Page 52 of Eldritch
“She told me that she had fled Solassios with her children, leaving behind her power-hungry husband who longed to see them dead. Two innocent children he’d abused from the time they were born. And I was the cruel beast who’d killed her. This brave and beautiful creature.” Tears wavered in his eyes.“Her long, blonde hair. Midnight bronze skin. Striking blue eyes. To this day, she haunts me, ensuring that I never forget my sins.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “She begged me to take them somewhere. Hide them. So I did. When she finally passed, I set fire to the cottage, and I took those children across Nyxteros and Vespyria to the desertlands of Eremicia.”
“That’s why the Solassions hunted you. The king wanted them dead.”
“Yes. I attempted to lie and tell them that I never found the woman, but they administered Nilmirth. Unbeknownst to them, I had some immunity to it, so to make them believe I was telling the truth, I confessed to having killed the woman and burned down the cottage. But I lied about ever finding those children. I knew they’d be slaughtered.”
“That’s when you sought Cadavros?” Zevander asked.
“I’d heard rumors of him and his abilities, and I suspected the Solassions would come after me, knowing what I knew. I sought the power to protect my family.”
“Mother was friends with King Sagaerin. Why not go to him? Why risk our lives by seeking out a madman?”
“I never told your mother the truth.” Again, he lowered his head, and his shoulders twitched as he broke into tears.
The sight of him set Zevander on edge. He’d always known his father to be a hardened man. Emotionless. Seeing him that way stirred his pity in a way that left him angry and confused.
“And now I’ll never see her again,” his father said. “I’ll never hear her voice. Nor catch that elusive smile, when she thinks no one’s looking. All because I feared Lord Belthane’s wrath. And because of that, she never quite grasped the severity. She did seek out the king after Branimir had undergone the Emberforge ritual. But it was too late. Sagaerin swore he’d protect her, but told her there was nothing he could do to spare me from my fate. I never intended to hurt any of you.” He let out a shudderingbreath, a sob undoubtedly lingering at the back of his throat. “You cannot sacrifice your life for mine. I have taken too much already.”
Zevander had learned to remain stoic, to keep his emotions tightly coiled, so he didn’t offer his father affection. Instead, he said, “Come back tomorrow. I’ll have more bread to share.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ZEVANDER
Present …
Seated in a chair across from her, Zevander watched Maevyth sleep, the deep ridges of metal passing beneath his thumb, as he ran it over the stolen scorpion pendant. Stroking himself to calm.
The book she’d been reading lay in her lap, and her head had kicked to the side, facing him, eyelashes fluttering against cheeks made rosy by the blazing hearth. The dying embers of daylight stretched through the window toward her, as if even the light of day couldn’t stand to leave her behind. Dusk was approaching—his last chance to hunt for something to eat, after the fruitless venture earlier that morning. They’d be leaving for town at first light and would need to replenish their energy.
And he’d had every intention of heading out to the woods—up until he’d caught sight of her sleeping.
Godsdamn, she was beautiful. Painfully so.
Her hand lay draped on the arm of the rocking chair, her limp fingers dangling over the edge. Taunting him.
Clutching the necklace, he closed his eyes, recalling the night she’d touched him with those soft, delicate fingers. His muscles pulled tight, his cock straining against his leathers while he slipped into the memory of it. Even now he could still feel her phantom caress across his flesh. How she’d gripped him like the sharp end of a blade captured in her palm—gentle and cautious, not with a longing to take, but to give, a feeling that was so foreign to him, he questioned whether it was his salvation or ruin. He’d always equated warm caresses as a warning before the cold strike of a whip or a slice of a blade. A deception. Every piece of him that Maevyth touched had been rewritten into something he didn’t recognize. Something that felt like an unraveling, a faltering grip of the man he used to be. A corrupted soul not yet beyond redemption.
“You are nothing but a slave. Worthless.”
The voice of General Loyce bit into his skull with sharp teeth, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his ear.
“Who could ever love a slave?”
Get out of my head. The thought arrived as a growl in his mind, and Zevander squeezed his eyes shut, willing her away. A sharp sting struck his palm, and when he looked down, blood trickled over his fingers where he clenched the metal pendant so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.
He trailed his gaze back to Maevyth, the mere sight of her pushing away that wretched voice in his mind. He recalled the way she’d looked at him the night they were together, so kind and uncondemning. As if a single stare could erase a century of shame. Humiliation. Loathing.
As if her hands could undo the pain of countless whippings and cuts of a blade.
Zevander hadn’t known her fingers were capable of such magic, but as he stared at them, craving one single stroke acrosshis face, he was certain of one thing: Those hands held the power to ruin him and gods be damned, he’d welcome it.
While he understood her reasons for distancing herself, the absence of touch was driving him mad. Not in a lustful way, though he couldn’t deny the hardening of his body at the mere scent of her. No, it was a comfort he couldn’t describe—like the day he’d cast off his shackles and felt the air touch his raw flesh for the first time.
He was desperate for it. For her.
The silky texture of her skin. The scrape of her nails.
A shiver rippled through him.
