Page 80 of Blinding Light

Blindly reaching behind him, he let out a deep breath of relief when he felt Moargan’s warm skin. He slid his hand down and curled his fingers around Moargan’s.

Breathe.

What had awoken him?

He stared outside and tried to relax, but every time he drifted off, his body tensed up like a stretched chord. As a child, he’d been haunted by nightmares. Night after night, he would dream of a darkness that swallowed him whole and make him disappear. But then, which foster kid hadn’t? They all had their fair share of horrific stories to tell.

Cyprian thought of the run-down apartment, of the hateful look in the eyes of the man who was his father. That familiar sharpness of sorrow spilled down the recollection, tainting it even further, turning it into something dark and ugly. BecauseLudo Fandi had remembered Cyprian. Had called him a monster.

Perhaps he was right.

He had somehow survived the artificial injections the Helion laboratories had injected him with, unlike so many other babies. But did that make him Dariux? Did he truly have any special enhancements?

You have beautiful eyes.Moargan had said. Their joined palms had set aflame a connection they both couldn’t ignore. But it didn’t make him Dariux.

Cyprian squeezed the Imperial’s hand. He wanted to. He wanted to live up to whatever it was the Imperial believed he was. Milanov hadn’t said much, but his actions were proof of his conviction—he’d given away his eldest son, the Crown Prince of Helion, to Cyprian.

What if they were wrong? What if he wasn’t Dariux after all? Would they rip away this alliance and throw him onto the streets? Or worse, ship him back home? Good light, he couldn’t go home, the Devils would find him. They’d kill him.

Sensing Cyprian’s inner turmoil, Morgan stirred in his sleep and let out a string of soft, unintelligible words that made Cyprian’s chest clench with affection.

Moargan said he wasn’t a good man, but Cyprian believed sometimes he was. When they were together something just…clicked. And after the foreign ritual with ribbons and palms, with imprinting and this new, strange buzz that pumped through his blood, Cyprian was Moargan’sRoyal Consort.

Him. Cyprian Creighton. Foster kid from Tulniri. The situation was so absurd it should make him laugh. It didn’t. It made him feel…

“Don’t say it,” he whispered to himself. But he could hear it, inside his mind, loud and clear.

Happy.

Squeezing Moargan’s hand tighter, he shivered at the intrusive taunt.

“A monster! Not my son! A monster!”

The words made thick droplets leak out of the corners of his eyes and land on the soft satin sheets.

He’d never wanted to be a monster. All he wanted was to belong.

Aviel had told him the enhancements didn’t just appear like magic. They needed to be fed with emotion. But Aviel also kept secrets, of that Cyprian was sure.

And emotions…Cyprian had been sad his entire life, but it had never brought him anything different than a permanent feeling of loneliness.

Dariux were designed to create chaos, to crave violence. Some could sense foreign heartbeats like Moargan, others could shoot fire from their eyes like Aviel.

All Cyprian could hear were voices, though he doubted that had anything to do with a designation.

Squeezing his eyes shut, a familiar wave of pressure filled his head. His breath faltered as his mind split like an opening gate, rusty and hesitant as it was slowly dragged aside. Voices forced their way inside, making his eyes flutter as Cyprian struggled to fight against the chaos. “No,” he begged when he felt himself slip. Whatever it was, this tornado of voices was strong as it forced itself deeper until it settled in his mind. To break free from its hold, Cyprian clenched his teeth forcefully and turned to his other side. He lifted a leg over Moargan’s thighs, squeezing himself impossibly close against the back of Moargan’s body. He breathed in the scent of opium and pine tar, nose pressed against the Imperial’s warm skin. It wasn’t enough. The tornado kept digging inside, demanding his attention. Perhaps he was going crazy after all.

He needed his charcoal.

Slipping out of bed, he put on the blue bathrobe. Then,without a single thought, he snatched the pack of Moargan’s opium cigarettes and tiptoed to the guest room.

Sitting down in front of his canvas, he lit one of the opium smokes. He coughed his way through the first few puffs before he finally felt the drugs kick in. His body relaxed, and even his mind seemed to settle. Cyprian felt like he was being swept up as a tingling sensation slowly spread through his core. He stared at the blank paper, blindly reaching for his pencils, mind blurring with visions. Led by that mental image, Cyprian let his pencils take over the paper with blacks and greys in all different dimensions. Shapes that weren’t his because all there was now was the opium mingled with fractured images, voices, and the sound of his humming that resonated through his head.

“Hear me. Please. Connect with me.”It was barely a whisper, but it stood out from the shards of sounds that cluttered his mind. The woman, a stranger to him, repeated the same words repeatedly, and Cyprian felt the way his inner self reached out until he could practically feel the other person, the way his lips were forming hushed words until he?—

“Cyprian?”

Everything stopped. No more lyrics fell from his mouth, and it was as if they took away the visions and the voices as everything disappeared back into the shadows of his mind.

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