Page 28 of His Emotional Support Snack

"I require the blood to keep the poison dormant." He murmurs against my skin, his breath warming my fingers. "But the blood is merely the excuse I feed my own pride. I cannot lock you in the dark. I cannot send you away. I cannot survive without you, Esmeralda. And I do not wish to try."

A dark elf warlord. A creature of magic and brutal political warfare. Confessing a dependence so deep it borders on worship, offering his throat to a human from the slums.

The unyielding armor I forged over twenty-four years of starvation and survival cracks straight down the middle. The biting sarcasm, the hyper-vigilance, the constant, draining calculation of the next threat—it all dissolves under the pressure of his cheek against my hand.

I am so tired of running. I am so tired of fighting the shadows.

My free hand raises, trembling violently in the quiet air. My fingers brush the thick, silver braids resting against his neck. The hair is soft, slipping through my grip. I trace the line of his strong jaw, the skin flawless and warm.

Zuirvih turns his head, pressing his lips to the center of my palm in a slow, lingering kiss. The touch sends a shuddering jolt of electricity straight to my core.

He is a monster. He is a predator who executes his rivals without a second thought and commands reality with a whisper. But as he sits on the mattress, anchoring me to the earth, the terrifying truth settles into my bones.

The monster is my sanctuary.

The Tagnadaet estate is a gilded cage, but it is a cage designed to keep the wolves out. I slip my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, the tension leaving my legs entirely, surrendering to the pull of the gravity between us.

18

ZUIRVIH

Her fingers thread into the silver braids at the nape of my neck. The hesitant tug anchors me to the earth, dragging me back from the precipice of my own paranoia. The defenses she forged over decades of starvation dissolves, leaving only a fragile, trembling survivor offering her trust to a monster.

I wrap my arms around her waist, lifting her from the floor. She gasps, a sharp intake of breath as I pull her flush against my chest. Her bare toes dangle inches above the woven rug. I rest my forehead against hers, the warmth of her skin searing through the chill of the unlit bedchamber. The frantic thrum of her pulse beats against my ribs, a rapid rhythm matching my own.

"I need to feed," I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

A shiver races down her back. She tilts her head to the side, exposing the pale column of her neck. The golden collar flashes in the dying firelight. I bypass the metal, aiming for the rapid flutter of life beneath the delicate skin.

My fangs extend with a sharp, familiar ache. I press my mouth to her throat. I do not tear nor ravage. I bite with excruciating slowness, a precise puncture that draws a breathless, shuddering moan from her lips.

The taste of starlight and ancient earth floods my tongue. The cure washes over my internal rot, a cooling tide sweeping away the lingering heat of the Marrow-Rot. As I drink, the chaotic magic in my core surges, no longer fractured or misfiring. I release the power. Purple static blooms from our connected skin, weaving a thick, humming barrier of magic around us. A dome of warmth forming a protective shell, sealing out the damp draft of the harbor and the prying eyes of the world.

I pull back, my fangs retracting. The bleeding from the twin puncture wounds halts instantly under a swipe of my tongue, the flesh sealing to leave scraped skin, with the deep, dark bruising of my fangs will remain visible beneath the surface.

I let her slide down until her feet touch the rug.

My hands move to the emerald silk of her gown. I pull the laces loose, sweeping the sheer fabric from her shoulders. The silk pools at her ankles in a quiet whisper.

She stands bare in the dim firelight. Pale, marked, perfection. My ash-grey hands trace the jagged lines bisecting her ribs, my dark skin a stark contrast against hers. I map the violence of her past with reverent slowness. I trace the iridescent, silver veins spiderwebbing up her forearms, the residual Wildspont magic glowing faintly under my touch.

“What are you doing?” she questions, pupils blown wide.

“You. I need you.”

I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the vast, silk-draped bed.

I lay her gently on the mattress, following her down, caging her beneath my body. My mouth crashes onto hers. There is no restraint. No dominant, calculated games. Just desperate, blinding heat. I devour her sigh, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips before delving deep. She meets the kiss with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.

The taste of her mouth is an intoxicating drug. I break the kiss to trail open-mouthed down her jaw, her throat, her chest. My thumbs trace the scars on her ribs, pressing gently into the raised tissue.

"You are more precious than all the Zanthenite in Oshta," I whisper against the dip of her navel. "Every mark. Every breath."

My hands map the curve of her hips, parting her thighs. The humid heat of her core beckons, a sweet, dark invitation. I slide down the mattress, settling between her legs.

I kiss her inner thigh, making her arch into the silk sheets.

“Zuirvih!” My name escapes her lips as she tries to pull me up, her hand reaching for my body.