desperately needs furniture.” He removes the belt of weapons at his waist, placing it atop the white stone fireplace.
“I’d request some, but it seems rather pointless,” I reply. I’m relieved to recognize my voice. It isn’t dark, or broken. I sound lively as ever. That hasn’t changed, though everything else has.
We will head north at sundown. We’ll succeed in taking back Tenebris, or we’ll be buried along with my mother. Either way, I won’t use this room for much longer.
“You need to get some sleep.”
I would laugh if I could. Sleep? How does one sleep after killing their mother and taking her crown?
“Well, I need to rest, and I’d sleep considerably better if you joined me.” Drusk removes his clothing, layer after layer—leather, velvet, and finally linen, till he stands in nothing but his breeches. His chest, sculpted by decades of rigorous training, does manage to distract me from the turmoil in my mind, and if I’m to trust his smug smirk, he knows it.
I don’t want to give in. Not yet. I don’t deserve to enjoy him today. I don’t deserve anything at all.
I close my eyes. “I’m not tired.” With Ciera’s life force pulsing through my veins, I’ve seldom been more awake.
“Nor I. I suppose we could tire each other out.”
My jaw ticks. “My mother just died. I killed her.”
“Your mother killed herself,” he amends. “She took the easy way out. That was probably the best decision, all things considered, but either way, it’s not on you. It’s on the usurper, on Alven, on Morgana. On her. On anyone you’d like, except you.”
A soft thumb brushes over my lips, and finally, my eyes flutter open. Drusk’s hand travels down to my chin, caressing my skin.
“And because I haven’t caused my mother’s death, I should be just fine?” I counter. There’s no bite to my words. I’ve never sounded more neutral. I’m not arguing, I’m grasping for his words. Each soothes the ache inside me.
“You don’t have to be fine, Vlari.” Drusk tilts my chin upward so I look straight into his hungry midnight eyes. “Not today. Not even tomorrow. But I can’t let you numb everything.”
Is that what I’ve been doing? I suppose he has a point. Right now, however, with his fingertip sliding along my neck, I don’t feel numb at all.
"When the sun goes down, we'll leave the safety of this haven. Anything can happen to me—to you—out there. You can't waste your last day like this. I won't allow it."
I cock an eyebrow. "And you feel entitled to dictate what I do with my time, why?" I can't help it, I always want to push him, tease him. The fact that I gave into that impulse shows that whatever he's doing is working. I'm no longer lost in grief, pain, and guilt. Part of me is right there with him.
"Because when you're being an idiot, someone must, princess."
“If you want to be technical about it, I’m queen now. Which means I could have you whipped for calling me an idiot."
“Then perhaps I should kneel and ask for mercy.”
I’m about to point out he already did that in the throne room, but he moves so fast I don’t even get a word in. Before I can blink, he's right between my legs, sitting back on his heels. Drusk grips my knees and spreads my thighs apart slowly. I changed into one of my mother's gowns sometime between her mockery of a funeral and my addressing the lords. It's white. Empty, numb, and cold. The seelie wear blood red at funerals, and traditionally the unseelie court is cloaked in purple when a child of the house of Nyx dies, but white spoke of my grief better than any other shade could have. I stood out, and I didn't care.
The dress is too long on me—its back follows me like a train—but the design allows me to wear it: it parts in the middle. On my mother, the slit was perhaps around crotch-height. I suppose she must have worn it over pants or another skirt. On me, it reaches the knees. Somehow, I don’t look stupid. The loose, flowing fabric adheres to my body, clinging to whatever curve it found.
Drusk slides the silk along my thighs, pushing it off my legs. I don't wear anything at all underneath. I've never been one for braies if it can be helped, and dresses such as these don't allow for shifts or chemises. I refuse to feel naked—though I am from the waist down. I stare at him, my silence daring him to do his worst. He never breaks eye contact, bringing his mouth to the apex of my thighs, and closing his lips over the sensitive nub of nerves at my center.
I want to gasp. I don't. I keep my expression as even as I can manage, staring at him as he teases me, bringing his skilled fingers to my heated core and playing me like a virtuoso. Inside me, heat gathers and rises, rises, rises, always higher. Drusk knows exactly what he's doing, but so long as no sound crosses my lips, I feel like I maintain the power. Like he's losing a game we play.
I've enjoyed sex as an outlet for years, with nameless faces, and with some friends. Each time, it's been fast, simple, to the point. I'm not used to being teased like this. Drusk kisses me there like he has all the time in the world, and my satisfaction is the only thing that matters to him. He curves his index finger and rubs me softly. Then without warning, he presses his tongue against my clit, hard, and I give in. I wail. It's involuntary, insuppressible. I'm gripping the arms of my chair, claws digging into the wood. He's relaxed and aroused me like no one ever has. Now he changes his song, rough and demanding, sucking, inserting another finger. I'm whining and rocking against his mouth. My hands leave the chair to thread in his mess of blue-black wavy hair. I'm holding him right there, just in case he's cruel enough to think of leaving me wanting when I'm so, so, so very close to the edge of the precipice.
Drusk tilts his head to reach my wrist and drops his lips against it before returning his attention where I need it. He blows on me, and flicks his tongue, smirking at me.
I fall. Without warning, without control, I fall. I think I might have screamed, gripping his shoulders hard enough to make him bleed.
Oh, by all the gods in this world and the next, this man is a gift. A gift I can't believe I've ignored for years and years. I should have leaped on him the very first day and demanded he take care of me. Although perhaps not; he has no doubt learned these tricks sometime over the last decade.
I breathe harder than I do after a long, hard run, all my muscles spent. But me? I'm awake. Awake, and hungry.
Drusk gets on his feet and wraps his strong hands around my waist, lifting me up. I let him, acting like a doll in his arms. He can do with me what he wishes after that performance.
