Clove’s eyes roved slowly down the bedposts.
There, all the way down the ornately carved wood, had been painted an array of complex sigils.Sigils he recognized as magical, although he did not know what they were for.
Though he could guess.
Heart giving one massive jolt, body flushing with adrenaline, Clove abandoned his struggle with his collar and practically tripped over his own feet in his rush to leave the bed.He didn’t even flinch at the ice-cold touch of the stone floor.He stumbled forward several paces before he caught his balance, then spun around to cast his gaze suspiciously upon the bed.
No vines unwound from the beam to come for him, and his collar did not punish him with pain for having left the mattress, but he found himself waiting, sure that something would happen.
But nothing did.
Which was almost more ominous than the alternative.
While he stood there, breath puffing unevenly on his lips, the cool air of the chamber crept over his bare skin.He wrapped his arms around himself, glanced briefly down, and then couldn’t withhold the gasp that popped out of him.
As it turned out, the sigils hadn’t only been painted on the bedposts.
They had been painted onhim.
A band of them had been inscribed along the soft skin of his lower stomach, just above his groin.Each one had the appearance of having been done in black ink, but when Clove scrubbed a spit-wetted finger over them, he realized that could not be the case, as they did not smudge.They had been placed by magic, then, or tattooed onto him, so the ink would not be disturbed.
Could he remove them?
Clove stopped scrubbing and dug a nail into his skin with the intention of ripping into it, but stopped when a warm, pleasant feeling spread through him instead.
It radiated from the sigil he’d touched like the heat from a fire in winter, not at all unpleasant or alarming.It was comfortable.Cozy, even.And as it reached toward his core, he felt some inward part of him become placid.
Would it really be so wrong to climb back into bed, curl up in the soft, warm blankets, and wait there to spread his legs for the man who had collared him?
Clove’s cock twitched.
Inexplicably, he was suddenly flustered.Breathless.He rubbed with renewed intent on the sigil to coax out more of the feeling… only to realize what he was doing and jerk his hand away as though burned.
What was he thinking?
What was wrong with him?
He began to grasp the function of the runes scrawled up the bedposts and sealed onto his skin.
Their significance rolled deep into his bones, settling like an ache.An ache that itched at him for relief.His very soul crawled, knowing what was happening but unable to resist.
The long habit of viciously guarded bodily autonomy was all that kept his head above the warm, tempting water of those runes whispering to him.
He had to get rid of them.
Without another thought, he seized a candlestick from one of the tables and positioned it next to the dark marks on his skin.He didn’t even flinch at the prospect of pain; he was too intent on the idea of purging this spell.
But as he held the candle there, sweat rolling off him, trembling with the effort to justdoit, the flame quivered as though caught in an unnoticed breeze, sputtered, and died.
Clove stared.
After one frozen moment, he chucked the useless candlestick away and grabbed another from the table, bringing it to the same marked spot on his flesh.
And again, the flame quivered, then went out with a meek sputter.
Confusion met with anger, both emotions temporarily negating the other as Clove stared at the smoke-trailing tip of the candle, unable to think.Unable to understand.
It was then a low chuckle rolled out from across the room.
