Rapture by L.V. Lane
CHAPTER SIX
Jacob
THE SPELL IS broken as I return to the dayroom. I was a heartbeat away from tossing her to the bed and lapping up the slick I scent weeping from her pussy. She does not seem so cold today.
Today, she is burning hot.
She needs tending to. I am an Alpha, and I cannot help but be aware of my mistress’ needs. I have paired with Omegas before. Many times. Most enjoy the gentle attention of a bound warrior, and the greater their pleasure, the more potent their blood. It is no hardship to part slim thighs and feast upon their sweet slick. Nor to rut them to completion if they are so inclined.
A Feeder or Breeder is different. There is no binding in place, and a warrior is free to rut with the roughness that turns Omegas wild with lust. But I also enjoy the gentler couplings that happen with a Blood.
With my back to the bedroom, I hear her dressing. My stone hard cock is being strangled by my pants. I squeeze it through the leather, and that eases the ache a bit. Doing my pants up is a lost cause until it softens some.
I think about sitting down, but likely that will just crush my cock further.
Gods, she was so fucking sweet as she let me dry her with the cloth. The feel of her eyes on me as I focused on the task made my chest swell with pride. She wanted to touch me.
She wanted me to touch her.
Wounded.
I don’t know where this determination springs from, but I am suddenly certain that Winter is wounded in the deepest of ways. I try to imagine what she might have been like before.
Fairies can be sweet and soft, they can be playfully demanding, and they can be sinfully wicked and saucy with their mischief when seeking the attention of a male.
They are all voracious, and most are also gregarious.
Only I can’t imagine Winter as any of those things. She is like an echo of a once beautiful song that is no more than a whisper upon the ear. She is quietness and retreat.
She is a shell that once held the splendor of a pearl.
This would be easier if she had just stayed a bitch.
I sigh. My hunger provides a welcome distraction. Leaning over the table, I take a plate and load it up with bacon, eggs, and potatoes. There is a pot of tea, cream, and honey, and I indulge in that as well. I’m shoveling a piece of bacon into my mouth, crispy to perfection, when her fairyship enters the room.
My cock, which had begun to soften, thuds at the sight of her dressed in those tight leathers.
“Do they not teach warriors to sit at tables?” she asks, bestowing me a withering glare.
The demon is back, it would seem. But I have glimpsed her softer side, and I am greedy for more.
“My cock is hard, mistress,” I say. “As I have mentioned before, I am but a lowly warrior. I am not well versed tempering my body’s natural reactions to the scent of Omega slick.”
“You are not close to being as stupid as you pretend, Jacob,” she says. “And I see right through you.”
“I’ll be disappointed if you didn’t,” I say. Grinning, I take another slice of delicious bacon and stuff it into my mouth.
Breakfast is as strained as yesterday’s evening meal, and that is down to me.
After finishing, we prepare for the day in silence. At my suggestion, we will wait until the streets begin to bustle with townsfolk about on their duties before we leave. Our horses and the few possessions we do not take today will remain here. Likely, today will yield only a false impression of the keystone and we will need to travel on. Maybe we will need to search the city further for many days to come.
With a polite knock upon the door, Betsy enters to collect the breakfast things. Dipping her head, she smiles at me, but after a sharp look from Winter, she doesn’t linger in the task. Winter’s jealousy toward the young lass brings a smile to my lips. My mistress didn’t make so much as a peep when I had my hands upon her while Betsy brought the breakfast in.
I wink at Betsy as Winter goes to stand before the window, putting her back to us.
As the door closes on Betsy, I go to join Winter. She has bound her hair into a long plait, but it escapes in messy tendrils. Her tiny, pointed ears peek through the curls. I admit that I am much enamored with fairy ears. Winter’s are particularly delicate. Fairy ears are sensitive. Would she shudder sweetly if I traced my fingertips over the shell?
When she is displeased, they lie flat against her head. But now, when she is relaxed and uncensored, they curve gently up. “Can you sense the keystone, mistress?”
“Yes,” she says. “The eastern side of the city.”
With a grimace, I drag my focus to the window just as she turns to face me.
“What lies to the east?”
“The docks and warehouses of the port,” I reply. “It is the roughest part of town. It is where they keep the slaves.”
“We have a task to complete,” she says. “We cannot be distracted. We cannot be compromised. Neither the king nor the Chosen will tolerate our failure.”
“I know,” I say. “I was not with a Blood before. The binding will ensure I do not stray.” I feel sick and clammy thinking about slaves. I would make it my life mission to free them, were I allowed.
Her smile is wry. “Jacob, you are the least bound, least subservient warrior I have ever met. I will have words with Cecil on my return. But for all that, you are pure of heart and purpose. And I am grateful to have you at my side.”
The weight of her words rests heavily upon my shoulders. Back inside Sanctum, she said no Meld was needed and that her word was enough. Perhaps it is part of her being high Blood that even her words dig into the binding.
I nod, hoping Cecil isn’t inclined toward beating some respect into me on our return. “It is time we should leave.”
Slotting dagger and sword into place, I gather my cloak from the hook behind the door.
When I turn back, Winter is waiting for me. Cloak falling almost to her feet, she appears tiny and fragile. It is an illusion with Winter, for there is a fire in her blood, along with power, the likes of which I have never tasted before.
Likely, I will not taste it today or any other day.
My mouth still waters for her blood and her body. The binding stretches tight. I swallow, fighting the urge to sink to my knees. The ancient magic does not like insubordination. Should I try to touch her in a way that displeases her, I would suffer great pain. Every warrior succumbs to rebelliousness in the early days of the binding and tries to fight it. Afterward, they learn the consequences.
Some need the lesson more than once.
Some need the lesson often, and those warriors die.
I have only felt the pain once, the sensation of skin peeling from my flesh, of my blood boiling and my bones shattering. It is a thousand times worse than any session with the whip.
“Keep your hood low, mistress,” I say.
Nodding, she draws the hood forward, leaving her face in shadows. A wisp of her red-gold hair peeps out until she carefully tucks it inside. Wearing her leathers, she could pass for a boy to all but the most rigorous inspection.
It is a tragedy to cover her femininity up, but probably for the best if I don’t want to get into a brawl with every fucker eying her up.
