“That’s a bit dramatic,” I say, and it sounds like a sulky huff.
Llywelyn lets out a world-weary sigh. “It is the truth.”
He falls asleep in my arms and I don’t move a muscle for fear of waking him. Because of selfish reasons, of course. I’m much more likely to finally get some sleep if he stays settled. I’m not altruistic.
Though it wouldn’t be outrageous to give Llywelyn a bit of kindness. Poor kid. Just thinking about it is making me feel sick. I can’t fucking stand abusers. They boil my blood. It is disappointing to learn the fey have perverts, but not at all surprising. They are similar to humans in lots of other aspects. It’s almost fitting that they share our darkest traits.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, memories from much earlier in the night come rushing back. Images replaying in full glorious colour. Every tiny detail, vivid and vibrant.
The look in Llywelyn’s eyes as he said, “I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore.”
The slow, purposeful way he spread his legs.
The way he seemed to endure the sex rather than enjoy it.
I swallow tightly. Oh fucking hell.
Once again, I see the slow slide of his pale legs over the white sheets as he spread wide for me. I’m such a fucking idiot. The nuance was there all along, plain to see. How could I have missed it?
That wasn’t invitation. That was submission.
And not the healthy, kinky kind. The, ‘this is all I’m worth,’ and, ‘this is the only thing people want from me,’ kind of submission. The, ‘this is the only way I know how to appease angry men,’ kind of surrender.
Holy crap.
I need to peel my skin off and burn it. I need to cut off my cock. I need to cleanse myself of my own evil, twisted darkness, and somehow atone for my sins.
Llywelyn is not the monster.
It’s me. I’m the monster.
Chapter twelve
Soft morning sunlight is creeping through my eyelids and coaxing me to wake up. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The curtains are wide open, and I’m alone in the bed.
My heart thumps and I jolt upright. My arm reaches out and pats the empty space beside me as if I think Llywelyn is still here, just somehow turned invisible.
Unsurprisingly, my hand finds nothing. Only crumpled sheets. Where is he? It is not like me to sleep so deeply that someone can move around without me waking. He would have had to have been so quiet and careful when leaving the bed for me not to realise. Why would he bother?
My heart rate increases. Last time I saw him, he was upset. Vulnerable. Shaking from a nightmare. A terrifying, screaming nightmare he experienced mere hours after bottoming for me because I’m a depraved monster who stupidly mistook his conditioning for invitation.
Last night he was trembling in my arms and telling me how he will only ever be able to love the person who groomed him.
I throw the covers off of me and jump out of bed. I’m running, but I have no idea where I’m going.
The door to his dressing room is slightly ajar, so I dart through the gap.
Llywelyn flinches and whirls to face me. He is completely naked and standing in front of a long rail of silk robes. His hands fly up and cover his chest. But not before I catch a glimpse.
Pale pink nipples. Almost pastel in shade. Generous and plump and begging to be licked. And crowning soft mounds that could almost be breasts. Not enough to fill even the tiniest of bra sizes, but definitely not flat either.
Llywelyn stares at me for a moment. Then he sighs and lowers his hands, allowing me to see him in all his naked glory. My cock swells as my eyes feast. He truly is beautiful.
Slender shoulders. A slight curve to his hips, and his almost-breasts. The width of his chest is masculine. His cock is small and pretty, but definitely a cock. His golden hair, still slightly damp from his bath, is short for a fey but longer than most British men wear theirs. Put all together, to my eyes, he looks androgynous in a way that is lighting up my brain. I have always had a thing for fem boys.
Why doesn’t he show his body off more? The cut of the clothes he usually wears is very masculine in the fey style. My gaze lingers on his narrow shoulders. He must also use shoulder pads to disguise his natural shape. But I really don’t understand why he doesn’t flaunt and make use of his gorgeous body. The fey really don’t strike me as the type to have a problem with androgeny.
Llywelyn carefully picks up a robe and starts wrapping himself in it. I can’t tear my eyes away. His pale creamy body being covered up is a travesty.
