Page 210 of Anathema
But perhaps that was fitting. The final punishment of the gods, because an eternity with her seemed as unreachable as the stars. The blackness on his horizon, that colorless stretch of nothingness, had always left him wondering if anything existed beyond it. Or maybe it was the same empty void that called to him on the nights he’d held that poison-tipped blade to his own throat.
Yet, knowing her life would be cut short, could he sacrifice even a fractional moment with her? To spare her from the possibility that he would turn out like Branimir? That she’d be forced to watch his mind deteriorate and spiral into madness?
He gnashed his teeth as the truth pummeled his conscience.
No. He couldn’t spare so much as a minute. That sort of altruism was reserved for better men. Not those whose souls were desiccated and thirsting for one drop of life.
Zevander’s withering heart had been caged for far too long to so selflessly let her go. As much as he loathed his greedy, self-indulgence, the mere thought of setting her free was a kindness he refused to entertain.
It was true what Rykaia had said–she was the fire in his veins. A torment, for which he vilified the gods.
For centuries, he’d roamed as nothing more than a shadow, a cursed son of sablefyre. Maevyth radiated an irresistible warmth that he voraciously craved in his cold and calculated existence. Like scattered rays of sunlight reaching down to the darkest depths of the sea. The promise of redemption for all the vile things he’d done. Lives he’d taken.
So many lives.
Claiming her, though, meant offering up another target for his adversaries, and a mate was far more dangerous than a sister. She was a weakness, a pawn they could use to make him heel like a dog. Because losing a mate was said to be more painful than burning alive.
One of few tortures he’d managed to evade up until that point.
He rubbed a hand down his face, his head a relentless mess of thoughts that hammered at his skull. A turbulent gale of confusion over what he wanted and what he’d have sooner carved his own heart out to avoid. And in the center of that storm was Maevyth. The only constant. A beacon in a dark, black sea. A light too bright for his eyes, but damn the gods, even if he had to maim and kill for all eternity to keep her safe from his enemies, one fact remained true.
She was his. Lunamiszka. My little moon witch.
A cold and selfish pursuit, but he didn’t care. When the gods offered atonement for a life of hell, best to grab it by the fucking teeth. He slid a hand over her, dragging her sleeping body closer.
She moaned and shifted, but didn’t resist him, nor did she wake. With her back to his chest and his face buried in her hair, Zevander inhaled deeply, wanting to devour her all over again. One taste hadn’t been enough. He could’ve easily spent the night exploring every inch of her body. Learning her pleasures and fears. Acquainting himself with his mate’s darkest fantasies. He wouldn’t take her yet, though. Not here, where he had nothing at his disposal to temper his appetite. Because once he plunged himself into that heavenly abyss, he knew damned well he’d never want to stop. Zevander had been trained by that cursed wretch, General Loyce, to take like a vicious dog. To ravage and plunder the brutal Bellatryx who enjoyed rough and oftentimes painful sex. Without some measure of restraint, he’d fuck Maevyth against every wall and surface to get his fill, and even then, he’d spoil for more. The same way he’d been conditioned to go for hours while feeding the depraved hunger of the Bellatryx.
He winced at the thought of subjecting Maevyth to such a thing.
No. Not her. If it took every ounce of power in his body or the deadliest tinctures of poison to quell his urges, he’d be gentle. For her.
No matter how much he craved being inside her, how obsessively he fantasized about her, he would wait for a time and place better suited for a claiming. A place he could reach for his noxious blade if needed—a safeguard he didn’t happen to include in the arsenal of weapons he’d brought across the vale.
A creaking sound had him swinging his attention toward the window behind him. He silently watched the fluctuating light, indicating a presence outside. Unraveling himself from Maevyth, he sat up in the bed, careful not to disturb her, and quietly clicked his tongue. An image materialized in his mind–the window and the porch.
And a figure standing just out of the window’s view.
Not entirely clear, but Zevander could make out long, branching antlers, a hunched body, and hooves.
He stalked toward the window, not making a sound over the aged floorboards, and pressed his back to the wall, opposite to where he’d seen the figure. From that angle, he caught a glimpse of it slipping past–a creature with bark-like skin and long, branching arms, sniffing the air.
“I see you watching me,” a voice in his head said, and Zevander frowned, backing himself into the shadows. “Come. I wish to speak with you.
Then speak, Zevander thought to himself.
“Have you no idea that I could drag you from that hovel with nothing more than my mind?”
And you will be met with my blade. Reveal yourself and tell me what you want.
The thud of hooves on the weathered porch revealed movement, and he stepped before the window. Just as Zevander had seen in the obscure image from earlier, the creature’s long, branching horns stood up from his head, scraping over the glass. His eyes glowed like that of an animal’s in the dark, and rough, tessellated skin, with deep grooves like the bark of a tree, covered his body. Though he appeared more animal than man, he stood on hind legs, slightly hunched.
The same beastly form he’d seen in the woods when he’d first ventured to Mortasia.
“Cadavros,” Zevander spoke low and stepped in front of him, the two face-to-face, separated only by the glass between them. “The creature I saw in the woods that night. It was you.”
“Yes. I’ve since taken a more acceptable appearance as a mortal, but I thought you might appreciate the familiarity. A ghastliness I shared with your brother.” He waved toward Zevander through the window, his branch-like fingers scraping the glass. “You’ve taken to the black flame rather well over the years. Far better than I.”
Zevander didn’t bother to respond to that, and instead took note of what appeared to be blood smeared at his chin.