He makes a sound against my palm—a growl that vibrates through his chest. His free hand grips my wrist, holding me steady as he drinks. His mouth works against the wound, tongue and teeth and suction that sends jolts of sensation straight to my clit.
I'm getting wet. Actually wet, from pain and blood loss and the way his massive frame curves over me. This should terrify me. Instead, I press closer, offering more of myself to his hunger.
The feeding creates heat where our skin touches. His cold flesh warms under my blood, but that warmth transfers back, making me burn. Every nerve ending comes alive, hypersensitive to his touch, his breath, the pressure of his mouth.
A strange sense washes over me, not quite his thoughts, but the raw edge of his emotions. His desperate relief, sharp as a blade. The intoxicating taste of my own pain reflected back at me. And underneath it all, a primal arousal that mirrors the ache in my own belly.
My hips rock forward without conscious thought. Seeking friction, contact, anything to ease the throbbing between my legs. The movement presses my thigh against his, and I feel him, hard and thick.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips still against my palm. “You taste...” His voice is rough, strained. “Perfect. Like everything I’ve wanted.” He bites again, deeper.
This time I cry out. The sound echoes through the corridor, shameless and desperate. My free hand fists in his hair, holding him to the wound, demanding more.
The salamander flares brilliant gold, its glow pulsing faster. The bat-thing circles overhead, repeating my gasps and moans in miniature. Even the shadow servants press closer, feeding off the energy we're creating.
When he finally lifts his head, my palm is healed. But I'm left aching, empty, wanting more. The silence in my head is perfect, but my body screams for something else entirely.
“What are you?” I whisper.
“Hungry,” he says, and his voice is rough with need. “I have been hungry for a very long time.”
“And now?”
His golden eyes burn. “Now I have found what I need.”
KIAKOA
The taste of her lingers on my tongue for hours. The unique flavor that sets my teeth on edge, that coats my mouth and clings to my clothes. I sit in the strategy room, staring at maps I cannot focus on.
My cock has been hard since I left her in that corridor. A hot, heavy weight settles low in my belly, the pressure building until the leather feels like a cage. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face—the way her pupils dilated when I bit her, the sound she made when pain became something else entirely.
She is three floors above me. I can feel her presence like heat against my skin.
Across the table, Captain Morris finishes his report. “...spotted near the Musslet pass, my lord.”
I nod, though I barely heard him. Vasek's scouts. My western border weakens by the hour. These facts should command my attention.
Instead, I remember the way she pressed closer when I fed, offering more of herself. The desperate sound she made when I pulled away.
A knock at the door interrupts my distraction. Scratch enters without waiting for permission, all six eyes taking in my state with obvious disapproval.
“Master,” he says, his voice a dry, rasping chitter. “We have received additional communications.”
He places three scrolls on the stone table. I recognize the seals immediately—Lords Elovat, Mordak, and Jesseth. The southern crags and eastern marshes. And Jesseth, who I’ve never understood.
“When did these arrive?”
“Within the last hour. All by bone crow. All marked urgent.” Scratch's eyes blink in sequence. “Forty-nine years, seventy-one days, and twenty-three hours until my service ends. Your attention appears... elsewhere.”
I break the first seal. Elovat's script is bold, aggressive.
My Lord Kiakoa, disturbing reports have reached my territory regarding your recent... indisposition. Should you require assistance maintaining order during this difficult time, I stand ready to provide aid. For appropriate compensation, naturally.
The second scroll contains similar sentiments from Mordak. The third, from Jesseth, is more direct.
Old friend, the vultures are circling. They smell weakness and gather for the feast. Join with me, and wecan face this threat together. Refuse, and I fear you will face it alone.
I set the scrolls aside. The mathematics are clear—three lords, possibly more, moving against me simultaneously. Vasek has likely spent months testing the waters, using my isolation against me. I know he has other partners, waiting. Watching.
