Page 19 of His Emotional Support Snack

ESME

Two months confined to the master suite.

The gilded cage shrinks with every passing cycle of the sun. My boundaries are defined by the grand iron-wrought doors, locked from the outside by Commander Jarek, and the sweeping glass archways overlooking the drop to the harbor. I eat off silver trays. I sleep in the massive, silk-covered bed. I breathe the same air as the master of Vhoig.

The physical proximity is a slow, suffocating pressure.

Zuirvih’s restored magic hums constantly in the background, a low-level vibration that rattles the crystal decanters and makes the hair on my arms stand up. His skin is flawless ash-grey, devoid of the necrotic black veins. He commands his household with terrifying, arrogant precision. I am the silent shadow at his side, the biological anchor keeping the monster tethered to life.

It is late. The braziers in the corners of the suite burn low, casting long, wavering shapes against the dark marble walls.

I stand before the grand silver-framed mirror resting above the unlit hearth. The Zagfer servants delivered a new gown this morning—midnight blue silk, woven to match his house colors, clinging to my frame like a second skin. The fabric exposes my shoulders and the pale, jagged scar bisecting my ribs. The collar rests heavy against my throat, a blood-red brand marking me as property.

A shadow falls across the glass.

Zuirvih steps out of the gloom. He makes no sound on the thick rugs, his frame gliding into the reflection behind me. He wears a loose linen shirt, the laces untied to expose the smooth, unblemished skin of his chest. His silver braids hang free, catching the dim firelight.

"I require a draft." The words vibrate through the quiet room, a low, demanding purr.

My pulse kicks into a rapid, frantic staccato. I turn away from the mirror, bracing myself. Over the past fourteen days, the feeding has become a clinical, terrifying routine. He slices a shallow line across my wrist, drinks a mouthful to keep the toxin dormant, and heals the cut with a pulse of magic power.

I lift my left arm, offering the pale skin of my wrist.

He does not reach for it.

Moving closer, he breaches the invisible boundary I desperately maintain between us. The air pressure drops. The sharp, volatile tang of cracked lightning and spiced Zhisk radiates from him, a potent, dizzying combination that makes my head spin.

Before I can step back, his hands shoot out.

His long, bare fingers wrap around my wrists. He does not pull me toward him; he pushes me backward. My shoulder blades hit the cold, polished marble of the mantelpiece. He pins both of my wrists against the stone, holding them flat on either side of my head with a grip that promises snapped bones if I struggle.

"What are you doing?" The demand cracks, my voice betraying the sudden, raw panic flaring in my chest.

"I tire of the wrist."

Zuirvih leans into my space, his towering body caging me against the marble. He does not break eye contact. His gaze glows in the dim light, blazing with a feral, possessive heat that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

A low, hypnotic wave of purple magic bleeds from his skin.

It rolls over me, a physical, invisible tide. The magic does not burn. It sensitizes. The air suddenly feels thick, brushing against the bare skin of my shoulders like a physical touch. The silk of my gown becomes a friction that makes me gasp, every thread rubbing against nerves that are suddenly, agonizingly awake.

I twist my wrists against the marble, but his grip is unyielding.

"Stop it." I grind my teeth, fighting the treacherous, liquid heat flooding my system.

"I command reality, Esmeralda." He whispers the words against my temple, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. "I command the flesh."

He releases my left wrist, keeping my right arm pinned securely above my head. His free hand drops.

Long, cool fingers slide over the silk pooling at my thigh.

I jolt against the mantelpiece. The touch is a violent shock to my sensitized nerves, sending a rush of blinding heat straight to my core. I shut my eyes, a ragged sound tearing from my throat as he drags his hand upward.

He traces the curve of my hip, his thumb pressing into the muscle. The silk offers no barrier against the dark, creeping magic sinking into my skin. He slides his hand higher, finding the jagged, pale scar bisecting my ribs. He traces the raised tissue with agonizing slowness, reverent and obsessive, mapping the violence of my past with the precise touch of a predator claiming his kill.

"Don't." The plea is breathless, a humiliating surrender torn from a throat that promised never to break.

He ignores me.