Fairydale a dark gothic.., p.28
Fairydale: A Dark Gothic Fantasy Romance, page 28
"You seem to have a lot on your mind," Lord Berkley notes.
"Forgive me," I blush as I realize I'd been caught red-handed fantasizing about someone who is most assuredly not my dance partner. "Just woolgathering, I suppose. I'm not very fond of dancing," I lie.
Yes, I am. I love dancing. But only with one man...
"I dare contradict you, My Lady. You haven't missed a step so far even though your mind is far away," he says, an eyebrow raised.
I force a smile.
"Thank you. You're an exceptionally good dancer yourself. I'm just following your lead."
He seems satisfied with my words, and as the dance continues, he attempts to draw me into conversation by telling me about his country seat in Berkley and his passion for horses.
I keep a pleasant smile on myself despite the fact that I'm neither knowledgeable in horses, nor do they interest me particularly.
"He must be a worthy horse, indeed, My Lord," I murmur after he tells me the exorbitant sum he paid for an Arabian purebred.
"I have a new mare, too. We named her Moonlight for her dark colors mixed with light. I reckon you'd like her. Maybe Emma can convince you to come visit us in Berkeley during the summer," he continues, describing his stables in great detail and telling me how much I would enjoy riding Moonlight.
For the first time, I look him straight in the eye, his words dawning on me.
Is Viscount Berkley showing an interest in me?
He gazes at me appreciatively, his eyes roving over my form and settling right...on my chest.
My eyes widen just as my cheeks redden from his blatant perusal.
I clear my throat in an attempt to steer him away from my cleavage, but he doesn't react. He only raises his eyes a moment later, meeting mine and giving me a wide grin.
Immediately, I regret having accepted his invitation to the dance. More than anything, I regret not being more attentive to the conversations around me. So busy I'd been with my own problems that I hadn't realized his words now, or in the past, could have been construed as interest.
The dance draws to an end, and just as I hurry back to Emma's side, who is now joined by my mother, Viscount Berkley proposes a turn around the room.
I am about to refuse, but my mother, sensing the situation, gives me another pointed look, leaving me with no choice but to accept his offer.
He places my arm on top of his as he continues to tell me more about his horses. I tune out most of his conversation, merely nodding along with a fake smile on my lips.
Yet just as he's returning me to my mother's side, he asks me the dreaded question.
"May I call upon you tomorrow?"
I bite my lip, ready to tell him no.
But before I can do so, my mother, who is within hearing distance, interjects on my behalf.
"Of course, Lord Berkley. She would love that."
"Oh, Elizabeth," Emma rushes to my side, her tone enthusiastic.
Though I do my best to maintain my smile, the only thing I want to do is leave everyone behind and retire to my own room.
One dance because I'd tried to get my mother off my back, and it suddenly turned into the beginning of a courtship?
The conversation flows animatedly as my mother proceeds to ask various questions of Viscount Berkley and his mother. Emma, the sweetheart that she is, tries to apologize for pushing me to dance with her brother.
"I'm sorry," she mentions when she notices that I look worse than someone waiting their turn at the gallows.
"You couldn't have known," I give her a tight smile.
"I didn't know he fancied you. But maybe you could give him a chance? I know he's my brother, but he's such a wonderful gentleman."
"I will," I tell her, the lie exclusively for the sake of our friendship.
As soon as Lord Berkley calls on me tomorrow I will make it known that I am not interested in anything more and that he should not waste his time on me.
Pleased with my reasoning, I wait for the evening to draw to an end.
And to not give my mother further reason to agree to other meetings on my behalf, I accept other invitations to dance—albeit only from married gentlemen.
Late in the night, as we make our way back home, my mother praises me for finally seeing reason.
My cheeks hurt from too much smiling, my feet from too much dancing, and my head from putting on an act for so long. Yet it seems everyone bought it—one small win.
It's only when we get back home and I excuse myself to my room that I can breathe relieved. I only let Mary undo some of my fastenings—the ones I cannot reach myself—before urging her to seek her bed.
After too much socializing, the only thing I want is to be on my own.
Once I've put on my nightgown, I let my hair loose and prepare for bed. Yet, before that, I can't help myself as I open the window, looking outside in case Amon left me something.
Disappointment fills me when I don't see anything, and as the room becomes chilly, I close the window.
Quickly checking on the fire, I finally retire to my bed.
Yet before I can draw the covers to slide inside, all the hairs on my body stand up.
My spine stiffens, my entire body freezing on the spot.
Only someone could trigger that type of awareness within me.
Swiveling, I come face to face with him.
Amon.
My beloved who is neither dead, nor injured, nor does he appear to be any worse for the wear.
"Did you miss me, Lizzie mine?" he murmurs, his eyes gleaming dangerously as he sets them on me.
"Amon?" I blink, taken aback by his sudden presence. "What are you doing here? What..."
I don't get to say anything else as I find myself flat against the wall, his body molded to mine, his big hand splayed over my jaw as he keeps me in place—making sure I'm looking at him directly in the eye.
"You. Danced. With. Them," he says through gritted teeth, tension radiating from him. "You let other men touch you," he rasps. "Dance with you... You're killing me, Lizzie mine."
"You weren't there," I whisper. "How could you reproach me about this when you haven't shown your face in months?"
His face contorts in pain, almost as if my words physically hurt him.
"I couldn't," he breathes, his warm air fanning my face. "I couldn't come to you. Not yet..."
"But you could write?" I raise my brows. "You could leave those damn letters on my windowsill? And for what? To give me hope where there's none?"
He shakes his head.
"You have it all wrong. Those letters were to show my commitment to you."
"Commitment?" I choke on the word. "How come I haven't seen any evidence of that?" I ask him pointedly.
"You dare question my loyalty towards you?" he raises his voice, the question seemingly getting a rise out of him. "You have no idea the things I've done for you," he hisses. "Everything I've ever done has been for you."
"For me, or for the mark I carry?" I demand suddenly.
He blinks in confusion, and with my free hand, I wrench down the neckline of my nightgown to show him my birthmark.
"I know who you are. Or, I should say, what you are," I tell him squarely, waiting to see his reaction.
How many times have I envisioned this confrontation? How many times did I imagine he would tell me this is all a misunderstanding. That he isn't the man in the illustration. That he isn't...a demon.
But one look at him and I know everything is true.
He is not...human.
And yet, why does that not scare me more? Why am I not more terrified of him and of everything he symbolizes?
Why is it that for me, demon or not, evil or not, he is just...Amon.
My Amon. The owner of my heart.
"What do you think you know?" he takes a step back, giving me some space, yet he doesn't remove his touch. His hands are still on my body, one arm snaked around my waist, the other on my jaw, slowly stroking my flesh. Despite my determination to see this conversation through, my body reacts to his nearness, a raging inferno developing in my chest—quite fitting considering his ilk.
"That you're a demon?" I tilt my head to the side, studying him and his lack of reaction. "That you're after what I can do for you, not truly for myself?"
He regards me for a moment before he chuckles.
"I see your mother told you about me. What exactly did she tell you? That I'm a monster?"
I nod.
"That I'm evil personified and I need to be eradicated at all costs?"
Again, I nod.
"And of course, that I'm only after you because of this," he says as he brings his hand to my chest, on top of my gown.
Before I can answer, though, he rips the material in two, leaving me bare and gasping.
"What..."
"I'm only after you for this, am I not?" he asks again, moving closer.
Instinctively, I take a step back as I seek to cover myself.
He doesn't let me, though.
Catching my hand, he moves it aside as he lays his palm on top of my breast, covering my birthmark. His heat transfers to my body, his touch as intoxicating as it is forbidden.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, realizing I'm seeing a different side of Amon tonight.
No longer the sweet gentleman from before—my savior—now there's an intensity to him that scares me. Yet paradoxically, I'm not afraid.
My heart beats faster in my chest as he applies more pressure on top of my skin, and I know he can sense exactly what his nearness is doing to me.
His gaze holds me captive as he lets me witness the play of emotions on his face.
Anger. Passion. Lust.
Love?
"Is that what she told you, Lizzie mine? That I'm only after this cursed mark?"
"Yes," I whisper, unable to break eye contact.
"And what do you think? Do you agree with her?" he murmurs softly, nuzzling his cheek against mine.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "She bound my abilities. That means the mark is inactive for now. But you could always..."
"It's irreversible, Lizzie. The binding spell your mother put on you is irreversible. Your mark will never be active."
I swallow uncomfortably.
My mother had never told me that. She'd implied that there was still a chance it could be useful, and that it would still attract attention.
But how could he have known? As soon as the question crosses my mind, though, I roll my eyes. Of course he would have known it. If he's such a powerful demon, he would have known it from the beginning.
"It will never be active. Yet I'm still here, aren't I?" he asks softly.
He curls his hand around my nape, bringing me closer to him until his lips hover on top of mine. All the while, his other hand is still atop of my breast, slowly caressing my skin as he brushes his thumb lightly across my nipple.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare into his eyes—into the turmoil I witness there.
"Tell me the truth, Amon. What am I to you?" I whisper, my voice almost breaking with emotion. "Are you playing with me? Is this just a game? A way to get back to the coven and my kind?"
"What if I said no?" he inquires lazily. "What if I told you that you're my entire reason for being? That you're why I wake up in the morning. Every goddamn day from the dawn of time until now. What if I told you that you belong to me in a way no woman ever belonged to a man? That I might be evil personified, but you're the only one I'll ever be good to," he murmurs huskily, his voice coated with the most potent ambrosia.
His pupils are dilated, his eyes almost black as he regards me with unfulfilled lust.
My lips part as I find it harder and harder to breathe, my chest constricting, my entire body seemingly turning against me.
"Ah, my darling girl, I know you feel it, too. You might not know why, but you will always feel this magnetic pull towards me."
I swallow hard, unable to find an adequate reply because he is right.
There are so many questions I need to ask him—so many things I still need clarified. Yet he only needs to look at me like that—like I'm the only one in the world for him—and I no longer care about anything else. Not that he is a wanted demon, nor that I am a born witch and we are on opposite sides.
I don't care about anything but this moment when he is only a man, and I am a woman.
"You are the only one in the world for me," he confesses thickly and my eyes widen in realization.
He's reading my mind—has been doing so from the very beginning.
"And I swear to you Lizzie mine. On my never-ending life, and on my damned soul. I swear to you that my desire for you is not conditional on the mark you bear. The only condition is you. Past, present, future. Always you," he drawls before his lips cover mine in a bruising kiss.
My hands go to his shoulders to push him off, yet instead, my fingers get tangled in his thick hair, pressing my lips tighter against his.
"Let me in, Lizzie," he rasps against my mouth. "Let me taste home again, my love," he says as he nibbles at my lips, slowly and expertly coaxing them open.
His words barely register. I'm too lost to sensation—to the feel of his mouth opening on top of mine, urging me to do the same. My lips slowly part, enough for him to swipe his tongue against the seam of my mouth, seeking entrance.
I don't question it. I don't wonder what is this madness that has taken over me as I open deeper, letting him in just as I meet his tongue with mine.
A loud moan escapes me as my back hits the wall once more. His knee is between my legs, rubbing me intimately just as he continues to stroke my naked breast, his thumb circling my nipple before pinching it.
"Fuck," he curses as he angles my head so he can taste me deeper, probe more intimately, feel me closer to his body just as I feel him to mine.
"Amon," I gasp, the word wrenched from my lips. "My Amon," I murmur incoherently as our mouths fuse to one another.
"That's it, Lizzie mine," he groans, sharp teeth pricking at my lower lip and drawing blood.
The pain is but a light pulsation compared to the pleasure of his embrace.
The kiss becomes increasingly heated. One hand continues to knead my breast while his other massages my nape, seducing me into surrendering to him.
It's a maddening dichotomy how he plunders what is freely given.
Yet just as I think I'm going to die if I don't feel his naked skin on mine, he's off me and at the other end of the room.
"I'm sorry," he breathes harshly. "I thought I could control myself," he swallows hard, his eyes glowing a deep red in the dimly lit room. "But you're not ready for me."
I'm slow to react, the fog of desire still clouding my mind.
"What if I am?" I bite my lip as I lower my torn gown to my waist in a daring gesture. His heated gaze dips to my naked breasts, pure hunger radiating from him.
"I fuck hard, sweetheart," he says darkly, his eyes never once leaving my chest. "You're not ready for me," a pause. "Yet."
And with that he's gone—disappearing into thin air.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the spot he just vacated, and a deep flush envelops my body.
I fuck hard, sweetheart.
Why do his vulgar words only whet my appetite for...more?
Lord Berkley doesn't come the following day, to my mother's great chagrin.
And though I'm happy about it, I can't help but think that Amon might have had something to do with it.
He hadn't been pleased to find out I'd danced with Viscount Berkley. I can't imagine how he would have reacted to us spending more time together.
Though I hadn't asked Amon any of the pending questions I have, I feel eerily calm about what happened last night.
Calm and...embarrassed.
My cheeks burn once more—for the thousandth time today—when I think about his kiss. The taste of him and how his mouth had fitted on top of mine.
It had been...pure wonder. So much so that I don't understand why he'd stopped when he had. He must have known he could have taken me right then and there and I wouldn't have protested. It might have been wrong of me to do so, but when I'm in his vicinity, all rational thoughts flee me until he's all I can think about.
Amon. My Amon.
I spend the rest of the day with a perpetual smile on my face waiting for night to come—for my Amon to visit me again.
Except, when midnight strikes, he is nowhere to be found.
There's only one small note.
Wait for me, Lizzie mine. I will soon have all the answers you seek.
Yours Eternally,
Amon
How dare he...
I blink as I read it again. And again. I read it until all the anger and frustration I'd held at bay simply explodes inside me. Crumpling the sheet of paper, I throw it into the fireplace.
My breathing is labored as I watch the flames envelop it. So much so that I can barely calm myself down.
How dare he?
He comes into my life when it's convenient for him to do so, and he easily leaves me when it's not.
How can he ask me to wait for him when all I've done so far has been waiting? Waiting and with nothing to show for it.
I've given him the benefit of the doubt against my own family's words.
I mourned him when I thought he was lost to me—I was ready to lose myself too.
And what does he do?
He just asks me to wait.
But how can I when it seems he's playing with my emotions? When he treats me like a mere stop instead of a destination?
"Damn you, Amon," I rage out loud, hoping his supernatural senses pick up on it so he will realize I'm not his plaything.
That night, in a moment of pure anger, I take out one of my mother's books and I draw protective runes all over my walls and on the windowsill, ensuring that if Amon wants to come in, he will not be able to.
Maybe this will teach him a lesson.
Days pass, and though my anger at him continues, it slowly loses momentum. It's especially hard to keep it going when it morphs into longing.
Why do I have to be so simplistic? Why does Amon have to inspire only l-type of emotions in me?
Longing. Lust. Love...
Even knowing he's a demon—that he's the definition of evil—my soul cannot stop yearning for him.
