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Instantly, I read between the lines.Iwould have been the price. After Ary reveals the secret, the reason behind all of Allysteir’s games, I coil my vines around those shades and tear them one by one in dark strips from my body before flinging him over the edge. His shade form hovers in midair. He faces me, wreathed in blood fire, hollow eyes simmering with smoke.
Balling my hands into fists, my nails cutting bloody crescent moons into my flesh, I stand and proclaim with my crown higher than ever, “I. Am. No.Price, Aryahn Kryach. And you can go fuck yourself!”
“I’d give my Harem of Souls itself to spendonenight with you, little wonder!”
I thrust all my vines in a deliberate blockade. Yes, I know it’s futile. He will pursue me because I gave him my consent on my first visit to the library. I loved his pursuit. And his quiet steadfastness on the night in the refter bride glen. But now, I run. Tears smoldering my flushed cheeks, I run back to the Unseen Section, ascend to the library, out of the tower, and beyond the bridge.
Through countless halls of the Citadel, I run until I arrive at our suite where I crash the doors wide open...
* * *
Present
Atop Allysteir on the bed, I work to remove his outer robe layer, wondering how many linger beneath.
“My Lady, my Queen, please, we still have over two months...” when he trails off, and I pause from my pursuit to narrow my eyes upon his detached ones, to study any expression he may offer with half a mouth and sunken in cheekbones.
“Another secret, Allysteir? Another revelation?” I challenge, brows threading low while I continue to remove the outer robe.
“The Curse,” he heaves, eyes diving low as if he longs to close them but can’t due to his withered lids. “It grants us one full year from the date of our wedding night toconsummatethe marriage.”
At least he does not hinder me when I unclad the inner robe. My fingers are aggressive, violent to mirror my pain. Blood wars, bludgeoning my ears. “And that is the reason for all these games. Because you were too much of a coward to grant me your trust, your respect with the truth. Nothing is left but necessity, my Corpus King. I understand. But you were wrong. You. Were. Wrong.”
“I will go to my brother, Isla. I will use my parietal bone and all of Kryach’s power if necessary,” he baits me, voice pleading with desperation as I tear at the inner robe to nothing but scraps. Only his tunic, his breeches left. Already, the bones of his rib cage make subtle indents through the tunic while a bulge protrudes from between his thighs.
I roll my eyes. “You will do it anyway after tonight, Allysteir. Whether or not Ary takes me or if the cycle renews, you will fulfill your vow. And I will fulfill mine.”
I unbutton his tunic.
“Isla...please,” his voice cracks, and I pause when his phalanges light upon my wrist. I lean my head to one side, detecting the avenue of his eyes and the tears trickling down his cheeks when he continues, “I cannot lose another bride.”
I purse my lips in understanding because at heart, Allysteir is a lovesick fool. No, he was never meant for the throne, for messy politics. After five hundred years, he is still a swooning boy chasing after his true heart only Finleigh holds. It’s why tonight is necessary, why I cannot wait. It is a fool’s errand to imagine anything but this vain respect between us—and a burning flicker of pleasure. If it doesn’t happen tonight, it never will.
In full resolution, chest swelling with confirmation, with power, with utter belief, I reveal, “I was never your bride, Allysteir.”
I rip the tunic from his body. He does not stop me. He does not stop me when I pursue his breeches, keenly aware of his bulge.
I free him to a true naked corpse to mirror his cadaverous face. A skeleton bearing remnants of rotted flesh, of shriveled organs, of threadbare blood to pump the essential muscle somehow beating within his chest cavity. So unfathomable. So otherworldly!
The blood flows most to his lower region, to his...
“The gods truly do have a sense of humor.” I reflect on the singlewholepart of Allysteir. Not only whole, his cock is a high tower: a hard quivering column twitching the moment my fingers inch closer.
“Kryach’s humor,” grunts Allysteir, baring his teeth. “Each god has their own style. This is the morbid humor of the God of Death.”
I glimpse at the aching member. My mouth waters. I bite my lower lip, bind my hands around it, and blush when its warmth throbs beneath my palms. I almost flinch but then revel because Allysteir throws his head back and gasps. The first time someone has touched him in a long time. “I’ll enjoy his humor tonight, my Corpus King. But first...”
I forsake his cock. I move up, scooting gently so I don’t disrupt any bones. Up and up until I hover upon his chest to instruct, “Tear my gown, Allysteir.”
Expecting resistance, it stuns me when Allysteir obeys. He uses his bony hands’ strength to rip the bridal sheathes until I am a pale and plump naked woman sitting atop the Corpse King. I sink onto his cadaver face, part my distended and eager pubic lips to his heated mouth. So determined to observe his unmasked face when he pleasures me.
I inhale a deep gust when Allysteir traces my plump belly, then drags his phalanges in a direct arrow for my sex where he rubs my rosy nub. When he plunges three rigid phalanges inside my slippery chamber, I buck and gasp. Allysteir feasts on my vulva. His masterful tongue works my pubic lips, sweeping to my burning clitoris. I shudder. Color scorches my cheeks, suffusing my heavy breasts, and I moan when the King’s other bony hand voyages to brush my nipple. More, I need more! I roll my demanding hips forward onto his face, thrilling when he sucks and nips my swollen nub. It near surges over his hard fingers. He kneads my breast flesh, pinches and twists my nipples. Inside me, the dam prepares to burst.
Before it can, I jerk out of those rigid finger bones and move lower. Without preparation, because Ineednone, without reservation because Ihavenone, without any thought because Iwantnone, I slam my sex onto the full length of the Corpse King’s amassed member. And shriek from the pain and pressure—this stinging, hard pressure. But my scream is louder when Allysteir nudges my clitoris with his hard knuckle while his aching finger bones dote on my breasts.
Caging a whimper, I ride him. Desperate, demanding, daring, careless of how my corpus rose thorns penetrate his meager flesh and draw more blood, I ride him. My drenched sex slides up and down while the King’s turgid member throbs inside me. His eyes glaze over. I imagine he would shut them if he could. Allysteir’s hands roam to my pelvis and sink into the rounded flesh of my hips. He grunts and thrusts inside me, his momentum mirroring mine. I lean over so my breasts become low-hanging fruit over his face. Prompted, he suckles my nipples as if they are succulent pomegranate seeds.
The dam inside me cracks to release a predictive burst. Naked, face flushed, my nipples contracted to ruby rouge pebbles, I ride out my jubilee. Accepting the adrenaline-fused pain, I throw my hair back, thrust out my chest, and cry my climax in a feral voice, “You want me, Ary! Come and claim me!” I dare the God of Death.
