Page 39 of The Shadow of Breninsol
Riccie’s warm body pressed against her as a nearby soft giggle made her turn her head. She frowned at the noise, as her companions didn’t sound like they’d produce such a high-pitched giggle. Whoever it was must have moved away as quickly as they’d appeared. Although a small sober part of her recognised there were no other women nearby, so the owner of the giggle had to be her, her muddled thoughts didn’t think that was possible. She didn’t giggle.
Eleanor brought her focus back to the lords around her and startled upon seeing the beautifully dark lord had joined their group.
The Dark Star.
Eleanor avoided looking at him, directing her attention to the young lords, whom she had grown close to. That is, until something bright flashed, that caught her eye and made her look inhisdirection, only to find his hand extended towards her.
“I’m good here,my lord,” Eleanor said, narrowing her eyes. There were lots of shiny pretty rings adorning his long fingers.
He shook his head slightly, seeming disappointed.How dare he be disappointed? She’d not done anything, especially not to him.
Before Eleanor could respond, her new friends rose from their comfy sofa with a bit too much haste and left her alone with him.
Chickenshits.
Although, she’d missed the entire conversation between her friends andthislord. Now, she had no choice but to look at the delicious, impeccably dressed man before her. Being this close to him, she noticed that his long-coat and matching waistcoat were not black but actually red. A red so deep it could be mistaken for black, a shade exclusive to the ripe seeds nestled within a pomegranate core.
His long dark hair pulled forward as he leaned down, coming closer to her than she thought he ever would, and hissed out. “It was not a request.”
Taken aback by the unexpected savage tone, Eleanor blinked, surprised by how jarring it was against his beauty. Before she could form an angry response, his cool hand wrapped around her arm and dragged her to her feet.
“Get your hands off me,” she tried to hiss back but ended up mumbling her words to him.
The whirling room forced her to lean to the side, trying to halt its spin. That should have been her first indication that she was drunk.
His grip on her tightened as he pulled her along the edge of the room. Eleanor went to raise her fingers to trail them along the writhing gold vines creeping along the white walls, but she was pulled through a door that she hadn’t realised was there.
As soon as the door shut behind them, the noises from the piano room ceased to exist. It was as if he’d pulled her into their own private little world. At that moment, she becameveryaware of his hold on her arm. The deliciously beautiful lord was willingly touching her, and she couldn’t help the little bubble she felt inside herself that wasn’t from the sparkling wine. Did that mean he wanted her…as his Favour? If he asked, she’d be his. She’d gladly give up her freedom to be in his presence. That dangerous idea should have terrified her. For some lightheaded reason, she couldn’t find it in herself to care, and she didn’t want him to touch her just on her arm. Some semblance of her sanity must have been clinging to her self-preservation as Eleanor pulled harder against him, which made him come to a stop in the darkened corridor. The passage’s lack of shining gold indicated they were in a servant access.
“Imma…immaa…”
No, that didn’t sound right.
Eleanor licked her lips as she tried to work them around the words she wanted to say, but what did words matter when she had his whole attention. In this small dark space, they were the only ones present where she could put her lips to better use than speaking. What she’d give to see how he’d throw his long, dark hair back in ecstasy. It’d be such a simple thing to drop to her knees and wrap her lips around him. She was sure he wouldn’t mind…just a taste…
Eleanor’s head felt light, lighter than it should be, and a small part of her registered that something was amiss. She’d lost count of however many glasses of sparkling wine she’d drunk, but she’d been sober coming to the party palace. It didn’t make any sense. A few glasses of wine wouldn’t get her drunk. Stars, a few bottles wouldn’t get her drunk, that’s why there were so many under her floorboards. It took many rapidly drunk bottles of wine to inebriate her and, even then, she’d never be drunk for long before her magic burned her sober. The only wine strong enough to get witches drunk was fae wine and the fair folk had long fled this land, long before the Witch Wars. With that thought, one of her few fond memories surfaced from the last time she’d been drunk on fae wine. A heavily and well-stocked wine cellar and…hersmiling and laughing, Eleanor never let herself think about this person, who had been much more like a sister to her than any blood relation she’d had. They weren’t sisters by blood, but by bond. And Mother Below did she miss her sister, every day she felt her loss.
“Imma…” she tried again but the words eluded her.
Focus on the language.
Weakness.
Do notfuckingslip up here.
Her inebriated state and the dimly lit serving access had to be played tricks on her eyes, as she thought she saw the Dark Star grimace.
As Eleanor tried again, she recognised being drunk in the party palace was not ideal, not at all. It wasn't ideal, to say the least, to be alone with the Dark Star within the confines of this limited serving access. Despite his noble title and immense wealth, a fortune beyond her wildest dreams, she strangely, and perhaps stupidly, felt no fear towards him. Unable to resist his allure, she found herself irresistibly drawn to the captivatingand ominous presence that loomed before her, her resolve weakening and her focus drifting.
As she was about to lean in and do…something, she had no idea what, the Dark Star abruptly instructed, “Come,” with a tone that allowed no room for debate, and pulled her down the dimly lit corridor, his rings biting into her skin.
Oh, she’d like to come alright.
That was the only word he’d said to her and it hung in the air between them. She didn’t try to speak again, concerned that she’d say something she shouldn’t.
It took more concentration than she’d like to admit to keep her feet under her as, with his fast long strides and the punishing grip on her arm, he took her along corridors that he seemed intimately acquainted with.
Eleanor tried to remember how many turns and corridors they went down. But after too many spiralled steps that left her head spinning, she lost her way.
