CHAPTER 16
Those words struck Fuery as fiercely as his instincts as her mate, almost sending him to his knees on the dark stone floor. He swallowed hard and fought to hold himself together, to keep his boots planted to the tiles and resist the urges that went through him.
Some of them terrifying.
Gods, he didn’t want to hurt her.
He knew he would if he surrendered to the need running rampant inside him, a startling combination of hunger and darkness, a pressing desire to claim the delicate female standing before him and stamp his mark all over her.
His fangs itched at the thought of penetrating her pale perfect flesh and mouth watered at the hazy memory of how sweet her blood tasted, and how good it had made him feel as he had drunk from her vein, pulling all of her into him. It had felt as if he had been joining their souls, mingling a part of hers with his.
He trembled, on fire with the hunger to surrender to his blacker urges and fulfil his needs.
And hers.
He balled his hands into fists as the claws of his armour formed over his fingers, and gritted his teeth as they sliced through the scales to cut deep into his flesh, filling the tense air with the sickly scent of his own blood.
He couldn’t.
He forced himself to look at her. To see her.
She was delicate. Beautiful. A rare bloom that deserved tenderness from him, and one he would likely crush if he wasn’t gentle with her.
He didn’t want to ruin her.
If he surrendered to the dark needs running through him, he would do just that.
The males of the guild feared him for a reason, and while he no longer remembered the things he did when the darkness pulled him under, when he lost himself to it, he knew from the way they avoided him and the looks they cast him that he was dangerous in that state, vicious and cruel, and revelled in the sick things he did while under the influence of the darkness.
He couldn’t count the number of people he had hurt when lost to that darkness. They were too numerous.
He couldn’t count the number he had killed.
When he lost himself, he had no awareness and therefore he couldn’t stop himself from doing terrible things.
If he lost himself when Shaia was around him, if the darkness seized him, born of his desperate need to stake a new claim on her as his fated one, he would hurt her. He was sure of it.
As sure of it as he was the fact that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself in the aftermath.
It was a miracle that she was standing before him, flesh and blood, not dead.
Not killed by him.
If he surrendered to his need, he might kill her.
She had been living without him for four thousand years, and that had torn at him just moments ago, but as the darkness pushed inside him, driving him to stake that claim on her, he wished she had never discovered he was alive.
It killed him, ripped at the fragile remains of his soul, but he wished it regardless.
She had mourned him by her own admission, but she had been safe from him. She had been living her life and looked well for it.
“Fuery… say something,” she whispered and her hands twitched, as if she wanted to reach for him again.
He shook his head, warning her not to do it. He wasn’t strong enough right now. The darkness was growing stronger, rising to wrap inky tendrils around his heart and whisper wicked tempting things in his mind.
Shaia blinked and looked down at her feet, and he could see her withdrawing into herself, pulling away from him, and it hurt so much he couldn’t breathe, wanted to seize her and make her come back to him.
He stood firm somehow, holding himself at a distance, and forced himself again to look at her. His beautiful mate. She was alive, and she had meant those words she had said to him, offering them as a balm she had thought would soothe him.
Words that tormented him worse than the nightmares of killing her.
He could feel how much she needed him as she stood close to him, could feel how much she loved him still.
Gods.
He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her.
But he couldn’t stop himself from taking a step towards her, driven by his need of her.
She lifted her eyes, bringing them to meet his, and he faltered, fear swift to rise and rock him as it crashed over him, taunting him with images of the things he might do to her, a thousand terrible memories of waking to find himself surrounded by death, carnage he had wrought while lost to the darkness.
He stilled again, heart labouring as he battled with himself, torn between going to her and satisfying the need he could feel in her, obeying his instincts as her mate, and telling her to leave.
The desire, the deep need of her he had always felt, had never faded. If anything, it felt stronger now than ever. But it was sheer torment. He might have been worthy of her when they had mated all those centuries ago, but he was unworthy of her now, and it was only a matter of time before she saw it with her own eyes.
He was tainted, not only by the darkness but by the terrible things he had done as an assassin.
He couldn’t touch her, not even when he felt as if he would die without that physical contact between them.
He couldn’t taint her.
The longer he stared at her, the stronger that feeling grew.
He was unworthy.
The need to maim and kill, to spill blood, both his own and his enemy’s, constantly beat inside him, never relenting. Even now, in her presence, he hungered to bloody his claws, the darkness pressing him to lash out and fight, desiring it so he would sink deeper into its hold.
Such a beautiful female didn’t deserve a beast like him.
He needed to protect her.
But, sweet gods, he couldn’t bear the thought of making her leave.
His instincts as her mate and the need to possess her was strong, crushing, overwhelming him as he breathed in her scent and watched her, saw her desire flickering in her stunning violet eyes and felt it beating in his veins.
He needed her fiercely too, felt he might finally die if he didn’t touch her soon. The small distance between them was too much. He needed her closer.
In his arms.
He needed to feel her in them, against him, her skin warming his.
He needed it so much he couldn’t breathe, but fear of hurting her held him back, kept him at a distance as his mind filled with images of him harming her while lost to his passion.
Killing her.
“Fuery.” She finally found the courage to raise her hands and hold them out to him.
He drew down a deep shuddering breath and stared at them, tempted to take them and draw her into his arms where he needed her.
He studied her instead, and as she slowly lowered her hands to her thighs, his gaze followed them. It was strange seeing her in masculine clothing. The dull brown trousers and drab tunic covered her from neck to toe, but revealed the shapely forms of her legs at the same time, making him want to growl, grab something and wrap it around her so no other male could gaze at them. His thoughts travelled down another route as he stared at them, transporting him back to the river and the trees, and the time he had taken her against one and she had wrapped those slender legs around his waist.
He did growl now.
She tensed on his senses, and a flicker of her emotions ran through him. Embarrassment mingled with need, desire so strong that he felt sure she had heard his thoughts and had remembered the same moment he had.
He lifted his eyes back to hers, and wanted to ask if she had, but other words left his lips.
“You are real?” He wasn’t sure how many times he needed to ask that before he finally accepted that it really was his Shaia stood before him.
It seemed so impossible.
He could feel her though, a connection that tied them together, his heart to hers, and entwined their souls.
A connection that had been closed to him for what felt like forever but was wide open again now.
That blast of light that had rocked him had been because of her.
She had done something to reawaken their bond.
Fuery wrestled with his words, aware that he needed to say something to break the heavy silence, but unsure what to say. That he needed her too? That he loved her still? What use would such words be to him? They would only wound him in the end, when she turned her back on him or when he found the strength to make her leave.
The sensations running through him, emotions he thought dead long ago, were relentless, pushing him to go to her and touch her, to say something that would charm her or ease her, to do whatever it took to make her love him forever.
They were overwhelming, a force he struggled to tame and control as he fought with himself and tried to make himself believe she was real.
Gods, she was real.
The more he looked at her, the more a single feeling grew, one that had beat in him centuries ago and had never died.
He would do anything for her.
He would break every bone in his body, endure any pain, for eternity.
But being near her was torture.
It killed him because he wanted her so desperately, but he couldn’t trust himself with her.
She was delicate, fragile, and he told himself that on repeat, desperate to make it sink in. He no longer knew how to be gentle. He couldn’t treat her the way she deserved to be treated, no matter how fiercely he wanted to do that.
No matter how fiercely he wanted to be the only male for her.
She was everything to him, and he wanted to be everything for her, but he hadn’t deserved her back then, and he really didn’t deserve her now.
Shaia stared at him, her feelings growing increasingly tumultuous as she waited for him to speak. She toyed with the frayed hem of her grey tunic, slender fingers tugging at the loose threads, and he sensed her rising nerves.
Her desire to say something.
To make him speak.
He pushed words out.
“You asked me about females… have you been with…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence as fury clawed at his heart and rage burned in his soul, just the thought of her with another male enough to have him sinking into the darkness, reaching for it so he could use its strength to slay any male who stood between him and Shaia.
She gently shook her head.
Light filled him, driving back the darkness, freeing him of its grip.
“There has only been you,” she whispered in a low, soft voice, her gaze as gentle as her tone, and her steady feelings telling him she spoke the truth.
He clung to that.
He sank his bloodstained claws into it and seized it hard, wanted to drag it down to him and hold it to his chest, to the black and battered heart that beat for only her.
The look in her eyes implored him to take her hand when she reached for him again, her fingers trembling in the air between them.
He wanted to do it.
Wavered on the brink of accepting her hand and her touch.
He was weak though, tired from fighting the darkness that had seized him in the reception room, darkness that continued to push and might grasp him again at any moment. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t hold it back right now. The thought of hurting her, tainting her, tormented him and gave the darkness strength, making it impossible to vanquish no matter how fiercely he wanted to subdue it so he could touch her again.
“There has only been you in my heart, Fuery.”
He clenched his jaw and growled in response to that and the need that struck him as her words rang in his ears, making him want her more than ever, stirring a desire to seize her hand and pull her against him, to clutch her against his black and battered heart and force her to love him again, to be his again.
Fuery forced himself to move back a step, placing more distance between them.
It was too dangerous.
“Take my hand, Fuery,” she whispered, a temptress that seemed to know his every thought, could read the things he wanted to keep hidden from her. She stretched it towards him, her steady violet gaze locked with his, her heart keeping a slow gentle rhythm that was at odds with his own thundering pulse.
She had to know what she was asking of him. She had to know. If she could feel him, could read him, then she had to know his darkest thoughts, and his deepest desires.
She had to know how dangerous it was for her to tempt him with her touch.
He would ruin her.
He would be her downfall.
The way she looked at him, reached for him, said that she didn’t know what she was dealing with. She didn’t know the danger she was in.
He would spell it out for her.
Fuery held his hands out in front of him and waited for her to look at them. When her eyes dropped, he flexed his razor-sharp claws, and goaded the darkness a little, courted it just enough that she would feel it in their bond as he narrowed his gaze on her.
“You want these hands on you?” He growled and curled his fingers into his palms, didn’t flinch as his claws sliced into his flesh and spilled his blood. He stretched his fingers again and pushed his hands towards her, and her gasp broke the silence, her need to come to him and tend to his wounds running through him. He snarled at her, stopping her from moving, the feral sound loud in the still air. “There is blood on my hands, Shaia. I might not have killed you… but I have killed others. Hundreds. Thousands.”
He heard her heart hitch, her sharp intake of breath as she tensed, and felt her eyes leap to his face and then back down to his hands.
“I paint my black claws red each day, spill blood and split flesh, sever bone, and cut life from the breast of whoever stands in my path.” He narrowed his eyes on his claws, slick with his own blood, and growled low. “I paint my black claws red… and I like it. I enjoy it. I hunger for it.”
He lifted his eyes to her.
“Even now.”
Her eyes leaped up to his and widened, and her pulse picked up.
“I want to kill even now… while you are before me. I want to bloody my claws… I want to feel the pain as my foe lands a blow… I ache to battle and be the victor, to be the one left standing. It is all I know.” He paused and looked down at his claws. “It is all I love.”
He lowered his hands to his sides, and lifted his head again, locking gazes with her. She paled, and he knew why. The darkness within him was surging forwards, corrupting his irises.
His pupils.
He could almost feel them as they fought to change, switching between round and stretching into a point at the top and bottom, turning elliptical.
It happened easily now, a sign that the darkness had almost secured its hold on him and he was balanced on the razor’s edge, a step away from the abyss and freeing the monster that lived inside him.
“You thought me dead… what a blessing you must feel that thought was as you gaze upon me now. I am not dead… I am something worse. I am the monster all elves fear. I am the beast males whisper of in fear, dreading the day I will come for them.” He moved past her, opened the door and drew down a deep breath, one that dragged her scent down into his lungs and soothed him even as pain tore at him, the thought of what he was about to do ripping him to pieces and hollowing out his insides. He glared over his shoulder at her. “Leave, Shaia… leave and do not look back. The male you loved, he is dead, just as you thought. I am not that male… and I never will be again.”
She blinked again, her eyes flickering between him and the corridor, her pain shredding his heart as fiercely as his own was.
He felt her urge to speak, knew the words she wanted to say, and he couldn’t bear it.
He seized her arm in a brutal grip, one that tore a pained gasp from her lips and had tears welling in her eyes, and pulled her past him, shoving her into the corridor. Her right shoulder hit the wall opposite his door and her pain went through him, both the physical and emotional. A need to apologise rushed through him, a desire to soothe her pain and steal it away riding hard on its heels, but he forced himself to remain where he was.
Because he needed her gone.
Not for his sake.
But for hers.
He needed to protect her, and this was the only way he knew how.
“Leave,” he snarled. “I never want to see you again.”
The tears lining her violet eyes trembled on the brink of falling. He focused on his connection to her and slammed it shut before she could feel his pain, the agony caused by his need to comfort her, to make her stay.
The door across the hall from his opened and Hartt stood there, giving him a look that called him a bastard. As if he didn’t already feel that in his heart. He was a bastard for hurting her, but it was better than killing her.
She glanced at Hartt, and then bowed her head and hurried along the corridor.
Fuery gripped the doorframe, digging his claws into the wood, anchoring himself to it to stop himself from going after her. He willed her to look back at him.
To come back to him.
The strength drained from him as she kept walking away, the distance between them becoming unbearable, tearing at him and pushing him to go after her. When she disappeared from view, the light inside him winked out of existence, and he sagged to his knees, his claws raking down the doorframe, leaving deep grooves in the wood.
“Why did you do that?” Hartt said, his voice soft and low, and came to crouch in front of him.
Fuery stared at the male’s feet. “You know why.”
Hartt’s sigh said that he did, was aware of his desire to protect Shaia, and he thought him a fool for pushing her away instead of drawing her closer. His friend’s gaze left him, and he wanted to growl when he realised the male was looking in the direction Shaia had gone and was thinking about her. He bit it back and told himself that it was better this way.
She would return to her life, and would continue without him, safe from the darkness that infested him, and from the monster he had become.
“She might have saved you,” Hartt whispered and rose onto his feet.
Fuery knew that.
He knew the words Hartt wouldn’t say too, ones that ate at him and had his stomach squirming, and his heart aching.
She might have saved them both.