Drevakin

I reach House Ti'ana. I'm associating the House with this increasingly familiar frustration and rage brewing in my belly. I am determined to force real action from Rathorin. Spoiled, selfish excuse for a Prince he may be, but he is still the head of House Ti'ana and my grievance falls under his purview. He will address it.

When I arrive in the courtyard, I do not bother speaking to a servant. Striding to the front door, I double up my fist and bang it on the brightly colored surface, resisting the urge to kick it down. It may yet come to that.

The same servant who took so much joy in turning me away the first time scurries up and clears his throat. Now is not the time to stand in my way. I turn in slow motion and he swallows, his eyes wide as he twists his hands. He doesn't look so smug or disdainful now.

"Prince Rathorin is not in," he squeaks out under my glare.

"Oh, he is not, is he?" I say, not believing a word that comes out of this twit's mouth. "Perhaps I could see for myself. This is an important matter."

I give him an insincere smile that is more just a baring of my fangs and he takes a step back. I turn to the door and use my fist again, the door rattling under the force.

"He is not here!" the servant cries out again, almost hopping in his anxiety as he watches the door tremble under my blows.

"Then it will not matter if I continue to knock. This won't harm his delicate ears since they are not here," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I continue to pound.

The servant attempts once again to stop me, but before I can brush him off, the door opens. We both turn to the now open doorway. It's not Rathorin.

Clara looks out, her face serious as she takes in the scene.

She's wearing a scarlet colored gown made of a thin fabric, the neckline dipping almost down to her navel. The skirt reaches her ankles but the slit on the side is high, well pass mid-thigh. Her hair is up in clips, baring the elegant line of her throat and her delicate collarbones. The thin straps holding up the gossamer cloth showcases her strong shoulders and arms, the feminine strength alluring. I didn't know how attracted I was to strength until I met Clara.

Her skin looks soft and supple, almost glowing. I want to run my hands over all of it. Slip her out of that nothing scrap of fabric and do much more. I almost swallow my tongue as I look at her, reminded once again why I could not control myself the first time. I know, even now, that given the chance I would do the same again.

"Drevakin? Why do you not come in?" Clara asks, her words careful, her accent improved from the last time I was here.

I know I should not accept. She is like a tempting dream and I have already proven I am a weak man in her presence. And I know now that the servant was speaking the truth, Rathorin is not here. If he were, Clara would not be standing in front of me, he would make certain of it.

My emotions and logic collide until I do not know if I am thinking clearly. I know one thing, this might be my only way inside and Rathorin will have to see me when he arrives. Though I know it is not just that which has me stepping inside after Clara. It is not even most of the reason.

"Thank you," I murmur as I walk after her delicious figure into a cozy sitting room, my eyes skimming down her beautiful form.

Her rear end is a work of art, the dress molding to the curves as she moves with easy grace. She gives me an unreadable look as she turns. I raise my eyes, caught in the act. She does not acknowledge my inappropriateness beyond raising an eyebrow.

"Have a seat," she offers, gesturing to a high backed chair while she moves to sit on a delicate, light blue couch patterned in lush flowers.

My eyes watch the slit in her dress widen as she lowers herself, baring the length of one long leg. I sit, my eyes still on that limb. She crosses her legs, baring the other. I look back up at her face and she knows she affects me, but she says nothing about it as she turns to the young maid.

"Refreshments, please," she asks with a smile.

The maid curtsies and leaves to do her bidding and Clara turns back.

"Why are you here?" she asks bluntly. "Rathorin and you do not... you are not friends."

That is quite an understatement and an undeniable observation.

"Your Alvan is much improved," I comment, impressed by her quick progress.

I'm also attempting to avoid her question. It may be stupid, but my failing to keep my people safe is not something I wish to bring up with Clara. It makes me feel like a failure, impotent. Something I would not have her know. Idiotic, even though she is not mine, I want her to admire me.

"Thank you. I am studying," she says. She tilts her head to the side. "Why are you here?"

She is undeterred and I know she will believe nothing but the truth.

"They attacked my people. Again."

My simmering anger flares, along with shame at being unable to protect those who look to me for their safety. Her face softens in sympathy, which is almost worse than any judgment she could level.

"I am sorry," she whispers.

"It is not your fault."

She nods, sighing. "I am still sorry. It should not happen."

"On that we can agree," I mutter.

She opens her mouth to say something more, but then holds her tongue as a few maids come in to lay out a small array of refreshments.

"Thank you. You may go," she tells them with another smile.

They nod and scurry out, leaving us alone again.

"Would you like something?”

"No," I refuse, tired of this proper social pretending we are engaging in. "Why did you invite me in?"

I want to hear that she wants me as much as I want her. I want her to say she has been dreaming of me as I have been dreaming of her. To tell me she wakes up wet just as I wake up hard, my fist wrapped around my steely cock. She leans back in the couch, her eyes wary.

"It felt rude to leave you outside," she replies, though I can tell there is no conviction in the statement.

I shake my head, rising to my feet. She tilts her face to maintain eye contact, tension clear in her body though she does not otherwise move. Her face remains still, but her hands clench into fists. She is not unaffected. Not by far.

"You know it is unwise to have me here. In Rathorin's home. Alone."

My voice drips with lust.

The last word hangs between us, filled with implications. She licks her lips and I watch the movement, mesmerized.

"Perhaps," she concedes, her voice raspy, making my cock twitch.

Careful. This is a dangerous game we are playing.

"Then why do it?" I demand, taking a step closer, my blood rushing in my ears, my heart beating faster.

My anger is fast transforming into something altogether different, something much more dangerous. She swallows and I watch with fascination as her delicate throat moves.

She averts her eyes. "I do not know."

"Another lie," I mutter, coming to a halt with my boots in front of her, the delicate fabric of her dress skimming their scarred and well used surface. I study the contrast of the feminine, pretty cloth against the rugged, beaten boots. There is something very tantalizing about the picture. She looks up at me, her eyes defiant and frustrated.

"Because I want you," she blurts out. "I don’t know why, but I am... pulled." She shakes her head, frowning and breaking eye contact, as if she cannot bare to look at me after making her confession. "Are you satisfied now?"

Satisfied? "Not nearly," I growl.

I don't know if I will be satisfied even with my length buried deep inside her. Her eyes meet mine again, wary, even as the heat in them is undeniable. The tension is thick between us, lust an undeniable presence in the room. This is irresponsible, wrong. It is beyond reckless to do any of the things I want to do.

I know it would be a mistake.

But the thought is distant, removed, a pale concern compared to the raw sensuality of the moment. A shadow compared to the temptation that is Clara.