Spiral Into The Known's Books

Summer heat baked the dry dirt. She’d slipped off the boots he’d given her long ago, when the sun was still low enough to call mid-morning. It was high now. Close to noon. The birds hid in their nests, quiet save for the burble of water pouring into the pool from the gentle falls. Hot wind teased the canopy with a gentle murmur. 

There was no escaping Lord Cyr. He found her fastest when she ran. The pounding of her feet, drawing him to her. But today Gwen was not trying to outrun him. Today she played a different game. The scrub hid her well; her bare feet silent as she slid closer.

Silent as a stalking wolf.

Lord Cyr’s back turned on her, and Gwen intended to keep it so. Even in summer, he wore his cloak. Lighter than its winter brother. The black of a raven’s feathers. He made no effort to blend into the forest, scanning the trees as he hunted her.

He would not scent her. She’d shed her clothing long ago. Rubbed dirt into her skin from the riverbank to hide the perfume of his soaps. She darted forward, a rock hiding him from her view for a few dangerous moments.

She heard his sigh. The soft tut of his tongue.

“Where has she got to?” Amusement, not anger.

It had been the same for two months. Spring had turned to true summer, and every few days, he rode them out to the prince’s forest. Every time he released her with the same command. 

Run.

There was a tree near him. It would require darting through the open air to get there. But once there, it was only a few quick steps. Then it would be done. His head tilted back, arms folded as he eyed the sky. 

Gwen slipped out from behind the rock, on the balls of her feet as she padded across the hard dirt. Crouched below his eye-line. The tree shielded her. The wind tugged at his dark hair, separating the strands. She stilled at the sharp intake of his breath. Drawing too much air into his lungs.

“Gwendolen.” Her name echoed through the trees, a shout. “I have food ready.” He’d tricked her that way once before. “Gwendolen—” he turned towards the boulder she’d just abandoned. “There’s cheese.” 

His back to her once again. There was no better time. 

She sprang from her crouch. Two hard steps as his shoulder turned. No cry left her lips. Gwen leapt for him—

And found empty air. She shrieked as momentum carried her forward. Past wet rocks.

She slapped the water with a splash that jarred her teeth. The pool closed over her head, frozen from the fall. Deep enough for her to sink the few feet to the bottom. It was silent there, peaceful, and so hideously cold.

Gwen sprang back up, spitting water from her mouth as she broke the surface. Heart pounded in her ears, burning with the shock of the cold.

His deep laughter echoed. Water dripped in rivulets from her hair. Down her naked skin. Every muscle tight from shock, she gasped.

“Oh, you little beast,” he brushed a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “Clean yourself off, then. Lunch can wait.”

Gwen glared at him. “I had you!”

His mouth curled at the corner. “Did you?”

Mockery and challenge from a pair of too knowing eyes. She’d been so sure he tricked him. Yet the reverse seemed true. He’d lured her in. For mercy’s sake, he’d marked her.

Gwen’s scowl deepened. “When did you know?” 

He brushed the edge of his cloak, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “You kicked a few rocks loose when you were on the cliff, before you scrambled down into the gully.”

Her hand slapped the water, aiming to splash him. He stepped back again, and the spray crashed harmlessly on the rocks.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Lord Cyr said. “Scrub that mud off your cheeks, and then we can eat.” His eyes hardened. “I’m not letting you out of the pool until you’re clean.”

Gwen wrapped her arms around herself. Her lips stung. 

“It’s cold.”

“If only you’d considered that before you wallowed in the mud like a piglet.” His brow rose. “When did you become too good to wash in the river?”

She huffed before she sank down, dipping below the surface to scrub at her skin. The water was cold enough to knock the air from her lungs. She winced at the sting. Cupping her hands to splash her face. It was not a relief from the summer’s heat. Rather, a punishment. Gwen glowered, her mood growing fouler. Her teeth clicked together, chattering.

She’d abandoned her clothes in the forest. Conscious that the rustle of the fabric would catch his fæ ears. Now, though. She was cold, wet, and naked. Water lapping around her shoulders, but cold as it was, the breeze would make standing worse as it spread the frozen water across her skin.

“Hurry, Gwen.” Lord Cyr inspected his nails for dirt. Clean and shiny as if he’d only just bathed. “I’m hungry.”

She rose again, crouching to climb over the slippery rocks. It was harder to get out, then it had been to get in. Gwen was lucky she’d leapt so far. Any shorter and she’d have cut herself on the rocks. If only she’d hit him, he would have gone down hard.

Stone turned to grass under her feet, and Gwen wrapped her arms around her chest and covered her cunny.

“Lord Cyr,” she said. He spared her a glance, gaze catching and holding on her bare skin. “I need to collect my clothes. It’s not far to where I left them.”

He reached for the neck of his cloak, unclasping it from around his shoulders. Lord Cyr smiled as he draped it over her. Closing it gently around her neck. 

“Your lips are turning blue.” His eyes lingered on her mouth before they dropped lower. The heat of the day clung to him. Sun-baked skin and sweat. “Oh, Gwen, you’re frozen.”

His palm covered her breast, tugging at her nipple pebbled from the cold.

“That simply won’t do.”

Gwen swallowed, her throat tight. She knew what came next. What always came after he caught her.

“The knights are close.” Gryff and Ander were always near when they left the castle.

Sometimes Gwen’s flight would take her by one of them. She’d spot them amongst the trees. Standing guard, in case of any true danger. An audience for each chase. She doubted they bothered to take bets. Her captor always won.

“They’ll make themselves scarce.” He gripped her shoulder, pushing her downward.

“Please, Lord Cyr.” Her hand dropped to her stomach, careless of her modesty. “I have hunger.”

“Not that much of it.” His eyes darted between hers. He always knew. When she hungered or thirsted. When she was scared or sad. “One more try, Gwen. Lie back for me. Spread your lovely thighs.”

One more chance for this act to be soft between them, before he pinned her down and fucked her like a beast. Snarling and growling. 

It never ceased to terrify her when he turned. Worse still was the feeling it drew from her. The fear and anger that burned inside her. 

She yielded to the pressure of his touch, letting him push her down. His cloak spread beneath her as she lay back. Her body protected from the dirt, his forearm slipped behind her head. A pillow made of strength. Her thighs hooked around his hips. Leather pressed against her skin. His breath caught as he leant down. Burnt as his mouth touched her chest. Hotter for the chill of the pool. He groaned. It was shallow. Sweet. The sound a man might make.

He rubbed against her, and Gwen let her mind drift. Her cheek pressed into his elbow as she lost herself to the sensation. The gentle touch of his fingers. The press and catch of heat as he entered her.

She matched his groans with her own and let it be sweet. Allowed him to breathe warmth and spread silk against her skin. Fill her belly with heat. Let her fingers pass through the silken locks of his hair. In his arms, with the hush of their mingling breath, the whisper of the forest around them and the warm breeze, was the closest Gwen came to peace.

When he was done, satisfied and sated, he’d lift her. Carry her wherever he’d left their meal. Feed her berries from his hand and tease her with words and kisses. It would not be the first time they’d returned to the keep with her bare but for the shield of his cloak.

In these moments, these few gentle moments, she forgot he was her captor. That he’d stolen her and locked her away. Hunted her across the deadlands and stood by when the nightwalker murdered her brother. Let go of all his crimes. His cruelty seemed a distant dream when he held her like this.

What would it have been like had Thora never found her in the forest? If he had not bullied her into surrendering her maidenhead to him? She could almost pretend he’d shown her kindness, rescued her from starvation and forced Lord Firan to leave her be. Visited her often through the months of winter. Won her heart with gentle words and his teasing grin. 

Gwen could imagine he’d kissed her long before he forced himself upon her. Trick her mind into believing he’d never called her a pig or a whore. That their first time he’d taken her gently as he did now and that the world was as it had been. He was her lover, and this was a stolen hour in the woods. When it ended, he would return to the castle, and she to the forge. She’d leave with a smile, wishing that the next time she saw him could come already, even as they parted.

In moments when his lips touched hers, and she cried sweet pleasure into his mouth, she forgot the fæ did not love. 

It almost felt as though he did.

~

Gwen’s cheek rested against his chest. Her body curled around him. She was truly hungry now. Cyr could feel the ache in his gut, but sated and exhausted. It was so hard to move. When the air was lazy and even the bugs were too tired to stir. He was sweating in the shade, and yet her weight did not bother him. 

Could never bother him.

He should move, but not yet. Better to savour this moment, whilst it was his. He traced the curve of her hip. The gentle swell that he wanted to mark with his kisses. But not this time. Today he would give her the sweetness of a memory worth clinging to.

“It will be some time until you hunt me again.” Cyr broke the contented silence, though he had no wish to.

She stiffened in his arms before she turned. Lifting her ear from his heart to rest her chin there instead.

“It will?” 

How strange that it had turned from him stalking her to the reverse. Their time in the forest had grown into a game between the two of them, that brought her smile as much as her scowl. Banished the distance from her eyes as piece by precious piece she returned to him.

“Prince Lorién’s emissaries will arrive tomorrow.” The bone of her hip was still hard under his thumb. No longer sharp. “We will host them here a few days before we depart for Flamehold.”

She blinked once. A slow dip of her lashes, as though she were halfway to dozing.

“I will have to entertain them.” He would rather do anything else.

Her brow furrowed. 

“Will I—” her words caught, fear sudden and bright in her eyes. Lorian’s fæ were the creatures of nightmare to her. Stories the women of Stormharth whispered to their children to scare them into line. “Wi—”

He caught her cheek before she could retreat, pressing his lips to hers. A kiss to fill the silence left by words she feared to speak. Today, she’d been bold. For a stretch that had felt terrifyingly long, he’s lost sight of her. Noting the pile of her clothes, her boots hidden behind a rock. 

His heart caught in his chest. Calm had not returned to him until he’d heard the rockfall. Realised that she was not running.

No.

His little huntress had turned the game on its head. It had brought an ache to his chest. Warmth that came dangerously close to pride. She had learned well enough that he had lost her a few times. In the end, he’d been forced to draw her out.

“You will be with the prince,” Cyr said; she turned to stone in his arms. “He will not touch you, Gwen. But if you strike him, it is his right to strike back.” Better she knew to keep her claws to herself. “He must be your guardian. If Lorién’s fæ believe you to be his favourite, they cannot touch you.”

If they suspected she was his, it would put a target on her back. He had few friends amongst Tristrian’s cousins, people. Her throat cracked as she swallowed, fingers twisting in his shirt. Their enemies must never know how precious she was to him.

She was a dangerous weakness. One that Lorién would surely exploit. Yet Cyr could not be parted from her. There lay the impasse. He could not keep her by his side. Could not leave her in Stormharth.

It had been Dara’s suggestion, and the prince had recoiled as surely as Cyr. The very thought, sitting like lead between them.

Humans were not welcome in Flamehold. But a prince was not bound by laws. If Tristrian declared Gwen as his concubine, then to hurt her would be an act of war.

“Lord Cyr.” Her eyes were too bright. Dangerously close to tears. “I cannot.”

He took a slow breath, forcing himself to be calm. He did not wish to waste this moment. To ruin it with tears or anger. He would have so little time to hold her. His days spent apart from her, when her absence ached so fiercely.

He could spend his nights in Tristrian’s chambers when they reached Flamehold. It was expected that he would act as the Prince’s personal guard, as he had for centuries. He would still rest with her in his arms. But there would be little else between them. He could not afford to steal even a kiss where enemy eyes might see.

“I do not want to be with the prince.” Her voice was painfully small.

Despite her fear, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh?” Cyr asked. “Would you prefer my company?”

She swallowed, the corners of her mouth tight. 

“Yes.” One word, dragged from her like a rotten tooth.

It felt a victory. Filled him with as much joy as if she had vowed eternal loyalty to him alone. He rewarded her with a kiss.

~

Gwen shifted on the cushion, tucking a knee under her as she gazed across the board. The prince was pacing. The open windows letting in the warmth of summer, as he walked a line across his receiving chambers and then back again.

He had three black pieces left, overwhelmingly few against her sea of red. He glanced at the board as he passed it, his lips drawing back. Gwen’s arms curled, protecting her belly. On his next passing, he stopped at the board. Fælight danced in his eyes and the breath caught in her lungs. Sharp and awful.

His hand flung wide, arm swinging with the force of a southern wind. Checkers scattered across the stones. The backgammon board flew through the open window. The table bounced off the side of the shutters before it plummeted out of view.

Three, two—

A crack echoed up from the courtyard below, the panicked shriek of a fæ knight caught by surprise. The prince leant over her, gripping the arms of her chair as his lips twisted into a snarl.

“You cheated.”

Gwen’s lips parted to protest debating if she dared speak. “Beginners fortune?”  

He didn’t blink, eyes glowing golden. “You’ve played before, admit it!”

Words stuck in her gullet. What was she supposed to say?

“I—” her voice wouldn’t come. He was too close—like that night. “I—”

She couldn’t breathe. Tristrian disappeared, his hands up in front of him. The world blurred as Gwen choked. She couldn’t breathe!

A cup appeared before her nose. “Here, drink this.”

Gwen’s hand flew out, slapping it away. Not fæwine. Never again. 

“N—” o, please no. “Pl—”

They wouldn’t come out

“Mercy, Gwen.” Tristrian pulled his shirt away from his chest, glaring at the wet fabric. “It was water.”

Her hand stilled, raised in front of her face. “I—”

He gripped the hem of his shirt, yanking it up over his head, and a wall of muscle faced her. Broad and carved. Strength in every fibre of his sun-bronzed skin. The prince grabbed her wrist, yanking her up to her feet.

“Come, I need to change.” 

He pulled her towards the door at the back of his chambers, and Gwen’s stomach twisted. She should stop. Say something. Scream. The words wouldn’t come as he opened the door ahead of them with a flick of his wrist. The room glittered, golden opulence. A bed big enough for six in the centre of the room. The silk dazzled her, the glimmer of satin. He pulled her through another door. A wardrobe lined with silk shirts and fabrics in colours she’d never seen, had neither name nor words for. A wall lined with the glitter of a thousand stones. Metal that shone with a gleam that rang in her ears. 

He released her wrist, wood clacking as he inspected his hanging clothes. In the chaos of movement, her breath had returned. The weight in her chest eased enough that she could now think.

Gwen’s feet took her to the wall of gold. She reached up, fingers tracing the surface of the hanging chain. It felt wrong. Gold was slippery. Like butter. The metal was rough.

Hands closed over her shoulders. A presence behind her holding her in place.

“Pretty, isn’t it,” the prince said, his voice softer now, the anger that had gripped him gone.

“It’s not gold.” The colour was wrong.

The prince stilled behind her. One finger tapping on the top of her shoulder.

“What makes you think so?”

She pointed to the black dot at the edge of the link. The smallest imperfection.

“Gold doesn’t tarnish.” Gwen left out the rest, that it didn’t feel right.

He hadn’t replaced his shirt. The heat of his skin burned her back as his thumb brushed her shoulder blade.

“Let’s play a different game.”

She stiffened under his touch. “Please—”

“I won’t lose my temper again; you have my word.” Their gazes caught in his looking glass, and Gwen did not trust his smile. “Tell me, what in this room is the most valuable, and you can keep it. A gift.”

It was not a game but a trick; Gwen was sure of it.

“And if I guess wrong,” she asked.

The gold in his eyes caught the glow of sunlight through the window. “Then I’ll show you its power.”

“I—” Gwen did not dare blink. “What use have I for diamonds?” She could not sell one, nor trade it; at best it might hang around her neck. “I do not wish to play.”

“To forfeit the game is to lose.” His thumb stroked again over the top of her shoulder. “Go on, Gwen, guess.”

Her eyes burned, teeth aching. “You’ll be angry if I win.”

“Not this time.” His soft smile for once did not feel a lie. “I promise.”

Metal dangled from hooks, jewels and gemstones she could not have imagined. Her gaze drifted past chains of silver. A chain-mail shirt forged entirely of gold. His crown was not there. She almost discounted the row of rings, but there was a metal there she did not recognise.

It had a bluish tint, and as her finger traced it, she felt a coating covering it. Thin as glass and entirely sealed. In her time at the forge, she had seen nothing like it. Her only certainty was that it was pure.

“What is this?” 

“Osmium,” Tristrian said. “Mostly useless in its current form. And dangerously toxic to you should it interact with open air.”

Gwen caught his eyes in the looking glass, fixed on her face rather than the ring. “It’s rare?”

“The rarest metal in this broken world.” 

There was a gemstone the size of her closed fist. A diamond. Gwen did not know if it was flawed. It looked perfect to her. The prince’s lip curled into a satisfied smile.

She was missing something. He looked too smug; the longer she stared at his treasures, the more convinced she became that the most valuable thing in the room was not among them. Their gazes caught again, and still Gwen hesitated. It was a riddle. The obvious answer would be the wrong one. But what in the Prince’s chambers was more valuable than the rarest metal in the world. Of greater worth than the prince—

“You.” Gwen searched his eyes for the truth. “You’re the prince of this land. What in any room of Stormharth could hold greater value than you do yourself.” She dared a smile, the very smallest one, praying to mercy that he would not be angry that she had beaten his game once again. “Though I am afraid I cannot afford to keep you, sire.” She waved to his hoard of treasures. “You have rather expensive tastes.”

Tristrian pouted.

“Oh, Gwendolen.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as his knuckles traced her cheek. “So close.”

Her throat ached for the water she hadn’t meant to throw at him. “Close?”

“You, Gwen,” he said. “You are the most valuable thing in this room, or any other.” His palm spread over her chest, measuring the beat of her heart. “Because you are what Cyr treasures most in all the world.”

“I don’t—”

“Shhhhhh.” His hand pressed down as her heart thumped hard in her chest. Would he hurt her? Lord Cyr promised he wouldn’t touch her, but the prince was doing far more than that now. “Let me show you just the power you have. How quickly you can bring him running.”

His palm pressed upwards, covering the side of her neck as his thumb brushed her throat.

“Stop!” She caught his wrist, nails digging in. “I didn’t—” her breath heaved, knees shaking as fear crept in. “You’re not supposed—you’re not allowed—”

The tip of his nose brushed her cheek, lips pressing to the edge of her jaw as his thumb flicked, brushing the hollow of her throat until it burnt.

“It doesn’t have to be a punishment.” His whisper filled her mind as his chest surrounded her. “Yield to me.”

His other palm pressed against her belly, holding her against him. Finding the dip of her navel through the thin silk.

“Let me love you both.” There was pleading in his eyes, words he would never speak.

And in an instant Gwen forgot her fear, forgot all but the sting of pity for the creature before her. The broken, ancient monster.

“He does not love,” she whispered. “If he did, he could not have—”

“You are still so young.” The prince’s breath warmed her cheek. “Not even a century to your name. How could you understand a bond of millennia?” His grip tightened, squeezing her neck. “You do not know what it is to choose to intertwine your life with another. You are a child. A mortal who has strayed into the realm of gods. You do not have words to describe a fæ’s love. Their loyalty. Your mind is too young to comprehend the weight of such things.” His words deepened into a growl. “You are a prize of the hunt. A toy that cannot be thrown away, but his interest in you will wane, whether it be now or in a century.” He lifted his head higher, lips touching the shell of her ear. “When it does, it will be I who will decide your cage.” 

His hand shook against her belly. Rage in his fingers, searching for a release.

“I am his prince and he has worshiped me since we were boys.” Pain he couldn’t unleash in his hands. “And I am your god, Gwendolen. It is my mercy you pray to, and mine alone to give.”

His hand fisted in her skirt, pulling it up long enough to slip his hand beneath. His palm rested against her outer thigh. Innocent enough, yet he was not supposed to touch her. She could not plead for mercy; his was not the mercy she wanted.

“So let me be kind, Gwen,” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing her cheekbone. “Worship at my altar. Be my faithful priestess, my obedient—” his nails softly scratched the edge of her knee, turning inward. “Loyal—” Unwanted heat filled her belly, catching with her breath. “Devoted servant.” Entangled with her fear. She shuddered. “And I show you the heavens.” His finger slipped inwards, finding her inner thigh, touching skin so sensitive it burned. His lips twitched; Gwen watched his smile widen in the looking glass. “Defy me, and I’ll make the eternity ahead of you hell.”

She could not fight the prince. He had yet to touch her anywhere intimate, but that made it no less indecent. Her head rested against his shoulder. Her legs were too weak now to stand alone. Still his fingers moved, trailing over her skin, leaving burning lines in the wake of his touch, from her elbow to her inner wrist. The bones of her collar. Her eyes blurred, her breath shuddering and the beat of her heart ached in her chest.

His closed lips pressed against her jaw, invading her senses. Not kissing, scenting. A trap surrounding her. Words caught in her throat as he fanned a flame inside her he had no right to touch. Yet Gwen was burning.

“Let it out,” the prince whispered. “Be a sweet little servant and moan for me.”

Mercy help her, she did, low and deep in the back of her throat, her eyes rolling as the door opened. His touch stilled against her upper arm. Gwen closed her eyes, focusing only on sensation: the prince’s breath in her ear. The sound of laboured breathing.

“See, Gwen,” the prince said. “I told you he’d come.”

“What happened?” Lord Cyr was flushed, his jaw clenched.

Gwen’s mouth opened, a plea on the edge of her tongue.

“She attacked me,” Tristrian said. 

“No—” she gasped, her thoughts already so lost, mind a fog she could not pierce.  

“Threw her water chalice at my head,” the prince insisted. “We were playing backgammon and your Gwendolen is a sore loser.” 

The Prince’s nails dug in between her ribs, warning her not to disagree. To be a loyal servant to her god. And of that he had not lied. She had seen his true face; Gwen could not believe him to be anything other than the monstrous face of divinity.

His eyes darted between them. “She attacked you?”

His brow tightened into a scowl. Lord Cyr believed it. Thought her guilty without giving her a chance to explain herself, to protest.

There would be no mercy.

“I thought it a fair punishment,” Tristrian said. “I’m getting her used to my presence.”

By touching her? Tracing his fingers over every inch of bare skin that did not stray too close to intimacy.

“I was talking with the ambassador,” Lord Cyr’s jaw clenched. “Her punishment could have waited until I returned.”

“You don’t trust me to discipline her?” Tristrian asked, the hurt in his tone weighted by a glimmer of truth. “Cyr—”

“You made me so hard in a room full of foreign fæ that I had to leave the introduction!” Lord Cyr rubbed at his leg, as if he were trying to wipe away the sweat. “This is politics, Tristrian—”

“It’s Lorién’s emissaries.” The Prince’s thumb pressed into her lower back through the silk of her dress.

Lord Cyr’s eyes rolled, his breath catching before his palm slapped against the door. 

“Your cousins’ people are still a threat,” he growled. “Enough of this! Let her go, Tris, now!”

The prince released her, and without his hold, her legs buckled. Gwen sank to the floor. Palms pressed to the stone as she kept her gaze down. Lost. 

Cold.

Surrounded by monsters. He’d tormented her, raged at her and terrified her. Worse still, he’d touched her, and somehow it was her doing. Even Lord Cyr believed it to be her fault. A just punishment.

Her eyes burned at the sight of the prince’s smile, hating every tooth in it.

“You were wrong,” Gwen said, her voice as shallow as her breath. “By your own measure, the true jewel of this fiefdom is your duplicitous tongue.”

Lord Cyr’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between them. “Tristrian!”

The prince placed a hand to his chest, but Gwen was past caring. She needed to be away from them! Both of them. She stood, pushing the chamber door aside, stamping past the prince’s grotesque bed. She shook with the heat inside her. The burn.

She pushed hard at the door to his bedchamber, stepping out into his receiving rooms—

Gwen stopped short at the sight before her. The strange fæ glanced up, the fallen water chalice in his hand. His brow lifted as he met her gaze. There was a little of Tristrian to him. Eyes a bright amber and hair the gold of butter. Curls gracing his brow.

“And who are you, fair maiden?” the fæ asked.

The door wrenched open, and a shoulder bumped into her, forcing her out of the way. Gwen stumbled, hands catching against the wall.

“Brother!” Tristrian’s arm flew wide.

He’d found a shirt.