Shadow Cursed: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book Two Read online

  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.

  He carries me to my bed, and takes care to lower me gently before joining me, taking the side he was on so many hours ago, before we were interrupted by an army at our doors.

  I shift to face him, eager for more, but Drusk is in bed, tucked in under the covers. His face is so close to me, I could kiss him. And I do just that, taking his lips, hard. He kisses me back, but doesn't give in to my attempt to deepen the kiss.

  "Aren't you an eager little thing, princess," he whispers against my lips.

  I am, and I'm not even going to pretend otherwise. I'm done playing for the day.

  "But if you want me, you're going to have to pay the price."

  I lift a brow. "Oh?"

  "Sleep."

  He can't be serious.

  He chuckles low. "I want us well rested for tomorrow. Sleep a little, and I'll be happy to oblige in any way you could want me to when we wake."

  I want to pout. "That sounds counterproductive."

  "And nonetheless, it's my bargain. Take it or leave it."

  He's bluffing. I'd wager almost anything that if I were to slip out of this dress, straddle him, and ride him, he'd let me. He'd do far more than let me. I don't argue, because annoying as it is, he's right. We both need rest before dusk. Before the world changes for the third time this week.

  I close my eyes, doubting that sleep will ever come to me, excited and aroused as I am. But it isn't long before his scent, the rhythm of his heart beating right against me, and the arm he wraps around my middle make me feel safe, sound, and calm.

  And so I sleep.

  He wakes me with a trail of kisses along my neck. Sometime during the night, I turned around to face away from him. He's right behind me, the heat of his chest warming my back.

  I could get used to this. Waking up every day just like that.

  "It's almost twilight, princess."

  "Queen," I grumble.

  "Mmmh."

  I suspect he's never going to call me queen. Not that I'd demand it of just about anyone else. I never wanted the crown—I'm only wearing it because I'm the one person who can. But the way he says princess has always bugged me—anything else would be better than that.

  "How did you sleep?" I ask, moving to turn to him, but he laughs and grips my hips, pinning me in place.

  "Small talk?" Drusk asks. "I can think of better ways to wake up. Can't you?"

  Before I can think of any reply, he slides his hand between my legs, to my entrance, still as dripping wet as it was a few hours ago. Now, I can definitely think about a few things more interesting than enquiring about his sleep schedule.

  The finger of his right hand curves inside me, and he slides his left arm under my torso to reach my breast, cupping it harshly. Gone is the patience and care he exhibited yesterday. His hands are rough, purposeful. In just a few strokes, a few moments, I'm desperate for more, and so, so close to the abyss.

  "Please." I don't think I've ever said that word to anyone at all—certainly not to Drusk. But I say it now anyway. I need more.

  "Please what, Your Highness? Do you want me to stop?" His voice is filled with malice.

  I gasp. He wouldn't dare!

  He laughs at me as I glare behind my shoulder, before bringing his skilled lips to my mouth. His kiss is everything I wanted earlier, when he bullied me into sleeping: deep, demanding, lustful.

  I'm lost in a tumult of sensation stronger than everything I have ever experienced.

  Though he's only touched me this way once, it's as if Drusk knows my body already; he presses and flicks me exactly where I need until I explode.

  I've never reached an orgasm this fast, not while touching myself or with a
ny partner. I wouldn't have thought it possible.

  My mother, the Sea Court, my bargains, the usurper, Tenebris. None of it matters in this precious moment where the world disappears. There's only me and him.

  I sit up and turn to him. This time, he lets me. I climb over him, discarding our bed sheet. My hands rest on his taut, defined chest, and slide along it, caressing his beautiful skin. He's glorious. And mine. Mine, mine, mine. I will never get enough.

  I'm done with games for now. I need him, and I don't let anything else matter. I fumble with the string closing his breeches and free him from his pants. My eyes stay fixed on him as I lower myself onto him, moving slowly, feeling every inch of him fill me up, expand me. Drusk grasps my hips and moves to sit up, but I push him back down on the bed. He drove me to the edge of madness—twice. It's my turn. His grip on me tightens, but he lets me lead. I undulate, rising and falling, dancing on him, taking more each time until he's inside me, to the hilt. I'm teasing us both, and soon I’ll need more, but the raw hunger in Drusk's eyes makes me want to keep the torture going, so I keep checking my pace, riding him so, so slowly. Each time he moves under me, thrusting deep or attempting to quicken the pace, I shush him and slow down further.

  Then he's done. With a roar, Drusk pushes my hands off his chest, drags my legs toward him, and lifts them in the air under the knees, holding me hovered over him. Then, he takes me, hard, fast, punishingly, thrusts starting before the last is over. I can't think, I can hardly breathe. He's a wild beast unleashed, and I love every moment of it. I lose it. I lose it without warning, coming undone, and Drusk never stops his onslaught, pounding deep inside me while I collapse and lose my senses. I'm still a cotton ball, a doll without a spine or strings, when he shifts us so I'm under him, my hips high over my knees and my chest against the mattress. He pushes the white dress off me and enters me, resuming his relentless assault. I let him because I'm too tired to think about forming words. Part of me thinks I could pass out, exhausted, spent. Then something changes; my insides tighten, heat up again. I realize I'm not tired at all anymore. From this angle, he's too big for me, but he doesn't care: he takes, and takes, and takes, and I love it. I push my hips back to meet him and lift my chest, now on all fours. My hands reach back to part my cheeks, if only to feel him a little deeper. Drusk takes it as an invitation; his skilled finger presses me higher, probing my second entrance.

  "So very tight, princess. One day, I'll take you there, too."

  I scoff. "In your dreams."

  He laughs like I'm silly to even pretend I’ll deny him. "Oh, I will. And you'll like it. Just like you like this."

  He's right, I do enjoy the ministration of his thumb in my ass. What is he doing to me?

  "I'm going to come inside you, princess. I'm going to fill you."

  It's a warning, not a question, and my only response is to move faster. He pants as his hips fly in and out of me, filling me deeper than ever. I feel my toes curl, and my core is on fire. Abandoning my back entrance, Drusk titillates me with his fingertips, harshly. Unbelievably, for the third time, I’m gone over the edge of the precipice. My release triggers his, and as promised, he thrusts in deep inside me one last time.

  I fall forward, and Drusk joins me. We breathe in unison, lost to the world.

  Then I start thinking.

  I can't deny how much I like feeling him warm my insides. We fae don't reproduce like mortals; it may take a thousand days, a thousand years of him planting his seed inside me before I bear the fruits, but I still imagine my mate's child. A little girl taller than me by the time she can fly. A boy with his midnight eyes.

  And the third born I will have to give to the sea.

  I think I might cry if I let myself.

  Instead, I get up.

  "I'll call for a bath. We have to make ready to go north.”

  March North

  Drusk

  We agreed to bring two of my rangers along with Ina. I call for a meeting in front of the runes of what used to be our base, and give my orders. I can tell the moment I see my sister's glare that there'll be hell to pay for my choices.

  I left Erdun in charge of training, shadowed by Neb. With me, I'm taking Ive and Jules, because they're competent enough and they can both be spared from Whitecroft.

  I'm not surprised when she follows me back home, silently fuming as she watches me pack.

  I lost the right to feel protective over my sister sometime in the last decade, at least according to her. Once, the ten years between us were an ocean; now, she’s sixty-three, and as capable as anyone I’ve ever trained. More so. I’m man enough to admit that I demand twice as much from her than from anyone else.

  But she’s still my sister. I remember the day she was born. Ma put her in my arms and told me she’d called her Nebula because I loved watching the void of the sky.

  So when she demands to be included in our mission, I can only laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  I don’t say it as if it’s a question. She must be kidding.

  She plants herself right in front of me and glares. “You’re the one who’s kidding. You're taking Jules. Jules! I can wipe the floor with his face.”

  That’s certainly true, and I take no small amount of pride that my sister can take a gentry twice her weight in single combat.

  “Jules has been trained to follow a trail. That’s valuable and relevant to the objective.”

  I don't add that we're going to the Court of Ichor, his home. I trust my sister, my walls have ears, and we've learned a thing or two about treachery of late.

  These facts were accurate, though they weren’t the reason why I'd accepted the boy and not her. Jules is disposable. Others would say otherwise; he's the son of the king of the Court of Ichor, and could succeed him. But he isn't my only sister.

  "You're being sexist," she accuses me, gritting her teeth.

  I have to consider her words, for a fleeting second. Then I decide she's wrong. If she'd been a little brother of mine, my answer would have been the same.

  "Ive's coming, too," I point out. “So are Queen Ina, and the high queen." Nebula's eyes widen. I hadn't specified that in front of everyone. "And if another female with relevant skills volunteers, I won't turn her down. I'm not sexist. You're not qualified."

  Being my sister will always disqualify her for any position that puts her in danger.

  Neb crosses her arms on her chest. "What qualifications could Ive possibly have, except for an enormous—"

  I lift a brow. "Who's sexist now?"

  There was only one thing of Ive's that could be seen as enormous, and it wasn't her brain. The buxom half-aven had human roots that allowed for curves unusual for the folk. I'd noticed, though I wasn't interested. I'd also noticed that Ive wanted me to notice. I could have saved the girl some time and told her she wasn't going to go anywhere with me. No one was, except for Vlari. Not after today.

  I’ve enjoyed many women of every rank, every shape and color. It's never been like that. With Vlari, sex wasn't an indulgence as much as a need. A raw need to possess and mark. She's an addiction.

  "Ive is a healer," I remind Nebula. "We need her. What we need of you is to keep making those charms Ciera Bane had you sew. You know they saved lives during the attack, right?"

  I'd seen it in action. Who knew whether Lucan would have survived without it? And without him, we wouldn't have been able to shield Whitecroft again. I tell her that. I can tell she doesn't believe a word of it; she knows I have an agenda.

  "So, while you leave for enemy territory with two queens, to do god knows what, I'm to sew?" she seethes.

  "Nebula, I don't have time for this. I was given orders: find a healer and a tracker. You're neither a healer nor a tracker. Stay and be useful, or stay and sulk. Either way, you're staying in Whitecroft."

  She lifts her chin. "You're doing this on purpose. Outshining me. You always have."

  The accusation stings, but I shrug it off. My pack is ready. "I'll be back before you know i
t. Save the insults for my return."

  To my surprise, she lets me kiss her forehead despite her anger.

  I walk to the rendezvous point at the edge of the marches. Vlari, Meda the pixie, Queen Ina, and Lucan are waiting, all dressed like me, in dark formfitting clothes easy to move in, and with a light pack at their sides. Vlari's wyrfox is standing at her feet, like a loyal hound.

  We wait for the cover of night, as there are always scouts watching Whitecroft. We move more silently than human ears can detect, but they often have dogs trained to alert them of our movement.

  The marches are northwest—a little detour, but they bleed into a wood that'll allow for some cover.

  We walk in silence, as fast as we can. Vlari brings up the rear, her small legs forcing her to take two steps for every one of mine. I itch to carry her, but I strongly suspect she'd take offense. Instead, I slow down, and take her hand.

  "You never told me how you got a familiar."

  The wyr doesn't seem like a pet: it's as wild as they come, wary of us, reluctant to be here.

  She shrugs. "I stopped him from becoming dullahan meat a while back. I'm not quite sure what to do with him, to be honest. He doesn't seem to enjoy touch, and when I try to talk to him, he ignores me. But he turns up every now and then anyway."

  I lift my head to the top of the trees, where the animal is perched, following us and blending with the shadows.

  I don't think I've ever heard of anyone getting a familiar while being so young. They attach themselves to kings and queens—a blessing of the wilderness.

  "So long as it doesn't give away our position," I say.

  To be fair to it, the wyr is even more silent than the rest of us.

  We walk through the night, taking sinuous paths as far away from keeps, castles, and villages as we dare, while remaining on our way to the Court of Ichor.

  We reach the path leading to Hardrock and I still, getting to a crouch, surveying the ground with a frown.

  "What is it?"

  I point to the flat, even, sanded path. "No force has marched in this—not since it last rained." That was weeks ago.