To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

“You’re okay,” Rhordyn murmurs, as if he’s trying to soften his voice.

An impossible task.

He’s rocking with me while warm, sulfur-smelling water laps at my body. It’s a balm to my blazing skin, though it does little to temper the throb of my bloated brain.

I’m convinced it’s about to cleave open and spill my thoughts, my essence ... me.

I try to open my eyes, but a wall sconce sends light knifing into the smudge of my vision.

“It hurts,” I moan through my sandpaper throat, palms bracketing my temples.

Rhordyn’s hand sweeps across my brow, and I nuzzle closer to his chest, breathing hard, searching for that calm spot inside me.

I jolt from another wave of pressure, and a wild scream belts out of me as my spine volutes like a squirming snake.

“Orlaith, I need you to relax.”

“I can’t,” I force out through clenched teeth.

“I can put you to sleep if you think it’ll help. There’s a spot right here”—firm fingers probe the cleft between two taut muscles in my neck—”all I have to do is push.”

“No.”

If he knocks me out, that doesn’t fix the problem.

I keep running ... hiding ... and I’m sick of it. I need to learn to handle myself.

I press my hands to his chest and shove, shocked when he allows me to fall out of his sturdy grip.

The water teases past my breasts as I stagger to a stand. Inhaling deep, I dunk below the surface, dropping through water that grows progressively warmer.

Darker.

It’s only when my bum hits the ground that I open my mouth and scream, releasing a stream of bubbles that assault me on their rush to freedom.

I kick off the stone, darting to the surface and drawing deep, not even bothering to open my eyes before I sink and punch out another scream.

The process is repeated over and over until all the pressure dissipates and I’m listless, suspended, uncaring whether I float to the surface or not.

Strong hands shackle my upper arms and yank me free of the water’s grip, forcing me to stand straight before my back is whacked by the flat of a palm.

“Breathe ...”

I draw a raspy breath and fold forward, resting my forehead on a shoulder that’s more rock than flesh. I suck on Rhordyn’s scent as I’m drifted back against a wall, pressed between man and stone, each equally unyielding.

But it’s Rhordyn I’m leaning against. Drawing from. Using like I do my tonic.

Dammit.

I always end up seeking comfort from him when I’m at my most vulnerable, and it never does me any favors.

Cursing myself, I tip my head back and suck a ragged breath, cracking my eyes open.

What I see has my lungs flattening.

Rhordyn’s eyes, usually metallic plates that bounce light, are absorbing me. His brow is pinched the slightest bit, and there’s something about his mouth that makes it look far less dispassionate than normal.

The concern in his eyes is unfamiliar. I’ve never seen anything but the hardness he wears—his impenetrable boundary.

He’s like that locked door opposite the entrance of Stony Stem. Like The Den and The Keep.

Just something else I want to crack open and explore, though I’ve never been given as much as a peek through the keyhole.

Until now.

Our warring chests collide with every draw of breath; mine bound and clothed, his covered by a thin, black shirt that’s clinging to him like a glove. He’s taking me in as if he’s trying to see past a mask that isn’t there.

I’m an open book, and that’s where our power balance is so very off.

I give too much away, what with how I shiver every time his voice cuts through the air. With the way his closeness snags my breath, and how he makes me feel like I’m safe and protected in the boundary of his castle grounds.

It has nothing to do with the castle, and everything to do with him.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, instantly realizing my mistake.

The words were too soft, too placating, stiffening Rhordyn’s aura like a sheet of ice the moment they left my lips.

Clearing his throat, he casts his gaze to the ceiling. After a few drawn-out breaths, he drops his chin and looks at me through the eyes of that ice-cold mask I’m far too familiar with.

Gone.

Suddenly, looking at him is painful.

I roll my head to the side, veering from the sight.

Four sconces cast the room in a soft, golden glow, illuminating chiseled walls that plunge into the single large spring ...

There’s nowhere to walk around the edges—nothing but a stairway that rises from the water, filling the chamber’s entirety. Even the roof is lower, those mineral fangs much closer to piercing the water’s surface than they are in the room I’m used to bathing in.

Confused, I turn to Rhordyn.

“This isn’t Puddles ...”

“No, it’s not.”

He holds my stare, a small lock of hair grazing his forehead.

“Where—”

“My personal bathing chambers.”

My stomach drops.

I look below the surface to the hole in the wall I’m pressed against, a gentle current swirling at its entrance ...

It’s like the one in Puddles. In my puddle. The one I’m lured toward on the off chance I’m gifted a streak of Rhordyn’s scent.

My guilty fucking pleasure.

Slowly, I peer up at the stoic male standing over me.

The air has changed—become charged with the mix of our scents. But it’s more than just that ...

It’s the way he’s looking at me now.

There’s a hunger in those eyes that’s so potent, it’s scalding my cheeks, pooling liquid heat in that intimate spot between my thighs.

I release a shuddered exhale, choking the sound by biting down on my lower lip, tongue glazing across the plump flesh as if to taste his breath on it.

The ball of his throat bounces, and my gaze travels up the strong line of his neck before traversing along his sharp, masculine jawline. I get snagged on his chin dimple and that dark frosting of stubble, remembering how it felt grating on my neck. Recalling the mark it left—a rash that branded me for two days.

And then his mouth: sculpted, sensual, lips barely parted. If I tip my chin, I could taste him. Really taste him.

With that thought heavy in my head, the treasured scraps of his breath on my face feel utterly insignificant. Because I want it all.

I want that mouth to hunger over me with the same primal veracity that he seeks my blood when he’s gone too long without it. I want him to nip at my lip, to feed from me while I reciprocate in an entirely different way.

Sustain my hungry heart.

Pulse whooshing in my ears, I lean into the small space separating us—

My mind splits from the now, and I’m back in a freezing bath, tears sluicing down my cheeks. He’s walking away, leaving sharp words protruding from my heart.

I suggest learning to fuck your own fingers. You won’t be using mine again.

The memory jolts me from my lusty smog, and I see this situation for what it really is ...

Me, leading my heart to the whipping post.

I place a hand on his chest, looking at the spread of my fingers, thinking about how small it looks against the breadth of him ... then I draw a deep breath and push.

He slides back like a blade through butter, and I let my hands ball into fists that suddenly feel too delicate. Too weak.

“I’m okay now,” I rasp, though the words taste like the lie they are.

I’m not okay.

I haven’t been for years. I’ve just been hiding; keeping myself occupied. Now the perfect symphony of my routine has lost its rhythm, and I’m adrift.

Lost.

I wade toward the throat of stairs that rise up from somewhere below the waterline and disappear into the gloom. An exit that probably leads through The Den.

My galloping heart betrays my nervousness.

His scent is everywhere—an intoxicating elixir that clings to me, fills me ...

Will I smell someone else up there, too? Will Zali’s essence be thick and heady? Fresh?

... Will I smell their scents mixed together from the joining of their bodies?

Fuck.

I’m almost at the stairs when I’m struck from behind and shoved against the wall—chest first, cheek pressed to stone. Rhordyn’s fists nail either side of me, his granite body flush against my back.

He dips his face into the crook of my neck and my entire body trembles, the delicate flesh yearning for more abuse from his sandpaper stubble. Other parts of me yearn for the same claiming cruelty—throbbing and desperate.

He draws deep, like he’s feeding from the inhale, but it’s blown back out like an unwelcome guest. A low rumble sets every one of my nerves on edge, as if they’re expecting something more.

Three times, he sucks little breaths that sound like the seeds of words.

Three times, those seeds fail to sprout.

“What, Rhordyn?”

Another breath, this one sharp and intentional.

I wait for words that do not come, but rather a harsh huff that lands its blow and bathes me in the unwanted perfume of his scent.

“Exactly what I thought.” Prying myself from the cage of him, I drag my front across the stone until I can breathe without choking on his musk.

I’m over thirty paces up the stairs when he calls my name. It almost sends me tumbling back down where I’d no doubt end up in a crumpled heap at his feet again.

So, I run.

I run until I’m spat out in a room I refuse to take in. It’s not until I reach the door, hand wrapped around the handle, that my fire-breathing curiosity burns through her restraints.

I peep over my shoulder, eyes widening as I survey the panorama of his quarters.

Not what I expected.

The room is bigger than my personal space, sparsely furnished with a black four-poster bed. A side table carved from the same material nests beside it, topped with an unlit candelabra.

A crackling fire casts his space in a buttery glow, warming his scent so that it coats my throat and leaves my mind churning through molasses. But what really has me staggering, despite being anchored to the doorknob, is the easel.

Almost as tall as Rhordyn and wide like the breadth of his shoulders, it’s set by the window, a table by its side heaped with bowls of coal.

The rest of the room loses its luster because all I can see is the canvas it’s boasting.

The half-finished sketch.

A delicate pair of hands are immortalized on the cloth. One is palm up, the other resting with the tips of four fingers perched in the cradle of it, like they’re drawing sips of comfort from an absent well.

They harbor a restful sort of peace that makes my heart feel far too heavy for my body to contain ...

He draws. Rhordyn draws.

But not just that.

He sees. He’s caught this moment of such mournful beauty, and it’s hooked me—caught me in the back of the throat and cast little prickles in my eyes.

Rhordyn spills into the room like a storm, and our gazes collide, holding for a few drawn-out seconds. Quicksilver swirls threaten to consume me, as does the sight of him standing there, soaking wet and fully clothed, yet somehow looking so incredibly exposed.

Every muscle in his body is outlined by the sodden material, and I find myself envying that long-sleeved, button-down shirt for the way it has a hold on him.

His eyes are wide and wild, every fleck in the metallic pools glimmering like stars cast in a smoke-filled galaxy. The twists of his hair fall in such nonchalant disarray they bear their own sort of perfection, dripping water upon his powerful shoulders.

He’s beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. And it’s my turn for words to be caught behind my teeth.

I blink a few times, severing my sight of him in a gentle way. Because I deserve gentle.

I deserve gentle when this man is so boldly destroying me.

Nose blocked, I tug the door and stumble into the long, cold hallway that lacks a heartbeat. A hallway that leads only to and from The Den—a path I’ve walked too many times to be healthy.

It’s not until I’m all the way up Stony Stem, body lumped on the floor against the closed and dead-locked door, that I breathe through my nose again. With it comes the unbridled tears that pull straight from my pitiful heart.

I’m in love with a man who’ll never be mine—who’s unavailable in every way, shape, and form—and I’m certain it’s going to ruin me.