Chapter Text
Bone meets cartilage in a deafening crunch that echoes around Riorson’s makeshift fighting pit. Her hand aches, already sore from the sparring match earlier where she hit Aaric so hard in the gut he fell to his knees.
Hitting Aetos is different. Hurts in a way only he can. Destroys her from the inside out, leaving nothing but a suffocating sludge of spit and ash until it chokes her. But here, with her fist lodged into the side of his nose, she’s starting to crave that pain. Wants to feel it again as soon as she pulls her hand away and reveals scarlet. She wants to hit him again. Wants to revel in it. Doesn’t give him time to do anything besides turn his head back towards her.
Her second punch lands on his jaw and brings with it another stinging ache that crushes her bones together until they’re just as powdery as the ash in her heart and on her tongue.
She doesn’t get a third hit.
Before she can connect her fist with his cheek, his hand shoots up and wraps around her wrist like a vice, stopping it in midair. She screams, raw and guttural, as her blurry vision locks onto his face.
Blood gushes from his crooked nose. Broken. And his lip is split too, though it doesn’t offer the same glorious display of gore. At least he won’t be able to walk away from this unscathed. Won’t be as untouched as he was when he betrayed Violet. When he . . .
He presses into her, chest to heaving chest. His body is an inferno she feels even through the two layers of leathers. White hot and all-consuming. Scalding her at every point he touches her.
“Get the fuck off me, Aetos,” she says through clenched teeth and bitter rage.
She expects his voice to be muffled, either from the blood or the pain, but instead it comes out just as low and clear as ever. The voice of a wingleader. The voice that haunts her days and her dreams.
“His death will always be on my head,” he tells her fiercely, tightening the hold on her wrist when she tries to wiggle free. “Yours will not. I don’t coddle first-years anymore . . . Train. Your. Signet.”
She scoffs in his face. Stares him right in those sharp, brown, endless eyes and says, “Don’t need a signet to make you bleed, Wingleader.”
“Dain,” begins Violet, rising from her seat with wide eyes and a guilty conscience. “Don’t—”
But he doesn’t hear her. Chooses not to. Chooses to pick Sloane up by the curve of her waist and fling her over his shoulder. Like she weighs nothing. Like she is nothing.
“Aetos, what the fuck,” Aaric starts but the look on Dain’s face shuts him up quick.
Sloane doesn’t hear another sound besides the pulling of leathers and the scuffing of boots as she’s carried out of the fighting pit and into the deserted corridor.
She tries and fails to kick him. Can’t get a good enough angle to do any real damage. His hold is too tight, too torturous, too everything. But she still has her arms and hands, and she meant what she said about not needing her signet.
She’s always been a fighter. Would knock Liam out on his ass when he was least expecting it. Would be rewarded with an easy smile and a disbelieving head shake. Her brother had learned eventually to stop underestimating her. She guesses it’s time Dain Aetos learns the same.
Her fists come down hard and fast against his wall of muscle. She tries to land her punches in places she knows will hurt. Digs her knuckles into the ridges of his spine. Embeds them into his flesh by pure force alone.
He doesn’t even break stride. Repositions her on his shoulder and continues walking. Like she’s nothing more than a pawing kitten.
She screams again. Loud and raw until she chokes on her own salty tears.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She was never meant to be here without Liam. Her rock. Her blood. Her brother. The best of everything in this cruel, damned world.
She sobs as she rages, aiming for his shoulders now. His neck. His temple. Wiggles around in his grip until it loosens and throws her to the hard, damp floor.
It takes her a minute to realize what’s happened. Looks around for some familiarity but is only greeted by the dark, dusty confides of a closet. A closet. He couldn’t even be bothered to take her to a proper room.
“Are you done?” he asks, voice hard and rough as gravel.
“Fuck you,” she says, jumping to her feet and pushing at his wide chest.
He’s immovable. Infallible. He’d been waiting for another attack.
His hands find her wrists again, pinning them to her sides with an ease that’s shocking. He shouldn’t be able to do that. Not with how much she’s trained. Not with how strong she’s become in her short time at Basgaith.
Thoirt calls down the bond. Senses her distress.
Fierce one, she says—voice soft and pained. Let the wingleader help you.
It’s a betrayal so ugly and cutting, Sloane feels it in her bones. Slicing through the dense shell and infesting the marrow. It burns, and she burns with it.
She shuts down the bond. Just like that. Locks the door in her mind and throws away the key. It’s too much. It’s all too much, and she needs to feel less in order to survive this. Needs to build up her walls in ice instead of this roaring fire inside her if she ever plans on making it. And she must make it. Must push through for Liam. Her brother. Her blood.
Dain still holds on tight, knuckles turning white with the effort but never faltering. Never swaying. Stays rooted in place like his legs are wide trunks tethered to the earth.
“Mairi,” he says, quieter than before. Softer than she’s ever heard him.
It only serves to enrage her more.
“Fuck you,” she repeats, her flimsy wall of ice melting. The fire is too much. The rage is palatable. It tastes like salt and ash and the bitter taste of an earth scorched.
She spits in his face. Watches her saliva mix with his blood. Sees his eyes turn black as they’re swallowed up by his pupils. His nostrils flare. He grunts like an animal. It vibrates in the back of his throat like he’s trying his hardest to remain contained.
But then she smirks, self-satisfied even though it does nothing to stifle the pain. But she’s wanted to do it for a long time, and it makes her feel just the tiniest bit human.
The smirk Dain returns is all animal, though. She gets a glimpse of his blood-stained teeth. And for some wild, thoughtless moment she wonders what it might be like to lick them clean.
His grip moves from her wrist to her face. Capturing her cheeks in his calloused fingers. His touch is bruising. Scrunches up her mouth until it pops open like a fish. Her teeth rattle. Her head is dizzy. She pulls sharp inhales through her nose, but her lungs still burn and ache and splinter.
He wrenches her head back. Looming over her. Glaring into her eyes. Seeing all the broken, fractured, burning parts of her soul.
And he spits into her mouth. Works his tongue over his teeth. Collects the very blood she imagined herself tasting and hawks it into her pried jaw.
She chokes in surprise. Tries to snatch herself out of his grip, but his fingers dig into the indents of her jaw until the tips touch with nothing but her sore cheeks between them.
She can’t move. Can’t protest. Can’t do anything but swallow down the bloody, filthy load and glare up at those black eyes.
She knows about his signet. Knows how with just a simple touch to the face, Dain can watch all your memories unfold. See for himself the life you’ve lived and the choices you made. Can pass judgment and condemn you to life or death.
She wonders what he thinks about her. What he sees when he looks into her life. Wonder what he feels knowing that she’s no longer the innocent girl she once was. No longer knows how to feel anything but hate and rage and the all-consuming inferno within her bones.
He doesn’t pull her memories. Instead, he does the unthinkable.
He kisses her.
It’s just as hard and punishing as his grip. His assault is unrelenting. Like he’s been wanting. Like he’s been waiting. Like he might find the answers in her mouth. Might see forgiveness on her tongue. Might have absolution tracing the edges of her teeth.
It’s easy letting him in. Much easier than she ever imagined to give up the fight. To lay down her weapons, her hands, her damnation and just be. To just feel him and nothing else.
Soon, her hands are no longer pinned to her sides but pulling at the strands of his hair. Forcing his mouth harder into her. Crushing his head in her grip until his broken nose smashes into her cheek and smears hot blood onto her skin.
His hands don’t stay in one place. They move just as quick and lethal as they do on the mat. On the battlefield. They snake around her waist. Pull at her leathers. Try to find any trace of skin they can only to come up short.
He growls in her mouth, and Sloane has never felt more empty in her life.
His palms drop further down. Catching her ass and hauling her up until her legs instinctively wrap around his hips and her core is flushed against him.
He’s hard. So hard it must be painful. So hard she can feel every line, every ridge through his thick leathers. She doesn’t know how that’s possible. Doesn’t know how someone with so much power could be blessed by the Gods with such a huge cock too.
It’s unfair. It’s wrong. It’s a betrayal of all she knows.
But she needs him inside her.
Grateful to finally taste something besides ash, the tang of metal spurs her on. She wrenches one hand from his hair and snakes it between them, palming his length.
“Fuck,” he chokes into her mouth. Returns the favor by nipping at her tongue.
“That’s the idea,” she says between violent kisses.
It’s all the permission he needs.
Her back hits the wall so hard she gasps, but she doesn’t stop pulling at his leathers. His fingers do the same, unraveling the knots of her pants until he can shove them down her thighs.
When his fingers dip between her folds, she bucks into his hand. Feels how easy he sinks them into her wet cunt. Should be embarrassed but can only thank the gods. Knows she’s gonna need all the help she can get.
“So wet for me, Mairi,” Dain says.
It’s condescending, but she doesn’t care. Just pushes herself further down onto his fingers. Rides his hand in earnest. Uses him to fill herself up.
But it isn’t enough. Of course it isn’t. She knows better. Knows she’ll only be satisfied when he’s buried balls deep. Ruts into her until she sees stars and Malek and all the souls commended to Him.
“Stop talking,” she says between bites to his bloody lips.
She pushes his fingers away and reaches into his pants to pull out his cock.
It’s leaking already. Pearly white precum glistens in the low light of the closet, and Sloane wonders if it’s just as salty as her tears. Knows she won’t ever find out. Choosing instead to guide it to her entrance. Rubs the head against her slick folds until Dain whimpers. He fucking whimpers, and it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard.
“Do it,” she says, voice low and full of something she can’t quite place. Something dark. Something dangerous.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at her with his black eyes. Runs his thumb over her swollen lip. Presses his head against her cunt and pushes himself in with one long thrust.
He rips her apart. Drives in and out of her. Ruts into her aching cunt and grunts into her neck until his teeth bite down on her flesh.
Her scream is choked. Turns into a moan just as he rubs against her clit. The waves build. Torrential and unyielding. There’s no stopping her ascent as she climbs, climbs, climbs. Until she’s perched on the precipice, threatening to tip over.
Dain knows. Feels how close she is with every thrust. Feels her walls clench around his cock.
He stops thrusting. Keeps himself sheathed inside her. Pulses with every breath he takes. Moves his fingers to her clit. Rubs tight, slow, little circles that make her heart flutter and her pussy throb.
“How do you come, little devil?” he rasps into her ear. “Is it pretty like your face or violent like your mouth?”
His fingers start to move faster. She squirms on his cock. She whines. Keens. Begs for him to move.
“Show me,” he demands as he pulls his cock all the way out of her until there’s nothing left inside but the blunt tip. “Show me how you come.”
He pounds into her, and Sloane sees stars. She sees Malek. She feels her soul leave her body and feels herself descend into madness.
He comes with her. Shooting his thick load into her cunt, painting her walls in white ropes that seep out of her with every shallow thrust.
A small, rational part of her panics.
He shouldn’t have done that. She’s not on anything. Hasn’t needed to be. Hasn’t wanted to be. Not since last year when everything turned to dark ash.
Reality is coming back in an unforgiving rush that leaves her dizzy and sore and even more aching than before.
He pulls out of her. Sets her down on her feet. Doesn’t bother wiping their cum off his cock before tucking it back into his leathers.
She won’t look at him. Can’t bring herself to meet his eyes when her cunt is still sticky and leaking. When it still somehow craves to be filled again.
She wrenches her own leathers up her thighs. Feels them snag on the cum and sweat. Ties them up anyway. Just needs to cover herself up enough to make it to her bath.
Dain runs a messy hand through his hair. Has given up on trying to catch her eye. Sighs so deeply Sloane is sure she feels it in her bones.
“Train your signet, Mairi,” he says, and it’s the final nail in the coffin.
The rage is back. Burning just as hot in her empty chest.
She pushes her hair out of her face. Squares her shoulders and meets his dark eyes.
They’re no longer black, but the warm, soft brown she’s grown to expect.
“Go get mended, Aetos.”
She brushes past him. Doesn’t turn around when she yanks the closet door open. Doesn’t hear another word from him when it bangs shut behind her.
She goes to her bedroom. Locks the door. Peels the tight clothes off her body and sinks into her empty bathtub.
Her thighs are smeared in cum. Her head pounds. Her fingers shake.
She licks her teeth and tastes blood.