But she just pulls back with a sly smile. “Where, little dove? Show me with your hands. I want to see exactly what you crave.”
She slows the pace between my legs, as if to give me the tiniest room to think. I can barely do such a thing, damp with longing and wound so tight I feel I could burst into a million pieces. But my body finds a way—one hand rising from the bedroll to my breast. Unsure, I trace my fingers across my skin like the leather cords, moaning when I brush my nipple.
Nyatrix watches me like a wolf about to devour prey, her eyes black and feral. When I touch myself, her chest heaves, collarbones standing out in the low light. She says my name, I think, before taking a deep breath.
And then, just like I did, Nyatrix trails her elegant fingers across my collarbone and then lower. A moan explodes from my mouth, and her eyes flick to mine, her lips curved into an amused smile. She toys with my nipple, pinching me at the same time she drives the flail harder against me. The thunderstorm in me hums, heavy as a beehive, and a strangled sound escapes my lips.
“Come undone, Ophelia,” Nyatrix says, her words full of rough want. “Claim the pleasure you deserve.”
Something unlike anything I’ve ever felt rises like an enormous wave in my belly, growing taller and taller, findingcrest after crest until it finally floods my shores, leaving me breathless and gowned in salt.
As I lie panting on the bedroll, I cannot help but wonder if the sounds the Lupa Nox drew from me are loud enough to rattle all the Saints from their plinths.
Chapter 33
The gentle patter of rain on glass pulls me from sleep. When I blink my eyes open, gray daylight floods the chapel, tinted gold by the flickering lamp on a nearby pew. I turn over onto my side, wincing in pain at the healing wounds on my back and the stiffness in my joints. I search the chamber for Nyatrix but find only an empty bedroll beside mine.
Snippets of the prior evening swarm my mind, and my face reddens. Suddenly my dress, draped over me like a blanket, is far too hot. I push away the woolen folds—still stained with my dead fiancé’s blood—and sit up.
At that precise moment, with my untidy hair falling around my shoulders in messy waves, the sleeve of my shift slipping from my shoulder, Nyatrix appears in the chapel’s doorway. She pauses there, her dark gaze falling on me. I watch soundlessly as her breath hitches, her lips slightly parted. Something about her expression is vaguely dazed, unfocused, for a moment.
But then her features sharpen and she stalks forward. “Morning,” she offers. “How are you feeling?”
There is an ease in my body, regardless of the stiffness and the wounds, a looseness deep inside of me that I cannot name.“Better,” I say before I can stop myself. “Better than I have felt in a long time.”
A sly, secretive smile curves her beautiful mouth as she draws closer. Her gaze slides to my chest before she tears her eyes away, kneeling by her bedroll. I blush and realize my shift has slipped low on my breasts. Scrambling, I reach for the buttons at my back to pull the fabric higher and tighter.
“No need to make yourself decent on my account,” comes Nyatrix’s voice, soft as silk. I look over to find her crouched, tying up her bedroll, all lethal power beneath dark cloth. “I prefer you indecent, as it were.”
My face burns and I duck my head, finishing the buttons at my back. I say nothing; I have questions that I don’t know how to ask. Feelings that I don’t know how to name. I understand that Nyatrix tried to help me, did me a favor of sorts, and I don’t want to press it any further. I’m sure she has no lasting interest in me—a Host woman lacking any skill with a blade, possessing none of the traits someone like her surely finds worthwhile. I should be thankful for last night, and I am.
The truth is just that I want so much more. Haven’t I always constantly yearned for things I cannot have? Am I not used to the ache?
“Will we reach Liminalia today?” I ask instead, reaching for my cane. I steady it on the stone floor and prepare to haul myself to my feet, but I feel Nyatrix’s hand on my shoulder.
“Do you prefer to do it that way?” she inquires. The scent of asphodels overwhelms me. “Or would you like help?”
“I’m used to sort of rolling myself out of bed,” I admit, looking up at her, my face reddening even further. “So, yes. I suppose help would be good.”
I make suggestions of where Nyatrix can hold me that will hurt the least and support me the most. She follows my instructions seamlessly, somehow intuitively aware of howmuch or how little pressure to apply, when to exert her own strength or just support me. In a few moments, I’m on my feet and lacing the front of my dress. I shuffle to the pew to put my boots on.
“Yes,” Nyatrix says, breaking the silence as she adjusts her sword belt. “To answer your question. We’ll reach Liminalia today.”
Fear and excitement tumble through my veins, though dread twists in my gut. What if all that awaits me is a necropolis, a place no better than Lumendei? What if I feel that same endless weight on my shoulders—never good enough, never devout enough, never beautiful enough—just from a different source?
I try my best to shake the thoughts away, rising to my feet.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, and she extends her hand to me. I hesitate, but then I take it, a thrill racing through me as her long fingers close around my smaller palm.
“There’s a series of tunnels and catacombs we’ll be passing through,” the knight explains, directing me to the mouth of the chapel. We walk up the aisle together, stepping over shards of the nameless Saint to whom this place once belonged. “We’ll remain underground until just outside Liminalia’s gates. Hopefully it’ll be easier for you, but please don’t hesitate to tell me when you need a break.”
I nod and say nothing, following her out of the chapel and into one of the main corridors, biting down on my lip. I wonder if her offer is just a test of my weakness, if she knows I’ve been hiding the pain and pushing forward, like any mammal would, afraid to expose its ineptitude to the rest of the pack.
The Lupa Nox leads me through more of the broken archetype of my home. We move through passageways and tunnels that I don’t believe exist in my Lumendei—or perhaps I just tell myself that, because the thought of a spiderweb such asthis running beneath my feet for almost thirty anni fills me with a terror I have no room for.
“I’ve been thinking...” she says as we walk through a massive catacomb. Stone tombs covered in dust seem to stretch for an unfathomable distance. The ceiling is tall and vaulted, painted black and decorated with gold medallions. “What if the Lumendei you knew was an illusion? Powered by this sword?”
