#foreverheart

POV: NIKITA

The chapel stands empty, the stars yet to break out from behind the clouds. The sky crying ink and shadow, falling to the blackened sea below. Wind rocks against the stone walls. The saint's eyes seeming to follow with every step, and the glass tapestry of the old gods whispering in the movement of the darkness. At the head of the chapel; framed in delicate glasswork and stormclouds. With one hand, Hel, goddess of the dead covers her eye, the other, palm forward, pointed down. Shadows falling in rivelets between her fingers to creatures rising at her feet, fangs long and eyes black. 

Bowing my head, assuming that is the custom in houses of the old gods, not that I would know. The tome Lildth had given me tucked beneath my arm. The smell of slowly disintegrating paper tingling my nose. I turn towards the confessionals. Opening the door inscribed with latticework and sitting down on the oak prayer stand. The spine of the book creaking as I open it. 

A plum of dust and broken inked words falling each time I turned a page. Is this bullshit that interests her? I hiss accidentally tearing a page. Where is it? The story of the Redeemer and his brother? My teeth grinding as I reach the end, my fangs biting into my tongue. I slam it close, the sound echoing off the saint-etched pillars. 

I flinch back at the silence of soft footsteps. Steadying the rage beneath my skin I peak out through the craved wood. Fucking fuckwit bastard, ye art, Nikita. 

He stands in the aisle looking up at the half-dead goddess. His pale hands hang at his sides, no shadows weaving forward, too afraid to touch his beauty they lay back. I move further into the confessional, my hands gripping at the messed hem of my sleeves. From between the cracks I see him tilting his face towards mine, like a statue in the halls of Heaven. He walks closer, carefully as though I am but a mouse he is afraid of fearing away. I had left my weapons and clearly my sense in my room and from the looks of it he has too. Not that he needs blade or wit to kill me. I stand against the wall, watching as he treads closer. 

His hand slips into the door, opening. He looks me up and down and I pray he cannot recognize me. “Nights’ blessings, sweet Nikita.” His voice soft as moonlight on clouds. My hand still clutches the tome. His eyes staring between me and the book. “I fear, I ne’er took thee for the religious kind.” 

“It fails to interest me.” My voice sharper than I meant it to. 

“Untill now, clearly…” a small smile briefing his lips, leaning his silhouette against the door frame. 

“H-how-” I stutter, losing my words as I search his eyes. “How in a two thousand paged book thou art not named once? In a book older than the damned stars by the look of it, ye art not named nor hinted at nor mentioned? The firstborn of the Mothermaid and people only know thee through tales. Most tall at that.” 

His eyes, unblinking, look at me, “The books of time shall ne’er forget my own brother, half-brother he was to me, though still, my brother.” 

I try to tear my sight from him, eyes like the darkness between stars, peering into my soul and blackening my heart. Will mine own eyes look like that one day? “But what is eventually forgotten may ne’er exist. So they seldom mention poor Fabien, though great as I am.” Looking behind him into the vast cathedral he waits a heartless breath. “Doth thou wish for me to retire? To leave thee to thy hollow books and broken prayers?” 

I watch his face, the moonlight falling across marble skin. His hair - often combed perfectly - messed, with small tresses brushing his cheeks. “No.” He turns back to me, moving into the confessional, crowding me in. 

Only now does he kiss me, deep and soft and slow. Our fangs run over the plump flesh of lips as he slips his hand to the small of my back, drawing me close. His frockcoat tumbling to the floor as we stumble and crash into the prayer ledge, nearly falling. He lets out a chuckle against my neck. If only I had a pulse, if only he could hear my racing heart instead of my racing mind. His fingers finding the hem of my shirt pulling it up and off me. My own tugging my leathers and boots down, my clothes now draped over the floor of the room. Flipping me around and bending me over as I murmur, “Ye art but still clothed…” 

“Relax, Nikushka.” He hisses as my hips buck against the feel of his tongue. My eyes open realizing no one has ever done this to me. His hands tighten around my thigh and hip as he growls. 

A moan escaping my throat as he continues. “Fabien-” 

“Ye forget thyself…” his voice soft yet threatening. 

“Master, p-please take me.” My belly filling with butterflies at the look on his face. All of me now trembling. 

My motionless heart galloping as he slowly undoes his corset, throwing his shirt to the floor and pulling at the strings of his leathers. I feel his eyes roam the bend of my back, the dimples at the base and the curve of my ass below. My hands gripping the wood as I slowly part my legs. Feeling every bit of myself now at his mercy. 

He spits into his fingers before he runs himself between my cheeks. I push back against him, pleading, needing anything. I groan into the wood as he slips a little inside me, one slow agonizing inch, all of me burning with want. But he holds himself still. I feel his fingers trace along my spine, smirking as I shiver. A long growl of protest slipping past my lips as he withdrawals, turning into a groan as he runs himself over me again, teasing, smiling as I whimper into the prayerstand. He continues to smile as he slowly pushes into my warmth, both of us growling in unison. 

My cries echoing off the walls as he grunts into my ear. My head pulled back by his hand in my hair, baring my neck to him. His lips peel back as he sinks his fangs deep in my neck, the pleasure of the Kiss rocking through my body and ripping a scream from my throat. I tighten around him, my eyes rolling back as I feel a tugging in my abdomen. His drinking and fucking me bringing plea after plea to my lips. Spine arching as I cry again, eyes open. My grip on the planks of wood shattering them as he floods into me and myself onto the floor and the mess of clothes at our feet. 

Only then does he retreat from my neck and ass, smiling at me. Myself still spread open like an offering on an altar. The King I gave myself to still between my legs, our gazes mingling in the air. “Mayhapes we stay here a moment longer?” I ask as he pulls away. 

“Dawn is near my darling, we must abed.”