But I do not taste blood.
I tastelight.
It explodes on my tongue, a flavor that has no name. It is sweet, cloying, and infinitely rich. It rushes down my throat, burning like the finestPaquirwine, but a thousand times more potent.
It is empathy. It is compassion. It is the raw, unfiltered essence of a soul that refuses to hate me even as I hurt her.
It poisons me. It cures me.
My vision whites out. The darkness that usually coils in my gut—the shadows of The Serpent, the rot of my own cruelty—shrivels away from the light. I can feel the dark magic receding, hissing as it evaporates, leaving me scoured clean.
"Leora," I roar, the sound torn from the bottom of my lungs.
I release her wrists and slide my hands under her hips, gripping her bruised flesh, lifting her to meet me. I drive into her one last time, seeking the center of the light, seeking the oblivion she offers.
"Yes," she sobs, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Yes, Imas!"
I come with a violence that shakes the frame of the bed. It feels like dying. It feels like being born. The pleasure is so intense it borders on agony, a bright, singing note that holds for an eternity, suspending me in a space where there is no god, no caste, no pain.
There is only her.
I collapse on top of her, my heart beating a frantic, bruising rhythm against her ribs. My breath saws through my lungs, raw and ragged.
For a long time, there is the sound of our breathing and the rain weeping against the glass. The air moving in the room feels charged, electric, the aftermath of a storm.
Slowly, the world knits itself back together. The gray light of the room returns. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air.
I lie there, my face buried in her hair, feeling the steady, thumping beat of her heart against my chest.
And I realize what I have done.
I didn't take her. I didn't break her.
I surrendered.
The realization is a bucket of ice water.
I scramble backward, rolling away from her as if she is burning. I land on the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the coldfloor. I stagger, bracing my hand against the bedpost, my chest heaving.
I stare at her.
She lies amidst the ruined sheets, her skin flushed, her lips swollen, the mark of my teeth stark and red against her pale neck. Her limbs are sprawled in the abandon of total exhaustion. Her eyes are slowly turning back to blue, the Purna blackness receding like a tide.
She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.
I look down at my hands. They are trembling. The obsidian ring is silent. The Serpent is gone. And in His place, there is a warm, terrifying glow of satisfaction that really has nothing to do with power and everything to do with connection.
I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the connection more than the control.
I wanted her to hold me more than I wanted to own her.
Horror, cold and absolute, rises in my gorge. I have not just failed my god. I have failed myself. I have let the enemy in, and I have let her rewrite the very architecture of my soul. I am compromised. I am weak.
"Get out," I whisper, my voice shaking.
She blinks, confused, propping herself up on her elbows. She reaches for me, her hand trembling. "My Lord?"
I flinch from her touch.
