What the fuck?
A hiss sneaks out of me when I see the wound on Riall’s chest. The puncture through his right pec looks like it’s started to heal—it’s not bleeding anymore—but there are alarming dark gray lines feeding away from it in the direction of his heart. The lines haven’t made it past the center of his chest, but his weakened state and failing energy makes more sense now. I’ve never seen it with my own eyes, only heard horror stories about what iron can do to a fae, but I’m getting a front row seat now, which makes my stomach roil with unease.
“The iron is poisoning you,” I whisper, hoping he knows what to do about it, because I have no fucking clue.
“It’s okay,” he assures me, but he looks as though just those words are costing him. “I just need to clean it out so it can be healed.”
His breaths are more labored now, and I feel tendrils of panic tightening around my throat. I nod at him and then cut the rest of his shirt and trousers off. He’s a beast of a fae—something I thoroughly enjoy underandon top of me—but trying to drag and carry him from his bed to the bath is definitely not one of my favorite things about his size. I almost go down twice, and I’m not even through the doorway.
Fuck. How am I going to get us through the doorway?
Sweating and panting like I’ve been training for two days straight, I finally guide Riall into the hot bath, muscling him into the seat that takes up one side of the large basin. I shove my bloody, dirty, sweaty hair out of my face and wait, hopeful that the water will help Riall rally and he’ll start cleaning his injury. He just sits there like he’s too spent to do anything else.
I strip, not even bothering to pull my weapons off first as dread starts to steadily drip like lead in my gut. My experiences with iron are limited to the bars of the cage I woke up in and some tools used for special occasions in the hot house at the ludere. As far as I know, most fae can’t stand to be exposed to the metal for too long, which makes it all the stranger that the ghosts were so comfortable using it. Whatever is happening, it’s moving fast. A fact that makes it feel like there’s a sand stag standing on my chest.
I wade into the sunken tub, the invitingly warm water sloshing at my thighs. Immediately I cup water into my hands and pour it over Riall’s chest. He gasps, but his eyes stay closed and he doesn’t try to stop me from doing it again and again. It does nothing to stop the slow crawl of dark lines across his chest.
“Talk to me, Riall. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me what to do,” I plead as I run my hands over his closely cropped hair and down his jaw.
He leans into the touch but doesn’t answer me.
“Fuck fate. Fuck the moon, and fuck her cunt-ass star sycophants,” I snarl as I stare at the even edges of the stab wound.
It was just a dagger. An iron one, which burns like lava, but it shouldn’t be doing all of this. Their iron burned the shit out of my hand too, but it didn’t start poisoning me before the moon helped me heal.
I press my fingers against the seam of the puncture and palpate. Maybe there’s—a hard piece of something sits just inside the flaps of his broken skin. My heart starts to race as I press against it again just to be sure it’s there.
“Bloody bastard dagger,” I growl when I realize that the tip of the blade must have broken off and is still sitting in Riall’s chest. “Bloody stubborn fae,” I add when I look up at him. I should have checked his injury right away. Not that I’m a healer, but these Scorpions obviously can’t be relied on to watch out for themselves. They did bring my deadly ass home, which worked out in the end for them, but I could have just as easily slit all of their throats.
I dig my fingers into the gash. Gritting my teeth against the pained howl that tears out of Riall, I try to pinch the remaining piece of the dagger between my fingers and pull it out. Blood starts to dribble out of the wound steadily, making everything more slippery and harder to grasp. The iron burns my fingers until I can’t feel the tips anymore, but I don’t give up.
I won’t let this tiny shard of nothing take anything from me. Not my determination, not my fingers, and sure as fuck not Riall.
His head snaps back, and he groans exhaustedly in pain as I press in deeper. He’s too weak to put up much of a fight, which I hate, but it’s probably a good thing that he can’t punch me in the face right now. His arms jerk impotently at his side, and I mumble apologies over and over again as I go.
Thankfully, Riall was right when he said the wound was shallow. I’d probably chuckle about that if I weren’t losing it a little right now.FinallyI get a good hold on the piece of the dagger and pull it out. As soon as the poisonous shard is free from Riall’s skin, I toss it as far as I can. It plinks mockingly to the ground on the other side of the washroom as I scoop more water into the wound to flush it out.
Quickly, I press a finger back into the puncture, searching for anything else that shouldn’t be there. All I feel is warm, smooth muscles. My eyes burn with emotion as I take in Riall. His breaths are labored and he’s still listless. Acting on instinct alone, I lean forward and seal my mouth to his cut. I suck, hard, remembering when a healer did this very thing to Yotta at the ludere when he’d been bitten by asablehead. The venom had been doing damage to the tissue, and the healer insisted that they had to get it out before they could heal him, or Yotta would lose his leg.
Riall’s blood tastes acidic and sour as I draw it into my mouth. It starts to burn my cheeks and tongue, and I quickly spit it out on the floor. His taste changes subtly, and I take that as encouragement to keep going. Riall groans as I spit more mouthfuls of his blood over his shoulder. With each pull and purge, I start to detect something more nectarous buried beneath the acrid iron tainting his essence. The lines begin to look as though they’re receding, but I can’t tell if it’s in my head or if what I’m doing is actually working.
I speed up, hope hammering my heart, as I suck and spit the poison from his body. His blood morphs into something more ambrosial with each pull from his wound, and Riall starts to wriggle beneath me. I kneel on his thighs to keep them anchored to the seat and do my best to pin his big shoulders with my hands. The horrid taste of the iron and the way it burns in my mouth grows weaker and weaker until, out of nowhere, Riall’s fingers thread through my hair.
He groans as I take another deep draw from his chest. He presses my face harder against his wound, and his cock hardens. My fangs drop in my mouth when he moans again, his hips pistoning up with need as my mouth fills with his blood. I pull my lips away, spitting it out, and he turns to nuzzle me.
“What are you doing, Beasty?” he asks, his tone all gravel and rasp.
“Saving your stubborn ass,” I answer huskily, which is frustrating because I mean to sound exasperated.
Relief slams into me when another resonant satisfied moan fills the air, and I notice Riall tastes perfectly clean now. Like dessert, but better. His flavors are layered and complex. He’s a feast of all my favorite things mixed in a unique way that creates a mouthwatering explosion on my palate. I want to drink him dry while bathing in his essence at the same—
I shake away the cloud of lust and the image of this tub being filled with blood instead of water. My hands are trailing up Riall’s chest like they have a mind of their own, and his palms are splayed wide on my ass. Astonished, I lean back and take him in. He was practically unconscious mere seconds ago, and now he’s pulling my core against his very hard and very impressive dick.
I gulp and then cough, having forgotten that I didn’t spit out my last mouthful of blood.
Sensation flares through me as Riall’s ichor slips down my throat and warms my chest. My fangs ache and I’m suddenly rocking against him without making the conscious decision to take this from saving his life to grinding all over his cock like some beast in heat.
“Fuck, take more,” Riall begs, and it’s exactly what I need to snap out of my sex-hazed stupor.
