VII

Darius insisted Laila stay a few nights in the Citadel after her disastrous journey. He cleared a wing of rooms for her, filled with space and light. Mortesian sun blanched the rooms through the gossamer drapes, seeping along the surfaces of curvaceous furniture accented with rusting gilt. Only the leaded glass lanterns remained steadfast in their vibrancy on either bedside table, still dwindling with a flame from when Laila had last lit them.

She peeled back the soft fur throw on her bed, her body toasted warm beneath it. It had been ripped from a sabre-toothed beast with shaggy hair as rich as bonfire smoke. The throw was one of the many provisions Darius had made to ensure her comfort, each one as intimate to her as if he had traced his lips down her neck. Even now he had managed to maintain his impeccable attunement to her tastes, and she couldn’t help but feel herself thaw, if only by an increment, when met with his thoughtfulness.

Laila unravelled the silk tignon from her hair and shook her curls free of her pineapple bun. Then she opened up the curtains to banish darkness to the furthest corners.

She decided to go over her mental checklist whilst taking a bath. When she entered the washroom she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—her wan face and bruised eyes from lack of sleep. She touched them with a sigh. Terror from her journey had held her in a throttle throughout her first night in Mortos. She’d tossed and turned, hypersensitive to sound, each breath feeling like a match struck against her lungs.

Even now she could feel her aether, buzzing in an angry hive beneath her skin. It itched at her, making her want to shred through filmy skin tissue to free it. In these times, she would think of the meditation lessons she used to take with Léandre in the Dream Realm. The way he would circle a crystal against her temple, commanding her to breathe in time with the gesture. The thought of him made her loneliness feel even more conspicuous, and she resolved to contact Lyra after her bath.

The maids made quick work of helping her wash and dress, though when it came to her hair it was discovered they knew little of what to do with texture like hers.

“I’ll take over from here,” Laila assured them, picking up the other gift adorning her vanity table—a delicate hair comb of chiselled ivory, elaborately carved and fretted with a background of flowers and birds and foliage. Darius had had the ivory wrenched from the same sabre-toothed beast as her blanket. She wondered if wearing it would give him the wrong impression before deciding not to dwell on it, inserting it into her bun.

She picked up her handheld mirror and called for Lyra, watching the light fluctuate before she answered.

“Missing me already?” Lyra’s lips curled into a self-satisfactory grin that Laila couldn’t help but share.

“Terribly,” she admitted. She decided not to mention what happened to Cressida. “Especially now there’s no one there to hold me at night.”

“Ah, so you didn’t cave and crawl into Darius’s bed first thing? I commend you.”

Laila scoffed. “You hold me in such low regard.”

“Absolutely untrue!” Lyra protested. “I won’t hear such slander of my good name.”

Laila smothered a hand against her lips, muting her giggle. “How is home?”

“Ah.” Lyra swallowed, the verve in her opal eyes dimmed. “I’ve had to take some leave from Soleterea for a short while. There’s been some trouble in Thalistan your mother has asked me to look into.”

Laila hummed in interest. “Well, at least you’ll be keeping busy. Won’t have time to miss me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Lyra twiddled the end of her winter-blonde sprite braid. “And you?”

“My first order of business ought to be to immerse myself in the political landscape. Maman has all but thrown me to the sharks with no life raft. So I shall have to start from scratch.”

“You know I have every faith in you,” Lyra said, then a sound of interference caused her to look distracted.

“Interloper?” Laila guessed.

“I’ll have to see this one, I’m afraid. We’ll talk later.”

“All right, g—”

The glass faded before she could finish. She set down the mirror with a sigh. Then a knock on the door caused her head to whip around. “Come in.”

It was Sabina, leaning casually against the doorway with a lopsided smile. “Darius Rex wishes for me to offer my services to escort you around Mortos.”

“Oh… that’s…” Laila tried to resist the affectionate flutter that gave her. “Very kind of you.”

Sabina nodded. “Shouldn’t be too much disturbance if we stick to the safer roads and away from the wilderness. Where would you like to go first?”

Laila’s first excursion out of Gravissia led her to the hinterlands. Sabina knew exactly which roads to take to steer them away from the worst of the wild beasts; she only had to fell a few stragglers here or there to get them to their destination safely.

According to Amira’s notes, these were the deepest areas of deprivation and where shipments of famine relief were needed the most. As Laila neared the entrance of the qarna village she couldn’t help but feel even the smallest atmospheric noise had been snuffed into a graveyard silence. Even breathing too quickly or too loud was a disturbance.

Her primary aim was to investigate how agriculture was handled here, upfront and on the ground. In Vysteria, they’d long enjoyed the prosperity offered by ætherglass houses. The impenetrable domes of crystal treated by solarite magic would drink in sunlight by the gallon and use it to warm and nourish the crops inside their spheres. Miniaturised versions of those same domes would be used to keep crops from withering during their journeys north.

The comparison to Mortos was stark. Instead of glass houses, farmers toiled through a serpentine maze of brick walls heated by pipes of volcanic hot water. From there it appeared crops were funnelled into storehouses and kept prevented from decomposition through the use of chaos magic. They couldn’t generate life with their craft, but they could extend what was dead.

Unfortunately, this didn’t seem to be enough. The crops were still exposed, still vulnerable to the elements here besides frost alone. As Laila wandered the outskirts of one wall she took a record of the fruits growing and their maturation, jotting down notes in her journal.

A sudden gasp snatched Laila from her thoughts, and she turned to see a small qarnina carrying a basket of apples. When their eyes met, the qarnina paled, legs wobbling in panic.

Laila lifted her hand. “Oh no, don’t be afraid—” But the sound of her voice only startled her.

The qarnina dropped her basket and ran, leaving the green apples toppling out onto the brown grass.

Laila drew in a breath as she watched her go before making her way to pick up the scattered fruit and return them to the basket. As she did so, more qarna skulked to observe with their antlers peeking from the sides and over the top of the walls.

“Please, I do not come here to punish you.” Laila used a gentle tone. “I have peaceful intentions.”

Eventually, an elderly qarnina approached with a shaky tapping of her cane. Her antlers had become spider-webbed with age. “You must forgive their suspicion.” Her eyes were twinkling inside their hollow and sunken sockets. “Someone of your standing would typically have little time to spare us unless it is to amuse yourself with our misfortune for sport.”

Laila’s eyes softened, her chest giving a little hitch of sympathy. “Well, I can safely say today is when that pattern breaks.”

The qarnina hummed in response, far from convinced. “My name is Anya. I speak for the qarna here. If you’d follow me, princess, we can speak more comfortably.”

Laila allowed them to lead her to the church where they gathered for meetings. She noted the qarna lived rather simply in comparison to the imposing estates of their landmasters erected in black stone. Wood lodges if they were fortunate, mud huts if they were not. Always engulfed by the leafy foliage of lichen and a sprouting of wax-polished fungi—similar to their antlers. They beautified them with intricate floral art and wooden lace, adorning the walls, doors, and windows in vibrant colours. As if they were painting a brave face over their adversity.

Their church seemed, from the outside, a stoic counterpart to the marble-clad temples resplendent in mosaic tiles, crystal chandeliers, and altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl back in Soleterea. However, the rustic exterior gave way to true inner beauty—as the frescoed walls and ceiling could more than attest to. Depictions of the ungodly trio—Calante, his wife Anara the Dea Matrona, and their son Callus splayed across the walls.

Laila’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the aisle as she took in Anara’s canonised visage. Her sleek raven hair, alabaster skin, and pert red lips. She was known to many as the first creation of Calante—a bride to bear his child and give life to the royal bloodline of House Calantis. Her torturous beauty had been immortalised onto pendants and paintings and other such religious memorabilia for millennia. Well, before her Fall, at least.

Laila walked down the aisle towards the altar where a bronze relief of the six-headed eagle leered above, identical to the one in the Citadel’s portrait hall. She was met with the same sense of discomfort at its nearness. Tiny serrations of dread scraped inside her chest.

“Thank you for accepting my presence,” Laila said, receiving the cup of mushroom tisane offered.

Anya’s aged bones creaked as she sat down on a tree stump. “Do tell us why you’re here, princess.”

“Denizens of Mursk, I bid you good morning.” Laila glanced across the morose faces on the pews. “I am Laila Rose, Crown Princess of Soleterea and Espriterre, and I have travelled far to learn more about your country’s agriculture.”

Murmurs of scepticism erupted.

“I recognise that the best way to learn about something is to gather information from those with the most expertise. And my research has led me to you. So, please, tell me everything.”

The murmurs grew louder, more nervous.

Then a young qarnina stood up. She had large round eyes and a delicate build. Most of her height was in her moss-covered antlers. “M-my name is Olga, Your Radiance. And—” She paused with a swallow, tugging on her loop braid. “Since the Culling began, my family has not known a moment’s peace.”

She told Laila of how the qarna were indigenous to the land before it was cursed and overrun by monsters. Herbivorous by nature, they saw famine worse than any other on the island, and the occassi frequently withheld food and manufactured starvation to keep them complacent, feeding livestock more than them. They’d later adapted to dandelion weeds, nettles, and wild berries, but occassi would demand sacrifices be provided every five years—the Culling—to bolster their undead workforce, and many qarna would sell themselves or their children as indentures just to stave off their perpetually empty stomachs.

After Olga’s brave testimony, more were emboldened. They burdened Laila with their grievances of starvation, pestilence, poverty, and foul weather.

“Those bloody corpses have been stealing our livelihood for too long!” cried a farmhand named Rurik. “How’s one supposed to compete with something that does not pause to sleep, eat, or piss? Seems there’s shit all to do in Mortos other than to scrounge for the scraps our lord tosses us to breed, then wait for the alms we receive for participating in the Culling.”

“You receive compensation for the Culling?” Laila asked.

“Indeed, Your Radiance,” Rurik said. “Every year running up to the grand event we’re given a decent supply of essentials to keep us from knocking on death’s door. In exchange, we give our bodies to them. And if we cede a Culling we sacrifice alms for a lustrum.”

“If the Culling were to be banished,” Laila said, “then you would lose these alms?”

“Oh, almost certainly, Your Radiance!” exclaimed Agata, bouncing a baby on her hip. “Why, without that support many of us would lose what little the occassi already deign to provide. A more recent opportunity has arisen with the instatement of the new rex, but even that is in short supply.”

“What opportunity do you speak of?”

“The rex offers work in his research facility of Darkwater Towers. It requires residence overseas in the Towers themselves, but it pays a handsome fee to one’s family. A far sight better than anything else around here.”

It surprised Laila to hear this of Darius. Against herself, her fury waned.

“I want to thank you all for sharing this. I will be sure to mention everything I have heard here in my next meeting with the rex.”

The Memory Palace was located in the more affluent underground of Gravissia. There, occassi of certain distinguished stock would venture to sample and critique a variety of traumas distilled as liquid from unwilling participants for clarity, ambience, potency, flavour, and finish and ingest them as though they were fine spirits. There were grisly recollections of many types, the most potent forms of spiritual suffering you could ever imagine—shaken, stirred, and mixed into cocktails to be served alongside dainty morsels and fat cigars.

Darius exited from the carriage and lifted a hood over his features before making his way towards the roped entrance.

“Name and booking?” inquired the doorkeeper.

“I’m here to see Daggerfinger,” he said, brandishing his signet ring with the royal seal.

The doorkeeper’s eyes widened in realisation. “O-oh, Your Majesty, I didn’t recognise you!” he spluttered as he unclipped the rope. “Step through to the bar counter and Sergius Severis will arrive to collect you.”

He did so gladly, swerving through the enclosed booths of plush leather and lacquered walnut, the trivial badinage taking place between the patrons, and the waiters carrying trays of delicate appetisers before, finally, he reached the bar. The countertop was obsidian, with carvings of mythological beasts chiselled into the wooden base.

“Your Majesty, it is an honour.” The bartender immediately bristled with the acknowledgement of his presence. “May I offer you the usual?”

“Actually, Antonius, I was wondering if you happened to have any non-suffering spirits in stock?”

Antonius blinked in confusion. Ah, but how serious young occassi were. All that hypersensitive pride brimming beneath a delicate seal of stoicism.

“Ease up, soldier, it was a joke,” Darius said with a wink. “I’m here to see Daggerfinger.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible now, sire, he is quite…” A muffled shriek perforated the otherwise dignified atmosphere of the lubricating elite. Not even a ripple did they make in response. For them, it may as well have been ambient music. “… busy.”

“You mean to say he should refuse a rex’s audience?”

The bartender’s eyes flitted with discomfort. “Wait here.”

Darius watched him shuffle off to meet his master. His hip pressed against the bar and his elbow rested atop the counter. To be truthful, he was rather thirsty, but Mortesian alcohol had a potency that was almost hallucinogenic, and he needed to keep his wits about him.

The bartender returned with a stern resolve in his step. “Sergius Severis will see you now.”

He escorted Darius towards the backroom, where another bodyguard obstructed his entrance. He stepped aside to let Darius through to a room where satin ran red as molten lava. Darius felt as though he had stepped into the throbbing walls of a ventricle with all its volcanic humidity.

Velvet blinds smothered out the sunlight, relegating all sources of brightness in the room to the oil lamps. Silhouetted by the glow of the flames was Daggerfinger, ankles crossed over the expanse of his desk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Great Leviathan himself.” Daggerfinger dropped one foot with a softened thud onto the carpeted floor, followed by the other. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m here to procure that favour you owe me.” Darius unhooded himself and slinked over to the desk to lean against it. “I think it’s about time you paid.”

Sergius reclined in his chair, fingers locked over his chest. “And what favour would that be?”

“You’ve benefited immensely through my aid in helping you discover how to extract negative emotion into pure essence”—Darius made a quick sweeping gesture around the vicinity—“so now I’m here to collect.”

“And what could the Rex of Mortos possibly need from me?” Sergius asked. “You don’t exactly appear to be hurting for much, tucked away in that little castle of yours. Would you have me serve you for free, Your Majesty? I’ve noticed you like coming here, and yet after all this time, so many decades, you’ve not once come barging in here asking me for nought. So, what’s changed?”

“Tell me why you’ve been dealing memory boxes to Vysteria.”

“Why, I have been doing no such thing, Your Majesty!” Sergius flattened a hand over his chest in feigned hurt. “Surely you are aware that chaos magic is strictly prohibited.”

“Don’t try my patience, Sergius.” Darius’s blue-green eyes lit up. “You did well to be one of the few who avoided having their heart on a pike after that witless moongrass affair.”

“I see you continue to misdirect the source of your ire.” Sergius smothered a low burbling chuckle. “That ‘witless affair’ was merely the act of a few enterprising merchants trying to restore our country’s dignity after a few robber baronesses tried to strip our silver mines for spices. Though I’m sure the Citadel coffers were enjoying its cut before the solarites locked the doors on trade. Who was to know their precious little mortals couldn’t handle a bit of powder? Certainly never did us any harm—”

“Enough,” Darius responded sharply. “Those who produced moongrass knew precisely the effect it can have on the feeble-bodied. Just like you know the danger that could be wrought from allowing desperate mortals access to untapped chaos. My time is paramount, Sergius. We can either have this conversation in the comfort of your office or inside the Citadel dungeons. Your choice.”

“Look at you!” Sergius’s lips peeled back into a lupine smile. “Get a crown on your head and already you think yourself entitled to start riding my cock like this.” His voice dropped to a deep and guttural sound, more akin to a quaking rumble. “Though you do that rather well, if I recall.”

Darius suppressed the flex in his jaw. “We are not in university anymore, Sergius. And I am not your mentee. You will show me some respect.”

“Did that lunatic father of yours teach you nothing through those beatings, Dara?” Sergius reached over for his decanter of whisky, removing the lid with a hollow pop. “You don’t ask for respect.” He poured himself a glass. “You earn it.”

Darius smoothed a hand through his pomaded hair, soothing his temper along with it. “You are quite right, Sergius.” He plucked the tumbler from the occasso’s fingers before he could sip. Then he reached around the back of Sergius’s head, stroking it. “It seems I am going to have to do this my father’s way.”

He jerked Sergius’s head back at a quick enough speed to fracture his neck.

The dungeon was said to be the oldest part of the Citadel, and the one most resistant to refurbishment. Once, when the occassi were still new and impetuous and full of foolish hubris, the House of Calantis carved a niche for themselves on top of a lava lake. They continued to keep it as a reservoir to extract thermal heating and provide an excruciating torment for their enemies.

Now only the former was meant to be true, at least officially. Though the cacophony of cries, shouts, and guttural grunts could more than attest to the latter. But the atrocities that took place in this noxious pit of corrosive heat would never see the stamp of the official seal.

Delanus remained on the furthermost floor of the dungeon, away from most of the waxing heat of the lava lake that begged to strip the meat from his bones. Even so the humidity lingered, sticky and distracting; it fused his clothes to the silhouette of his muscles.

He knew Darius meant to question Severis down here, and he wanted to wait for the interrogation to be complete, flipping through the ledger of Severis’ accounts.

By the time Darius came back, the screaming had finally ceased. He emerged up the steps with sleeves rolled back, a few buttons on his rubakha loosened and his wavy hair slightly dishevelled. He instinctively slicked back his hair with blood-stained fingers, pasting inky smears through the impeccable locks.

“Had a productive conversation with Severis?” Delanus asked.

“Yes, I became very intimate with his inner workings,” Darius said with scintillating clearness.

Seeing the predatory gleam in Darius’s eye, Delanus asked, “Is he alive?”

Darius tilted his head sideways. “Mostly, minus a few inessential organs. I set the vultures on him.”

Delanus gulped at the thought of a horde of ravenous vultures shredding at Sergius’s innards.

“It fascinates me how well we can keep going as long as our heart remains fully intact.”

His blue eyes had the deadening chill of midwinter; Delanus felt frostbitten when they met his. “So what did he tell you?”

“Unfortunately, I extracted little more than what I already knew,” Darius said, a brittle edge waning his otherwise cordial tone. “He sends primarily to Thalistan, receiving a hefty sum in return. Yet he will not tell me to whom and he will not tell me why.”

“Do the whos and the whys matter?”

“If there are factions of humans stocking up on chaotic magic items, then I want to know about it. Preferably before Amira.” He ran his fingers down his jawline. “The only two reasons I can fathom for wanting this in large supply is to study it or weaponise it. Both of which I consider to be cause for concern.”

Delanus grunted in response, flipping through the ledger again. “Let him cook for a few days and we’ll see if that doesn’t soften him up.”

Darius sighed arduously. “Well, I don’t know about you but I think some tea is in order.” He lightly skirted past Delanus’s shoulder with his own before resting his hand atop it. “Let me get cleaned up and we’ll discuss this later.” With that, he sauntered up the steps with a jaunty whistle.

Back in the royal antechamber, Laila helped herself to milk and honey while she waited for Darius to arrive. She sipped sparingly at her beverage, finding it to be a much needed comfort. She longed to discuss her recent findings with him and yet, she had not had the bravery to face him since the dinner on her first night.

She told herself this was a fleeting thing, that whatever had led him to say those things at dinner was simply to test the waters for rekindlement. That he couldn’t possibly have wanted and pined for her all those years.

His final words to her before he left Soleterea echoed in her mind. Perhaps one day, a decade or so down the line…

He had not meant it. She couldn’t possibly fathom he could have. And yet, the pain and dejection he had displayed at dinner had been real enough. Her urge to reach out to him and stuff the words back into her mouth had been too.

She took another sip of milk to calm her nerves, then put the drink down in preparation. She could hear his footfalls and decided to act casual, propping her elbow atop the divan with her legs extended.

Meanwhile Darius, desperate for a shower, had not been anticipating to experience any diversions. Hence, when he finally did turn the corner to see Laila sitting in wait, he froze in alarm.

“Oh, good, you’re here. I’ve been waiting for—” Her words died on her lips when she saw him. She sprang up from the chair in shock. “What happened to you?”

He deliberated on many excuses but realised it mattered not what she thought. “Nothing.”

He closed the door behind him and smoothed the now drying blood on his hair.

“You’re… covered in blood.”

“It’s not mine,” he said, breezing past her.

She swivelled round to face him. “Is that supposed to be of comfort to me?”

Darius sighed, cupping his hands over his face. He turned around to meet the full extent of her judgement. “Why are you here, Laila?”

Laila scoffed in disbelief. So, this was how it was to be, then. “I came to tell you that I’ve held a meeting with some qarna citizens.”

“You spoke to the qarna?” Darius couldn’t believe his ears.

“Well, they are as much a part of the country as the rest of you.” Laila steeled herself for what came next. “Have you ever perhaps considered alternative systems to the one you have in place with your ghouls? The benefits of having an empowered workforce can be immense. Vysteria wouldn’t be half what it is today without them.”

“Let me guess.” Darius leaned back against his desk, iron-cast in his conviction, the rigid core found at the root of all things. He would not bend easily to her. “This is about your mother’s ætherglass initiative? I’ve already given her my answer on that.”

“Why do you refuse our aid?” Her tone soured into lemon tartness. “With ætherglass, you could help provide every race of this land a far better chance at avoiding starvation.”

“Convenient how this would come of great benefit to you, I’m sure. That electoral competition is starting to intensify, is it?” He was unable to stop the splinter of amusement cracking his face. “Laila, qarna are prey, that is simply how they are made. They herd themselves in their little tight flocks and sprout themselves like weeds, praying to see another morning. To slaughter them is the natural order. I see no reason to delay the inevitable, not when I can better extend their usefulness as corpses.”

She frowned at him, a delicate crease appearing in her brow. “Yet what is the point of having all this power if we do nothing to make the world a little better, more fair, more survivable? Why continue to simply take and give nothing back? What kind of existence is that? What kind of leader are you—”

“You are still young, princess; you have not yet reached your first century.” Darius made an insouciant gesture with his hand. “Soon you will see an entire generation lay itself to rest and never rise again, only to take up valuable land to rot and feed worms. Where does the benefit come from extending my hand to my lessers? Sentiment? The perception of benevolence? How hollow must your gestures be if it is all under the guise of seeming good enough to be a desirable and electable candidate, rather than out of pragmatic efficiency?”

“That’s not. I—” Laila grew flustered. “Stop acting as though my compassion is a pretence, Darius. As though it is not the reason I am here before you now rather than at the side of my mother agreeing that you are beyond reach.”

“Your compassion?” He spat the word as though it disgusted him. “You made it clear it was anything but compassion that brought you here. Rather, cold, hard ambition.” He stood up to make his way towards her. “Let us be truthful. I am not a dog for you to pet and pacify and send away with a scold when I displease you, Laila. How supercilious you are, standing here as though you act purely in the interest of saving us from ourselves. As though we are all wild, savage things from the north infiltrating the poor, victimised south and leaving a taint upon your otherwise unblemished region. If that is truly what you think, then you are better off returning home to Soleterea. You knew what we were, what I am, when you first stepped foot here.”

Her breath hitched in anger as he neared. He was too close to her, but she refused to give up her pride and relent. She didn’t understand why she let him disarm her with such glib displays of flattery and snake-tongued words, when beneath that amiable exterior was another cold-blooded predator like the rest.

“Perhaps I thought you were capable of being more than this.” She gave him a scathing once-over, her voice soft yet scornful. “I see I was mistaken.”

He recoiled in spite of himself. Frustration tensed in his muscles from the blood still hardening on his skin as he turned from her and loosened the buttons to his rubakha.

“What are you doing?” Laila asked, sounding breathless. Her hand clutched the frame of an armchair.

“I am going to rinse this blood off of myself, as it has now dried over the course of this riveting conversation.” He undid the last button and slipped off his rubakha. “I’d suggest you leave now, unless you are intent on joining me.”

Her heart skipped at the sight of his physique, and she hoped he did not hear it. She knew what his intent was. He wanted to unsteady her, ignite a battle between her repulsion and her inextinguishable desire that was so encompassing it made her legs go weak.

When Darius turned to see her still standing there, he gave her an expectant look and popped the button to his trousers next. “Well? Are you coming or going?”

She could’ve electrocuted him on the spot, but she knew any transmission of emotion, whether it be rage or lust, would be giving him precisely what he wanted. So instead she maintained a prideful dignity and left the room as if he were nothing worth noting.

Darius flinched at the sound of the door closing before stripping nude and staggering into the balneum, too weighed beneath the mounting stressors of the day to do anything but stand underneath the chimera stone tap.

He released a deep sigh of relief when it spewed ice-cold water on his back, already feeling his muscles tense and unclench. A shiver trickled down his spine as rivulets of blood puddled around his feet, rinsed away by sterile water.

He had done that. He had pioneered the filtration systems built by chaos magic to disintegrate all the impurities held within water, providing it fresher and cleaner to all. And yet, she took one look at him and couldn’t see beyond the blood still clinging to him from the occasso he had tortured. As if there were nothing else to him but that.

How long would he keep leaving himself open to be wounded by her kicks—to hope he might one day be risen in her esteem to become the noble suitor he so wanted to be for her hand?

Darius bowed his head and flattened his palm against the wall, eager to forget the altercation entirely. Without thinking, he put his hand on his cock and built himself up to erection. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sensation of pleasuring himself alone but his mind was too crowded, too full of noise. He needed something to clear him out.

His brow furrowed as he tried to focus on something arousing. A torrid fantasy. Or a patchwork of traits and attributes he had a proclivity towards. Yet nothing seemed to work. Not until he imagined the familiar slide of hands along his chest, helping him to wipe away the blood before they encased him, a warm cheek pressed against his back.

No, no, not this. He couldn’t allow himself to think of this. But he couldn’t stop the way his body responded to it. A bolt of lightning crackled through him, restoring life and vitality to his weary muscles. His cock stiffened, rigid with alertness, and blood thrummed through his veins in rapid pulsations.

Just the mere thought of her did this. Awoke him from the depths of his lassitude and erased the weight from his shoulders. So he let it play out in his mind. He imagined Laila putting her lips to the space between his shoulder blades and proclaiming she didn’t mean what she said. That she did think him worthy. Kind, soothing words of honeyed affection drizzling in his ears.

I miss you. I want you. I love you.

His yearning fuelled his wild lust as the pace of his hand quickened. The whimpers he made grew more feeble until finally he reached climax.

She evaporated instantly after, leaving him behind with his cock in hand and an overwhelming sense of hollowness. He panted a few times and allowed the water to cleanse him of all his sweat and spend.

How pathetic he had become, allowing himself to indulge in these wistful fantasies just to coast him through an evening.