Page 63 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
He licked me clean with slow, deliberate strokes, removing any trace of his own release, before moving upwards and tracing every part of me with deliberate, maddening slowness. He tasted me, learned the shape of me, his tongue stroking and teasing until I was slick and arching helplessly off the floor.
The sensation was electric, a direct line to the deepest, most primal part of my brain. The part that didn't care that this was wrong, that this man was my captor. The part that only recognized the overwhelming, undeniable pull of a mate that my soul answered.
When his mouth finally closed over my clit, a sob tore from my throat. He sucked gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking and teasing until I was writhing beneath him, my fingers clawing at the feathered cloak. A helpless cry tore from my throat. It was too much. He was pushing me over the edge again, claiming my body so completely that there was no room for thought, no space for resistance.
My world shattered into a million glittering shards of pure sensation. The orgasm was a violent, consuming thing, ripping through me with such force that my vision went white and a raw, keening sound tore from my lungs. It was an animal noise, a sound of utter surrender that I didn't recognize as my own. My body convulsed, a helpless puppet dancing on the strings of his expert mouth, until I was left gasping and boneless onthe feathered cloak, my mind wiped clean of everything but the aftershocks of pleasure.
He lifted his head, his unearthly eyes intense with satisfaction. The intensity of it made me want to squirm away, to hide myself, but I was too weak, too utterly spent to move. He surveyed my ruined state—my flushed skin, my trembling limbs, the dazed look in my eyes—and a low sound of approval rumbled in his chest. He had wrecked me. He had owned me. And he knew it.
He stood abruptly, his face closing off as if shutters had been drawn across a window. The tender lover of moments before was gone, replaced once again by the cold, controlled captor who had cleaned my wounds and bound me with shadows. He pulled me to my feet with hands that were now strictly business, his touch impersonal despite what we had just shared.
From somewhere in the shadows of the cave, he produced a long leather thong. Before I could protest, he had wrapped the cloak around my body and secured it, cinching it tight enough that it wouldn't slip but loose enough that I could move freely. The improvised garment fell to mid-calf, covering me adequately if not modestly. He found my boots, kneeling at my feet to slide them on and lacing them for me. I was glad. Although I could now move my arm, it still ached badly.
Then he gathered up what remained of my clothes and armour, sorting through the pieces with practiced efficiency. The armour was largely ruined, metal plates bent and leather straps torn, but some of the underlying garments were salvageable. These he folded carefully and placed in a leather satchel that seemed to appear from nowhere.
When he produced another leather cord and fashioned it into a loop, I understood his intention immediately.
"No," I said, backing away from him. "Absolutely not. I'm not an animal to be led around on a leash."
He didn't seem to understand my words, but my tone and body language were clear enough. He approached me with the same patient determination he had shown when resetting my shoulder, and I realized with growing horror that he was going to put the thing around my neck whether I cooperated or not.
The shadows began to stir at the edges of my vision, and I knew I was beaten. I could submit to the leash, or I could be wrapped in living darkness and forced to submit anyway. At least this way, I retained some dignity.
"Fine," I said, standing still and glaring at him. "But I want you to know I hate this. I hate you."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, made worse by the fact that we both knew it was a lie. Whatever I felt for this strange man who wore my friend's face, hate wasn't part of it.
He slipped the loop over my head with surprising gentleness, adjusting it so that it sat loosely around my throat—more symbolic than restrictive. The other end he wrapped around his wrist, creating a connection between us that was both practical and strangely intimate.
The fire was quickly extinguished and any trace of our presence erased with an efficiency that spoke of long practice. Then he led me out of the cave and into the morning light, the leather cord a constant reminder of my captivity.
The sight that greeted me outside made my heart sink. We were high in the mountains, surrounded by peaks that stretched to the horizon in every direction. In the distance, I could see a column of black smoke rising into the clear air, and the acrid smell of burning reached me even here. The battlefield was miles away—he had carried me impossibly far during the night, probably using his shadow magic to traverse distances that would have taken ordinary men days to cover.
Any hope of finding my way back to Imperial forces died in that moment. I was truly and completely at his mercy.
But as we began to descend through the pine-covered slopes, I found myself following him willingly rather than being dragged along like a reluctant prisoner. There was no point in fighting—his shadow powers made escape impossible unless he was asleep or distracted, and I was beginning to suspect that this man was never truly off guard.
Besides, there was something mesmerizing about watching him move through the forest. He navigated the rough terrain with the fluid grace of someone born to these mountains, never putting a foot wrong, never making unnecessary noise. It was like following a ghost made flesh.
We walked in silence for hours, stopping only briefly when the path became too steep or treacherous for me to manage easily. He never spoke, never offered explanation or reassurance, but his manner toward me had subtly changed since our encounter in the cave. The leather leash remained, but his grip on it was loose, more guidance than restraint. When I stumbled, his hand was there to steady me. When I needed to rest, he seemed to sense it before I asked.
Around midday, we reached a crystal-clear stream that tumbled down through the rocks in a series of small waterfalls. He led me to a broad, flat area beside one of the pools and gestured for me to sit on a sun-warmed boulder.
The water was shockingly cold when he filled his hands and offered it to me to drink, but it was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted. Mountain snowmelt, pure and clean and untouched by the corruption of civilization. When I had drunk my fill, he began washing my ruined clothes in the stream, scrubbing blood and dirt from the fabric with methodical patience.
"Water," I said, pointing to the stream. "In Common, we call that water."
He glanced up at me, his hands stilling in their work. After a moment, he repeated the word, his accent making it sound exotic and musical.
"Water," I said again, then switched to what I hoped was the appropriate gesture. "What do you call it in Talfen?"
"Sythara," he said, his voice rough from disuse. It was the first word he had spoken that I could understand, and hearing it felt like a small victory.
"Sythara," I repeated, trying to match his pronunciation. "Water. Sythara."
Something that might have been approval flickered across his features. He pointed to a nearby tree. "Mythen."
"Tree," I said, pointing as well. "Tree is mythen."
