Aryn’s eyes had
roamed over her, like a hand, firm and strong, almost
palpable in its intensity. Her nipples were still
peeked, pressed hard against her silk blouse, the gay
colors of her clan bringing false color to her skin.
Under the long skirt, she shifted her legs, crossed
them, the leather of her thigh high boots hugging her
legs. She was wet, weeping with want for him, and his
words rang once more in her ears…So I now I fuck her to
keep her safe?
She hardened her heart and willed magick into her
playing, uncaring that it was morally wrong. She wanted,
needed that money…she was leaving in the morning, and
going home to Eivisa.
"Stop playing.”
She ignored his low voice to her right. A dark shadow
came through the door and her eyes landed on the
newcomer as a cold sinking fear slid through her belly.
There lies death…
Some time had passed. Aryn had gotten his own room, her
sharp hearing told her, a large comfortable clean one,
the best the inn had to offer, and after that he
accepted some ale and food from the passing barmaid. She
had offered him a bit more as well, and Tyriel wondered
sourly why in hell Aryn had told this one no.
Shoving it out of her mind, she let her eyes wander back
to the man in black, whose eyes and face she couldn’t
see.
“Tyriel.”
She stared at this man, this man who held her death, who
wore the long black cloak and played on as Aryn’s hand,
hard, firm, familiar came up to rest on her neck, oddly
possessive, warm. As his skin touched hers, the black,
terrified feeling in her belly lightened and died away.
Something inside her whispered, Forget your pride, your
heart. Stay with him… Part of her knew that once she
left him, she was no longer safe from whatever blackness
Irian had foretold.
A blackness that seemed to linger around the man who had
settled in a corner, staring at her. With malevolence
and malice.
Aryn lowered his head and whispered into her ear,
brushing aside her curls, “Stop playing, now, or I’ll
carry your fine little ass out of here.” He squeezed her
neck in warning as he spoke then stepped back and
studied her, waiting.
She finished the song with a flourish and stooped to
gather her money. With a quick, expert eye, she figured
the money would buy the basic supplies she needed and
then some. And she could always do some busking to earn
a little extra. Scooping it into her pouch, she stowed
her flute but before she could toss her pack over her
shoulder, Aryn had taken and moved through the small
door to the side that led to the rooms.
“What?” she demanded coldly, folding her arms over her
chest and staring him, refusing to relinquish the flute
or her smaller travel pack when he reached for them
after closing the door behind them.
She heard Irian…not his words…just a murmuring, in the
back of her mind. With a snarl, she said, “Stay out of
this, you bloody, blasted enchanter.”
Aryn lifted his eyes to her face, those dark, dreamy
blue eyes that had totally captured her heart almost
from the first. Irian shimmered into view and stared at
Tyriel as well, his intense, hungry gaze rapt on her
face. You canna understand, Tyriel, love. You didna hear
all—
“Fuck it. And fuck you both.”
Aryn whispered quietly, “That’s the whole problem.
That’s what we both want. But I am not going to condemn
myself to pining after a gypsy-Elf who will be forever
young and lovely while I will soon fade away. I am
mortal, just a man. You are not, you have the blood of
divine beings in your veins.”
Tyriel felt her mouth tremble as she stared into Aryn’s
eyes and saw an answering heat there. But it was only
heat. Only heat, not love nor need. “You have never been
just a man, Aryn of Olsted. But I will not stay here any
longer. And we both know neither you nor Irian can force
me.” She turned her back and headed for the door,
uncaring that she didn’t have her other pack, just
needing to leave.
She canna go…I am sorry for breaking my word.
Aryn opened his mouth, unaware of Irian was talking
about, and not really caring. He wasn’t letting her walk
out that door. But he never said a word, never
remembered anything beyond the sight of her slim back
covered in black leather, all those wilds curls spilling
down to rest just above her ass, the gay red of her
sleeves moving in a silken whisper as she turned one
last time to glance at him, her eyes glowing luminously.
And then Irian swarmed up and overwhelmed.
Tyriel glimpsed Aryn in those eyes, grim, determined.
But then his eyes went blank. And then hungry, sorry,
dark…Irian…
“Does your word mean so little?” she asked softly.
“You mean more.” His voice was deeper, slower, gruffer
than Aryn’s, his eyes hotter, heavier. “You canna leave
us, him. You are safe with him. You will stay.”
“Irian, nebaste…” she whispered, half heartedly as he
backed her up against the door. “Stop…please…this solves
nothing. You are not Aryn. I am not in love with you.”
“But part of you wants me almost as much as you want
him.” Irian aligned Aryn’s long, rangy powerful body
against hers, his thick, throbbing cock fitting into the
notch between her thighs. “Ye canna deny me that,
girl…can ya?”
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