by Lilia Ford
Declan gave him a rueful look. “No,” he said after a moment.
“I don’t understand.”
“It won’t be, but I fear that she could not bear anything more from you.” Damian looked at Declan and suddenly understood what he was suggesting. “It will be unconsciously done on her part, but she will push him until he responds. That side of Derek is strong. He will not be able to resist her need. I must know if you cannot accept this.”
Damian had now to discover the difference between an ideal, even a cherished one, and a lacerating, inescapable emotion. Those times he’d contemplated this as a possibility, he’d imagined his bride succumbing to Donal’s charm. He’d never dreamt she would be drawn to his impossible brother, let alone have a need that only Derek could satisfy. After all their lessons on the dishonor of jealousy between brothers, he was surprised that Declan wasn’t furious with him.
Damian remembered Genevieve’s words all too clearly: “Brothers can be jealous, even when they know it to be wrong and unfair. We can’t always control our feelings.” How wise she was—how glib he’d been.
“Damian?” Declan prompted.
Damian laughed humorlessly. “Even if I did mind, could I really stop it?”
“To interfere would do violence to both of their natures,” Declan said sharply. It was no joking matter. There was no greater sin in their family. “Look into your heart, Damian. If you truly cannot, I will reassign him to the demon gate.”
Even if Damian could be guilty of such a dishonorable selfishness, separating Derek and Genevieve was not an option. When it came to military matters, Declan possessed an unmatched ability to discern each soldier’s talents. By the time Damian and his brothers turned six, Declan had already decided where they would best serve and had designed their training accordingly. From the beginning, Damian had been slated for command. Though he’d trained for combat, it had taken second place to studies in strategy and the logistics of managing troops in the field.
Donal was up to mischief from the time he could walk and had a talent rivaling a Fae’s for anything that required stealth. His training had focused on activities such as sneaking across enemy lines, creating confusion in their camps, sabotaging their supplies, even quietly assassinating their commanders.
Derek’s straightforward nature made him despise all forms of subterfuge, and he had no gift for managing men. But the stubbornness that was so troublesome in other contexts made him dauntless and utterly ruthless when fighting for what he cared about. He had trained his whole life for one thing: to protect their bride and her children. There was no one Damian trusted more to keep Genevieve safe, not even Declan.
Damian forced himself to ask the question he’d avoided since the start of the Bridal Week. “What of the Reavers?” Donal and Derek had been completely silent on the topic of their enemy—too silent.
Declan shook his head. “Their spies slipped past us. They have heard of your marriage.”
It seemed he must conquer this. Damian closed his eyes, wondering at yet another unfamiliar sensation brought on by his marriage: dread. Genevieve would now be the prime target of those monsters, worse in their way than demons since they were capable of organized attacks rather than just mindless carnage. He’d known this before, all too well, since the Reavers had killed both of his parents shortly after Donal was born.
He chuckled darkly. The night before the Bridal Picnic, he’d prayed on his knees that he find someone so that he could perpetuate the Black line and thus assure the defense of the demon gate. What an idiot he was. If something happened to Genevieve would he actually care that he’d never have children? What would that be compared to the devastation of losing her? What a change three days could make in everything he thought he knew.
“Do you think I can do this?” he asked Declan.
“The bond between you and your brothers is strong. There will be some rough patches, but you will be able to cope with this. However, there is one final thing. If a scourge should appear in the heartwood box, you will summon me immediately. Neither you nor Derek will attempt to deal with that.”
“No! I won’t allow it!” Damian cried, again caught off guard by his fury at Declan. If he’d had his sword he’d have drawn it.
“Think carefully what you say, Damian,” Declan warned.
Damian blanched, stunned that he’d reacted that way. “You really think it possible she might….” He couldn’t finish. Derek disciplining her was nothing to this. The mere thought of Genevieve being subjected to such a punishment filled him with a chilling despair. He bitterly resented Declan for suggesting it—how could he even contemplate such a thing? And that Genevieve might secretly crave anything that brutal filled him with something approaching disgust.
“You will master these thoughts immediately! They are unworthy of a Black!” came Declan’s furious warning. “I would sacrifice your brother to your selfishness, but this is your bride! You accepted custody of her heartwood box, vowed at the altar to cherish her, whatever the contents are. Bad enough that you might be forsworn, but have you already forgotten that your bride’s greatest terror is that you will reject her when you discover the darker passions that lurk within her?”
Damian shuddered at the rebuke—he’d never in his life received one so well deserved from Declan. He instantly felt a deep shame, all the more inexcusable after Genevieve’s willingness to surrender completely to him, which had led to pleasures infinitely greater than he’d dared hope for. And for him to repay her sweet trust….
To his surprise, his train of thought was interrupted by Declan’s wry laugh. “Enough! None of us can survive if there are two such natures in our family.”
“Sire?”
“Damian, you were guilty of an unworthy sentiment. Forgivable so long as you recognize and repudiate it. Genevieve’s tendency to excessive self-blame is enough to deal with without you indulging in it as well. Examine your heart: is she truly capable of alienating your affections, especially for something she cannot control?”
Damian nodded slowly. Declan was right—it was impossible. “Thank you, sire, for everything.”
“The matter with your brother can wait. We will pray our enemy has their usual problems mobilizing. If all stays quiet, I will send your brothers in four days. You will have to resume the command then. In the meantime, enjoy this time. You are truly blessed in her, Damian.”
They embraced and then Declan, with the silent grace of the Fae, practically vanished into the mist. A moment later Damian heard the clatter of Nightshade’s hooves leaving the stable yard.
Declan was right: he owed it to Genevieve to make this time as happy as he could. He grinned thinking of her. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she awoke and realized she was still chained to the bed. She would be hungry. Standing in the orchard made him recall their picnic: Genevieve in her innocence opening her lips so that his rogue of a brother, who’d not an innocent bone in his body, could feed her cherries, knowing the sight must drive Damian insane with lust.
He relished the chance to teach Genevieve that such pleasures were not always innocent.
Chapter Thirteen
It was late morning when Genevieve finally opened her eyes. It seemed like every part of her body was stiff and tender in unfamiliar and tantalizing ways. There was no sign of Damian. When she tried to sit up, however, she realized her arms were still bound to the headboard.
Part of her was indignant, of course, but she could not lie to herself: the mere thought of it sent intense waves of desire through her. Everything about it stirred her: that Damian had done it, that she must wait here meekly for him to return and release her, that he might refuse and take advantage of her helpless state to do… wicked things.
Recalling some of those things, she felt a surge of wet warmth between her legs. She was still tender, but apparently her body didn’t care. She thrashed and tried to rub her thighs together, but could find no satisfaction. Perhaps if she sat up….
Shifti
ng herself around to turn sideways and lie across the head of the bed, she was able to raise herself to sit, though she was forced to keep her arms in an awkward position. The sheets and bedding were twisted about and damp from their activities, and her shift must be a disgrace. But of course, she could do nothing until Damian returned. In the meantime, she had the chance to examine the room—his room and now hers as well.
It was much larger than she’d realized, practically as large as the whole first floor of her parents’ cottage. The walls were dark grey stone broken up by tapestries on three walls and on the south wall, high mullioned windows. The windows were made of heavy lead glass, but the room was pleasantly sunny—in June at least. In February, she imagined, it would be a battle to keep the room warm, despite the presence of a large hearth on the wall adjacent to the main door.
Most of the furniture was massive and ancient looking, the wood black from age. Arranged in front of the hearth were a long divan and two deep armchairs, upholstered in a heavy brocade. Beneath the central window was a small iron table with a marble top and two chairs. Throughout the room, the colors were all dark and masculine: burgundy, dark blue, forest green, crimson.
She shivered a bit and tried to curl her knees beneath her arms. Everything in the room shouted of Damian and the Black family, this family of men where she was now the sole female. It could not be more different from her parents’ cottage, with its diminutive rooms painted in light colors, and filled to bursting with cheerful bric-a-brac.
The main door opened, and Damian entered carrying a tray with a pitcher of her favorite iced lemon water and a tall glass. He was dressed in a pair of loose linen trousers and an undyed, open-neck shirt. Genevieve swallowed nervously, wondering that the sight of him in such relaxed attire would make her desires flare even more.
“Ah, my bride is awake finally.”
She suddenly felt shy, thinking of the things they’d done the previous night. Damian placed the tray on the table next to the bed and picked up the glass. She struggled against the bonds, annoyed that she couldn’t reach it.
“Do you wish something, Genevieve?” Damian asked mildly.
Her eyes flashed, but she said with forced politeness, “Something to drink, if you don’t mind.”
He sat on the side of the bed and held the glass to her lips so she could take several deep sips and then patted her lips dry with a napkin.
“I’ve prepared breakfast, but perhaps my bride would prefer to bathe first.”
“Bath… and also….” The drink made her realize she needed to use the necessary.
“Of course. I will draw us a bath then.”
“Us?” she squeaked.
He just smiled in answer and then took her hands and unclipped the thin chains that had held them, leaving the cuffs themselves in place. Genevieve immediately pulled at them, but he caught her hands.
“No you don’t. You will now have your first rule for this room, darling. I decide when you are to be released. You are not permitted to remove your bonds—indeed, you should not even touch them.”
“Damian, that’s absurd.”
He gave her affectionate kisses on her forehead and nose. “You are free to try me, darling, and then I can give you your first lesson in how the Blacks deal with disobedient brides.”
He pulled her abruptly over his lap, grabbed her wrists behind her back, and rubbed her buttocks, letting his fingers skim across places they should never go. To her humiliation, Genevieve groaned loudly, writhing from the desires his outrageous words awakened.
He bent and gave a little nip to her ear. “We’ll save that for later, then,” he said and released her.
He pulled her by the hand through the door to the bathing chamber. The enormous tub was already half filled with water. Damian turned a faucet in the wall, and steaming water gushed out, mixing with the lukewarm water in the tub.
The necessary was enclosed, but still Genevieve never imagined using one while a man stood in the same room. It seemed she had no choice, so she went in and out as quickly as possible.
When she came out, Damian had removed his shirt, making clear he’d not been jesting about their bathing together. Despite the intimacies of the night before, Genevieve was not at all sure she was ready to bare herself in the full morning light before her new husband.
As was becoming the rule, however, Damian did not leave her to mull over what she wished for. He removed the cuffs from her wrists and before she could stop him, briskly whisked the shift from her body and helped her into the tub.
Luckily for her, there were bubbles on the surface, so she didn’t feel quite so exposed. She averted her eyes while he slipped off his trousers and got into the tub after her, causing a generous gush of water to pour over the sides. Instinct made her try to move away, but he pulled her in to lean against his chest.
He kept his arms around her, and they lay that way for some time without speaking. This is marriage, Genevieve thought with surprise. More than the passion of the previous night, resting here in Damian’s arms without any anxious need to speak was the most intimate moment they’d shared.
After a while, he began leisurely rubbing her back with a rough cloth, pushing her hair over her shoulder. He next pulled up each of her arms and washed them, carefully examining the skin on her wrists where she’d been bound.
To her embarrassment, he then pulled her body up to rest her back on his knee, so her breasts stuck out of the water. He slowly circled the textured cloth over one breast and then the other.
Up until then, the washing had been soothing without seeming overly sexual. But the rubbing, mixed with the lapping of the water and the contrasting coolness of the air, created a riot of sensations that caused her desires to abruptly fire.
Damian bore an expression of relaxed concentration and seemed in no hurry. Having finished washing her breasts, he moved the cloth over her stomach, her sides, and then her thighs, keeping well clear of her most intimate parts. The thought of the rough cloth rubbing along her cleft made her squirm and rub her legs together uncontrollably.
“Damian…” she moaned.
“My poor wanton bride, so desperate for her pleasure, but for now she must wait.”
Genevieve froze. “Damian, you don’t mean that!”
Last night they’d both been mad with lust, but today…. Wanton was almost the worst thing her mother would say of another woman.
He shifted her so he could look at her face. “You fear I mean some criticism of you, darling?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“No… I mean….” She nibbled her lip, unsure what to think.
He turned her so she was fully facing him and then to her shock adjusted her legs so she was straddling his hips. “You mean you were taught it is a wicked crime to be wanton, for a woman especially,” he said matter-of-factly.
She shrugged—of course she was taught that. It was the truth.
“My dear girl, as far as I’m concerned, it is not possible for you to be too wanton—do you believe I would lie to you about that?”
She touched his chest tentatively, watching his expression. “I know you wouldn’t lie,” she said finally.
His look was gentle. “But I might deceive you unintentionally?”
Genevieve shrugged again. People said what they wished they felt, or they offered reassurances they thought they believed—that didn’t make such things true. Damian gave her a look that was a bit too knowing. Then he made a bland smile that she didn’t trust a bit. “Damian…” she said nervously.
“My adorable new bride has implied that I did not tell the truth when I stated she could not be too wanton. That feels awfully like a dare to me.”
“No, Damian, that’s….”
“Don’t worry, darling. I am your husband, and it is my duty to teach you that I am a man of my word. In fact, I think it best that we begin our lessons immediately. I already know my bride enjoys being bound.”
He pulled her wrists behind her back and held them wi
th one hand. “I wonder,” he mused, running his tongue over her right nipple, “what other wicked things my wanton little Genevieve enjoys.”
He moved to the other breast, opening his mouth wide enough to take most of it in his mouth and sucked hard. Genevieve let out a loud groan. His arousal brushed against her, driving her almost mad with lust. She couldn’t stop herself from writhing, trying to rub against him. To her dismay, he released her and moved her off of him completely.
“Have no fear, love. I will continue the lesson after our bath. But first, it’s time to wash your hair.”
Ignoring her protests, he reached for a pitcher on the shelf next to the tub, dipped it, and poured water over her hair. He then gently rubbed rosewater scented liquid soap through the lengths, combing it out as he went. He gave her the cloth to hold over her eyes as he dipped the pitcher over and over again to rinse out the soap.
“My turn,” he said and dunked his entire head in the water, ran the soap through it, and rinsed it—the whole process took less than a minute. How easy for a man to take care of his hair!
He stood up, which gave her a quick glimpse of his naked body before she looked away, shocked at its strangeness. He wrapped a towel around his waist and took her hand to help her out of the tub.
He used another towel to dry her efficiently—too efficiently, she thought with irritation, trying to squeeze her legs again. But then, instead of giving her the towel to wrap around her, he tossed it aside and pulled her by the forearm towards the door—entirely unclothed! She pulled back, trying to cover herself.
“No, no, darling,” he said with his wickedest smile. “It’s time for your lesson. I believe we will play a little game.” Damian dragged her to stand by the edge of the bed. “Do not move!” he ordered.
Genevieve had had enough of his tyrannizing and stomped back towards the bathing chamber to fetch the towel. She should have known he wouldn’t allow it. Damian’s eyes blazed as he lifted her by the waist and carried her back to the spot where he’d placed her. Once there, he shoved her facedown over the end of the bed.