Black Briar (9 page)

The
gargouille
stiffened, face going slack with pleasure as he ate his way deeper, caving forward until he’d covered her lithe body with his. If felt like a grave.

Dig.
His nails tore into her wrists as he pinned.
Dig…deeper.

Legs straight, almost parallel. Sprawled and melting into each other. Their mouths fused, black and blonde tresses wound together in the flowers. She imagined that is how Tristan and Isolde were found that once upon a time. Or perhaps it was Romeo and Juliet. Hades and Persephone.

And my, were those tragic fucking tales…

But still, what would it be like if he was the emperor, and she were the veins of his countries and sprawling cities united. What if she could be the dragon and he the tamer? What if she could be the black, bottomless sky Nova shone in for all time?

Perhaps this
gargouille
would be her home. Perhaps he would accept the responsibly of being the fire that warmed her every single night. Perhaps they would exist in a holy circle, half-black and half-white, chasing one another in an endless perpetuity of love and war, destruction and creation, and an enduring reckless devotion to both. Serenity. At last.

Nothing was forever, but they could write their own tale. She’d always promised herself that if she could find a home, if she could steal her mother away and set brick into place with her own two hands, perhaps she would find peace. Maybe she’d plant a garden like the one her gargoyle had shown her with these dreams. Perhaps there was joy to be found in crafting with light. In learning to mold with both mediums.

Perhaps if she decided to call somewhere home, the broken piece might start…healing.

Visions of a future…

Fickle and weak, skewed and seldom what they seemed…

Or wasn’t that how the tale was told?

Sybille tore her mouth from his, chest rising and falling as she panted. She pierced Nova’s flushed mouth with a sharp look. “What did the witch offer you? What was the pact, Nova?” She flashed her dull, white teeth. “Was this,” her legs dropped open like a crass cadaver, “what the Hag promised you? Are we turning back the clock to the Dark Ages? Did she promise you my hand in marriage? Am I chattel? Am I to be claimed like winnings?” He opened his mouth, and she snapped. “Answer me properly, goddamn you. No more riddles.”

The
gargouille
oozed between her legs, accepting her unwelcoming invitation with grace, and pinned her to the grass with harsh hands. His mouth teased the curl of her ear, his breath burning it. “There is no need to claim what is already mine.”

Shut up.
She tried to lift her arms, tried to shove him off her, but he’d staked her with both body and mind. They were in his sphere of control, in his part of the Fade. Without severe exertion on her part, she was right wherever he wanted her.

“Sybille,” he whispered, hands slipping down her rib cage. “What if I told you that the Hag offered me nothing? That I wanted you to come, so I asked a favor? That I had never intended to arrive wounded, but was attacked by a rabid animal on my way home from the second shift at Club Brimstone. What if I told you that I’ve tried to forget and I can’t? Would you forgive me?”

He…lied? Was he serious, right now? Hers was the type of gargoyle who frowned whenever the cap was left off the toothpaste, how was he living with himself having turned to this life of sin and trickery? How could she be worth it? To him, was she worth…honor? Was she worth…anything?

“Sybille,” he kissed her neck, “what if I said that you move me and I am helpless to go against it?”

Shut up.

Hysterical tears lined her thick blonde lashes as he eased the fabric up her thighs, the look in his eyes—the mastery there. The confidence. The serenity. “What if when you look me like that, I want to conquer,” he rent her skirt down the side, “all of it.”

Yes, yes, but what did he know of nightmares?

What did he know of waking up, only to cry out in agony because you hadn’t simply died in your sleep? What did he actually know of a girl named Sybille?

He crushed his mouth to hers and her eyes drifted closed.
Everything.

Twin dragons embraced, they smoldered into one another’s mouth. Tenderness and pain, and the graceless beauty of
absolutely
needing both. Nova started to pull away and she doubled up from the blossoms, rising like a corpse from the grave to wrap her arms around his neck. He hissed a little noise of surprise in her mouth, like he really hadn’t been sure he was winning up until that point. As if there could ever be a day he lost. Never. Not him.

And there was nothing to fear here. Just white cicadas fluttering in the breeze. She was safe. Stone was so soft. Even when she was screaming, she was safe tucked beneath his bulk. He was heavy, pressing her so far into the bed she was crushing the flowers beneath her. Skirts from a long, simple, white dress she’d never seen before were bunched at her waist in a wanton knot. Cool air kissed her skin and her legs shook around his narrow hips.

He caught her milky thighs with calloused hands and pulled them higher up around his waist as he laid wet and reverent kisses down the side of her neck, sucking softly on the intimate curve as his spine curved into a flex against her center. Contact—even through clothing, it felt like being electrocuted with desire. Fever running. Hot. Blistering. Anything to scrabble closer to the heat. Nothing to fear.

And then…

Nothing.

He was gone.

Completely and utterly vanished. The Fade vanished behind a blink and Sybille found herself lying on top of silk sheets in a shadowed bedroom.

Groggy. Weak. Tired. She was awake again, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of so much pain. From within and without. She almost felt like she was glowing yellow. Irradiated, saturating the room around her with poisonous radioactive fumes. “Nova,” she croaked, searching by way of the moonlight spilling through the barred windows.

 
“Nova…” She curled her fingers into the plush sheets.
I’m…scared.

Pinpricks of awareness needled her skin. She was being watched.

Her eyes drifted up to the massive winged idol dwarfing her, a gothic princess’s canopy and sentinel. Clawed feet biting into the flat of the massive stone headboard, her
gargouille
“slept” poised over her bed like Cerberus. In slumber, Nova was forced into full-shifted gargoyle and was completely taken over by rock, wings and horns bared to beautiful effect. Sightless soapstone eyes. Windows no more.

It was written that the span between gargoyle waking and slumber hours would shorten until they never woke again. That was their version of death. There was no warning. There was never an indication that this would be their last dawn, so they lived with death. They did not fear it, nor did they give it inappropriate power over their psyches. It was a constant. Natural. And it was always accepted with grace.

Well, most of them accepted it with grace. Not her gargoyle.

Nova refused to meet Death without proper introduction for the lady at his side.

“Nova?”

She lifted a pale hand and the
gargouille’s
stone skin livened into shades of silver, eyes snapping open. Awakened. Black eyes cut the darkness to ribbons, as he peered between his flanks to the witch reaching for him, arm growing up from the bed like a tower.

Fingers and talon touched. One single, precious moment of stolen time.

He climbed off the post, and gray clawed fingers were cold and large, swallowing hers. Thick calf muscles contracted as he found footing and she pressed her thighs together to smother the painful pang of desire. Lips chapped and cold, yearning for the smooth creases of his sinful bend. “Why are we here?”
Why did you stop?

“Just a dream. Not enough.” His voice was harsh, hoarse. Each individual muscle etched into his granite torso was flexed, tense. Wings open, but pinned back. He stood with an angel’s ballast and rent his hose with sharp claws, tearing them from his legs. Fabric clinging stubbornly to his menacing muscles like a worthless second skin. “Never enough.”

“But…”

Sybille was stunned into silence as he fell over her like a meteor shower. Sprawled over her body, he pressed it down into the mattress. His weight nearly collapsed her lungs, but he braced himself on his elbow after a moment, lingering long enough to catch her necklace in his teeth and tug. “Stay.”

He used his knee to urge her legs farther apart. Her body tingled as his slick talon traced a gentle path over the curve of her modest sopping black panties. “Wet, so…”

Shut up.
She snapped up off the bed and swallowed his crass words with a kiss, nails clinging to her shoulders.
Just put me out of my misery. Murder me.

The
gargouille
tore her underwear from her in one harsh pull, jerking her upper-body deeper into the pillows. Fabric cut into her sensitive flesh, material rending in the silence and warm air teased her skin. She begged against his mouth, “Nova…”

“Don’t beg.” He nibbled on her lip, bloodying it with a gentle nick. “Makes little difference.”

The tiny splice in her bottom lip burned and her clit throbbed. “Nova, please….”

A growl vibrated in his naked chest and suddenly she was wearing too much. Sybille pushed at his shoulders and tried to wriggle her hand and get a grip on her dress. It felt like cage. Everything was closing in on her. Air. Why wasn’t there any air…?

She scrabbled, abused nail beds cringing in pain.
I can’t…

“Breathe,” he snarled in her ear. “I’m not going anywhere. The dress remains. I
like
it.” He flexed his length against her sopping wet center and her pussy clenched. Furious. Needy. Wanting him. He caught her wrists. They were wheat stalks in his massive hands as he crucified her to the bed. “Stay still.”

The
gargouille
peered at her, daring her to disobey, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he simply wasn’t in the mood. Tonight would be about nothing but obedience. Pure and simple submission. Or else.

And if she disobeyed, what would he do to her? Her insides melted, her mind taken with the wicked things he’d already done to her. Creative. Her gargoyle was creative. And so deliciously ruthless about punishment. It was always terrible. Painful, humiliating. The kind of soul-rending erotic torture that left her shaking and needy. So very, very needy.

She lolled into her pale waves, squeezing her eyes shut as the words deflated her chest and left her utterly open. “Yes…Sir.”

“Sybille.” He melted on top of her, completely undone and pressed a sweet kiss behind her ear, burning the curl of her ear with a guttural purr, “There is no shame in serenity.”

Her eyes fluttered open. He pulled back. Eye contact.
 

No fear. Never fear. Clarity.

Her bottom lip trembled and her hands sought his shoulders. “Promise?” she whispered.

He sealed the oath with a deep, languid kiss, swallowing her little cries of remorse and sorrow. He had no eyelashes, didn’t need them. But she watched his eyes sweep closed, his entire being willingly lost to her and she was lost. She’d never be able to help it again. She was his. Wholly his.

Nova.

She would stay wherever he would continue to give her wings. The
gargouille’s
mouth twitched as if he’d heard her thoughts and he rewarded her with his firm hands pushing up her legs, bending them at the knees. He pushed them until they were folded up high. Leaving her vulnerable and completely open beneath him. Eyes squeezed shut, Sybille curled her fingers into the mattress, the spindle pendant suddenly heavy. The glittering chain pulled tight against her windpipe, choking her. She barely managed breath…

I’m scared.

She didn’t know why. She’d lain with him time and time again. She’d let him do despicably wonderful things to her. Leaving her bruised and broken the next morning. And she’d never been so pleased. Kept coming back for more. But tonight, every touch was too much. Her skin was singing. Smarting. Itchy.

Gaping up at the sex swing, the leather and metal, her eyes widened as visions of asylum bars flashed before her eyes.
Nova…