Page 72 of The Deathless One
With that, Elric helped her up, making certain she was comfortable, reaching for her waist when she was a little wobbly. Every bit of him a gentleman, but she felt the way his hand spasmed at her hip, like the shape of her body made him want to cling and linger.
Her mind screamed that she’d almost died. Her body wanted, no, needed, to remember what it felt like to breathe, to live, to feel. Her body remembered that the world existed, and he was right here in front of her. His broad chest moved with each breath, those lips full and slightly scowling, the sharp edge of his jaw so tempting to bite.
It wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t the appropriate reaction either. Jessamine knew she should say thank you to this deathless god who had given her life for a second time. She also knew her restoration was entirely self-serving on his part. He didn’t love her. That wasn’t why he’d saved her life. Elric needed her to stay alive.
But she still stepped closer and pressed her lips to his. She still kissed him, clinging to his shirt with both hands and leaning into him a little too hard. Because he was her savior. A hero in her story, even if he was the villain in everyone else’s.
He froze beneath her touch for a moment, like he’d been struck by lightning. A deep groan echoed in his throat and his hands tightened ather waist. Then suddenly he was everywhere. His hands brushing up and down her back, digging into her muscles and dragging her flush against him, the hard bar of his cock pressed against her belly, proving that indeed a god was far more well-endowed than a mere man. And as he pulled her closer, rocking himself against her, every inch of her body turned to liquid fire.
She ached between her legs. She needed to feel, to touch, to taste. Something stirred inside of her. A wanton, wild, wicked creature who knew what she wanted and desired to take it.
A witch, she realized.
His kiss had finally awakened the witch within.
“You orphic creature,” he whispered against her lips, his tongue swiping before he sucked her lower lip hard enough to hurt. “You are bitter and intoxicating, like the most divine absinthe. I stain your skin with every touch, and gods forgive me, I’ll do it again.”
She fell into his embrace, drowning in the sensation of his touch. He wasn’t a hesitant man, and it was a pleasure to let him lead, to take—so different from the fumbling, tentative attempts at seduction she’d endured from the guards at court.
Jessamine had never wanted to have a man ask if he pleased her. She just wanted him to be confident that he did. She wanted him to sense the little breaths that came out of her mouth or the way she squeezed her thighs together. Or—by the gods!—how she writhed against his thigh as Elric slotted one muscular leg between hers and made her ride him. He’d lit a fire in her veins even as he leaned back and watched her move with lowered lids.
She watched his expression with rapt attention as he licked his lips, his eyes following every movement of her hips as she ground herself against him.
“Perfection,” he muttered. “Utter perfection.”
With a low groan, she tilted her head back and clutched his shirt for purchase. Except… a flashing spike of magic slipped over her eyes. She felt the ache in her skull, like someone had grabbed onto her head and squeezed too tightly.
She didn’t even have a moment to complain about the pain before she tumbled into what she could only imagine was his mind.
The darkness surrounding them showed her everything she had wondered about his past.
She saw a witch who looked remarkably like herself, cold and freezing in a cave filled with dripping ice. A man laid out on an altar of stone in front of her, his hair dark and his skin nearly blue with cold. The witch lifted a blade over her head that glinted even in the darkness before sinking it deep into his belly.
Then another flash, a warm home this time. But the table before a crackling hearth had been cleared, and the same man was laid out upon it. A man with dark eyes who had watched Jessamine from the shadows, and even now, it seemed like he stared right at her as a witch lifted a blade high into the hanging herbs above her head before driving it into his heart.
Yet another memory, this time of a little girl. Her clothing hung off her skinny form, dripping from bones that were too raw edged. And the man, Elric, yet another form of him kneeling in front of her. This time he was the one who guided the blade toward his eye, and with a quiet word, allowed the little witch to plunge it through that dark orb.
Countless centuries of pain and torment. She watched him die a hundred times, then a hundred times more. She saw every moment that a witch, just like herself, dug a dagger into his heart, his eyes, his throat. They carved bits and pieces of him away like trophies because they could.
And he let them.
They needed his power, and for the few moments he was in their realm, he was truly free. She could feel his happiness, the bittersweet ache of life that burned through him. He was willing to do anything to chase that feeling. And so for centuries he clawed and scraped for these moments of heartache. He sought out the pain that always came with becoming a sacrifice for his witches. He knew no other way to live.
She saw their smiles. She felt his hope that this time would be different, that they would see more in him than so many others had before.
But worst of all, she knew how much it hurt every time they betrayed him. And yet this strong, endless man never gave up on them.
Because it had started with a witch frozen on a warm doorstep. Another burnt alive at a stake. Dozens of other women who had suffered because they had magic.
So he had bound himself to those who, like him, were exiled from society. Women who could never really love him because they had use for him, and they used every tool at their disposal.
Her heart broke for him.
When she came back to herself, she felt the inky grip of his realm dripping from her hair. Almost as though she’d been doused in his memories, force-fed everything he didn’t want her to see.
As it was, he already looked at her as though he was nervous. “Well?” he asked, like he was waiting for her to see his real purpose.
He thought she was going to see those memories and want the power. Jessamine had certainly tasted it. She could feel the overwhelming sear of magic that crackled through the veins of every witch who had sacrificed him. And that power was tempting.
