Page 49 of Jailer to the Death God
The soldiers bow, casting awed glances at him. Neither guard was with me on the night of the summoning—they don’t know who Arawn truly is. But he radiates power, exudes magic. And when the guards’ figures recede, I’m left alone with that swelling power. Alone in the gloomy corridor, with the torchlight glowing on the darkly paneled walls, and the god of death slowly unspooling shadows across the maroon carpet.
“You’re leaking.” I point to the magic swirling over the floor.
“I’m tired of holding it in.” His voice has changed; it’s the deeper, godlike tone he sometimes uses. He’s jade-skinned again, and the ram’s horns are sliding from his hair, curling in thick ridged spirals.
“I felt the chains less when we danced,” he says thickly. “But they’re back now, tightening around my body. It’s agony, being trapped like this. I feel as if I must tear myself open so I can get out.” His claws dent the thick fabric over his chest.
“Sometimes I feel a little like that,” I reply softly. “As if I want to break out of this castle, this city, and run far, far away to be free. Maybe leap from a clifftop into the sea. Or soar up into the starlit sky where no one can follow me. And sometimes I feel so numb, I run into freezing gardens or—or I do this.”
I open both my hands, holding them out to him. The scrapes from when I fell are there, but so are a myriad crescent-shaped marks—some bruised into my flesh, others actually cut into my skin—sealed over and healing, but present nonetheless. Marks of my fingernails, driven deep, the pain anchoring me in moments when I couldn’t find relief any other way.
Arawn steps nearer.
Traces one of the red crescents with the tip of a claw.
Looks into my eyes.
The air thrums between us, taut and visceral. The light in my chest expands suddenly, illuminating my veins, my nerves, my skin with a fiery craving, one that’s mirrored in the ancient green eyes of the god in front of me.
I reach behind me, find the handle, and open the door to my bedroom.
“Come in for a moment,” I whisper.
22
I follow the Queen into her room.
I can sense the two magical objects in the space: the ritual tome, which I did not burn, but replaced in her drawer where I found it—and the knife spelled with godsblood, hidden in the bedpost. I still haven’t questioned her about it. Right now I can’t think about anything beyond the warmth of the low fire on the hearth, spreading through the room, and the inviting velvety purple of the blankets on the wide bed. If I could strip down and roll on that bed, feel that velvet on my skin, the sensation might be enough to erase the icy, poisonous weight of my chains.
The Queen is taking pins out of her hair. It was mostly loose anyway—a little of it braided and twisted up—but she takes it all down. A flood of moonlight.
I can’t stop myself.
I walk over to her, stand behind her as she faces the dressing table, and plunge my fingers into her hair.
The sensation of the silky locks flowing over my hands sends a moan of exquisite pleasure through my throat.
She’s watching me in the mirror. Gripping the edge of the dressing table with both hands. The pins lie forgotten on the carpet.
I take a long lock of her pale hair, separate it gently from the others, and wind it slowly around her throat. Her hair is so long I can wrap it twice around her slim neck.
Her pupils dilate, her cheeks reddening. Delicious cheeks, like warm apples. I’m leaning over, lowering my mouth to one of them before I can think. Opening my lips, grazing her rosy flesh with my teeth, with my tongue.
I can feel her shaking. Not fear… no… she’s holding back, restraining herself. I know that repressed energy, that desperation.
“You taste divine,” I say hoarsely against her cheek.
She whirls around, a sudden, volatile rush that brings her mouth near mine. A graze of lips—hot breath mingled, profiles nudging, taunting—and then I grip the back of her head and I slam my mouth against hers with a guttural snarl.
Kissing her is like dying. Like my soul separating from the prison of my body, soaring into a blissful void. Her mouth is soft, rich, eager, responsive—she’s bracing her thin arms on my shoulders, on either side of my neck, her fingers clawing into my hair, breathless hums of desire buzzing over my tongue as our lips open to each other, as my tongue ventures into the warm hollow of her mouth. Her tongue glides over mine, curls around it, and that decadent swirl sends a surge of hot blood into my cock.
My hips buck against her, and she freezes at the hardness, but only for a moment. Then she hitches one leg over my hip, urging her center closer to mine. She makes a breathless mew of frustration, because she’s too short—she can’t position herself like she wants to. I pick her up whole, carry her to the bed, and fling her onto it, like a wolf might sling the body of his wounded prey into his den.
This is almost what I need. I’m getting closer to the release I crave. I prowl over the little Queen’s body, my hair draping around our faces, and I sink my lips to hers again.
This time, when I sweep my tongue through her mouth, I taste something tender, swollen, almost bloody. A ridge of wounded flesh along her inner cheek.
Frowning, I pull back.
