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What I love most ishis history. Not his brokenness because I am not so invasive to desire his trauma. After all, I’d imparted a simple desire: tell me more about Aydon, and I will rise to your challenge. But his authenticity unraveled as a dark scroll dumbfounds me. He shared not only about his elder brother, but Allysteir revealed his Corpse King origin. No, I still do not love him. But I respect him.
Perhaps I never truly loved him. I love the novelty of everything, the emotion, the power of every life-changing moment. This same power I wield over him.
The fire in me cannot help but tempt him. Unless it’s not him I am tempting...
So, I open one side of his mouth, prodding my tongue to plead for entrance. It’s not long before his bony fingers light upon the waist of my gown, tracing the fading mark where he’d bitten me earlier as if his desire is roused again. I moan to his tongue flicking mine, tasting the pomegranate wine. He samples the roof of my mouth. A kaleidoscope of butterflies whirls in my stomach.
With the strength granted to him by the God of Death, Allysteir seizes my waist and draws me into his lap until I’m straddling his hips. His unchecked arousal beyond his robe nudges my belly. Heat engulfs my pores while my sex whets its appetite. My gown rises to expose much of my legs. All around us, the candlelight casts shadows, reminding me of Aryahn Kryach’s. Prompted by my emotion, my desire, the skull branded in my flesh awakens.
I moan deeper into Allysteir’s mouth when Ari’s shades comb my nude legs and the inner curves of my thighs. Meanwhile, the Corpse King savors my mouth and lowers his phalanges to my breasts.
“Oh!” I cry when he rips, when he tears my gown.
I do not buck, nor lean away when I find myself a naked vessel of a woman in the Corpse King’s lap. My hunger is too piqued. The candlelight ravages my body to glow as my desire heats and flushes all of me. My breasts grow heavy. Beyond his mask, I know Allysteir studies them as he traces a bony finger around one erect nipple—a deep coral pink, the rosy skin around it shriveling to his touch. For the first time, I grind my pelvis against him, grind my very sex against his length.
But shades without number, shades like constellations in reverse, fold around my body, plunging it into a cold quietude like an icy cocoon. I arch my back and stiffen, recognizing Ari’s envious ploy. Instead, Allysteir dives his chilled bone fingers into my sex to nurture my heat. Thrusting my breasts against his robe, I grip his shoulders for dear...death. And ride his stiff finger bones.
When I creep my fingers to his length, Allysteir growls behind the mask, seizes my wrist, and wrenches it from his breeches.
“No,” he states, voice firm and low.
Against him, I heave, burying my head in his shoulder. On the verge of delirious tears because he’s injected another bone finger inside my inner chamber. He twists and drives them in deeper until I give a high, keening wail, my nigh-climactic pleas muffled by his robe. Through it all, I bite the fabric on the hard shoulder blade while thrusting my hips. I try again. Inch my hand to his member aroused beneath his robe.
Again, the King snarls, “No, Isla,” and pushes my hand away while adding another tormenting finger. Thanks to his unbridled expertise, he knows how to leave me striving for more. I jerk my hips forward but can’t seem to force those curved bones to strike my inner pleasure place: such a soft yet so-triggered spot. Other than the clitoral knot cresting my folds, of course. Allysteir rubs that outer nub with his knuckles to torment me.
Finally, I slam my frustrated fist against his chest. Panic hammers into me at the cruel snap. The crack. The undeniable fracture.
Mortified, I yank my sex from his fingers and scramble off his lap. I sweep the closest garment to cover myself, careless of how I upset the dinner plates. The leftover wine splatters the marble like blood. Tears stream down my cheeks as Allysteir rises. I don’t know what astounds me more: how he moves toward me with utter ease and strength or how he betrays no sense of pain. Not so much as a wince.
“Isla?” His bone-hands stretch to me.
I shake my head. Violent gasps flee my mouth, and I gaze at his chest. “I was angry. I shouldn’t have, Allysteir. I’m?”
The King chortles and moves towards me. Stunned, stupefied, I shake my waves to one side. How can he chuckle? His rib bone protrudes, budging against the fabric of his robe!
“I broke your bone, Allysteir! I punched, and I...how can you possibly?”
“You are utterly and consummately sweet, my bride!” exclaims Allysteir, closing the distance between us to gather my face in his hands, merging his bone powder with my tears.
“Not so consummately obviously,” I add, my voice cracking.
Allysteir swipes at my tears, chuckling low. “At least you haven’t lost your wit.”
Undone by the raw emotion churning inside me, part loss from those fingers stoking my desire, part empathy from his sacrifice because I, too, understand what it’s like to sacrifice myself—however my power and independence at the time I’d volunteered—I nearly buckle. Not like Allysteir. I never traded...
Until the marks below my collarbone catch my eye. No, I’d traded something far deeper than my flesh, my body. I’d traded my soul. Now, my hands long to claw at my flesh, to strip it clean of the Death mark, of Allysteir’s. I want to accept Aydon’s offer and revoke the marks...with the power of his twin parietal bone as he’d promised.
When I crumble, Allysteir collects me into his arms. I wince from his rib bone prodding me.
The King brushes his mask lips upon my cheek and proclaims, “Remind me, my bride, to tell you the stories sometime of how Aydon would impress his court noble friends by purposefully knocking into me to disturb my bones. By now, I find such upsets quiteamusing...yours more than anyone’s.”
I nestle my head into his shoulder as he tucks me into the bed. At least my tears have dried, though my cheeks have turned to salty beds.
“It must be terrible...getting used to it,” I muse as he folds the blankets around my body, now naked after dispensing with the tablecloth.
He shrugs. “Five hundred years of practice.” Will practice be enough for me? If I find these marks difficult to bear, what will happen once Kryach leaves his scar upon my soul after fracturing it and stealing a piece?
If I last that long.
