Melanthe Ch. 01.5

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Taken from the temple, she is sold to a dark lord.
2.6k words
4.75
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71

Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 08/14/2010
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Aran gazed down at the quiescent form of his Shaylan slave on the narrow cot, swathed beneath layers of blankets. The chief battlefield apothecary stood across the cot from Aran. The man's unusually nervous demeanour twisted the knot that had lodged in his chest.

Aran had spent almost a week at the palace dancing attendance upon his youngest brother's wedding. Never thought he would see the day his brother was happy to be caught by a sensual viper from the northern lands. With the palace flush with the northerners with whom they have an uneasy alliance, there had been little rest to be had for Aran and his men as they saw to the protection of the High King.

All the while, he had been plagued by thoughts of the Shaylan. The memory of her soft gasp stealing across his skin as he thrust inside her. The arch of her body beneath his. The scent and taste of velvety soft skin. The texture of silky copper strands spilling through his fingers.

Now he discovered the silky hair spilled across the white pillow only emphasised the pale stillness of her heart-shaped face. Dark circles shadowed beneath her lashes. The backs of his fingers grazed the skin of her cheek and jaw. Her skin was icy cool to his touch.

"Poison?" his queried dangerously. Anger ravaged through him like a forest fire in the heart of autumn. He knew without question that he would kill to protect her. And he would swiftly dispatch those that dared to lay a finger on her in harm. She was his.

The exposure of the intriguing creature to his brethren was not one he was ready to reveal. Shaylan were beyond rare, and hunted remorselessly by his kind for their unique gifts they afforded their owner. For now, he simply wanted her without the distraction of others to come between them. His thoughts were straightforward on the matter. So instead of taking her as his companion to the palace, he had left Melanthe behind the walls of his protected fortress while he performed duties fitting of the Warlord. Believing she was safe.

Aran had held the image their reunion firmly in his mind while he was away from her, of the promise of her delicate curves and lush blood. Her innocence belonged to him alone. He would not lose her when he had only just found her. He had never known such a fierce possessiveness to take hold of him as thoughts of she did.

"I-I don't think so, Warlord."

"Then what is it you think?" he asked impatiently. He drew down the blankets to reveal a prim white cotton sleeping gown. The palm of his hand came to rest over her heart. He felt her pulse jump, then ease. The beat was faint, yet growing steadier beneath his hand. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breathes, the pink nipples a delicate shadow beneath the cloth.

The apothecary walked away to the work bench spanning the distance beneath the wall to wall windows. Papers, liquids and bottles were scattered across its surface. He returned, his hands gripping a small, leather bound book.

"The old ways talk of the binding between an Aridiane and Shaylan. There is a ceremony."

"What has this to do with Melanthe?" Aran asked, his fingers rubbing copper strands between them.

"Although I admit it is theory only, and an untested one at that." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "Following the ceremony, the couple would be cloistered for a period, oft times a two-week or more. I had always thought this mere tradition, until I re-read an old diary of my great-great grandfather. He wrote the words about a ceremony he witnessed 'in the sequester, only then can the binding be fully achieved, otherwise one must fear fatality'."

Aran gazed upon the still form, his brow furrowing. Did her breathing seem less laboured?

"I do not see the significance as you do," Aran finally said.

"You bound her to you in the old ways?"

Aran gave an abrupt nod. He did not regret overcoming her resistance and feeding her his blood, driven in his need for her, to bind her to him in all ways.

"My working theory, Warlord, is that her physical separation from you may be the cause of her illness. She collapsed a mere day following your departure. Her illness is unlike any poison. Her symptoms are unexplainable. She wakes briefly, and when she does, she is disorientated and weak. She is not feverish. She has no wounds. If she continues to deteriorate, I fear..."

"Melanthe became immortal upon her first death. There is little that can undo immortality." Fear, a dark, desperate fear, stalked him.

"As I said, it is a theory."

"And if you are correct? What must I do?"

"In a sequester, there would be...er, frequent intimacy, both physically and the sharing of blood. Even semi-conscious, mere physical contact may abate her symptoms."

"And if you are wrong?"

"She has barely come into her immortality. Immortality gains strength with time. I'm afraid I can only ease her suffering."

Aran threw back the blankets and gathered her in his arms. He gazed down at her, not willing to acknowledge that the mere feel of her against him eased the tension that had plaguing him this past week.

He strode towards the hall. "Have the kitchens bring fresh water and food to my chambers."

"Might I suggest the hot springs, Warlord?"

Aran paused, then abruptly turned and headed in the other direction, giving the nervous man a nod.

~*~

Melanthe felt the world rolling and dipping beneath her. Her lashes blinked open, her hazy gaze taking in arched walkways hewn from rock and spiralling narrow stone steps. She tried to lift her head where it abutted a solid chest of the man who carried her, but that seemed to require too much effort. She drew in a shallow breath, her lungs straining. Dizziness plagued her, the darkness consuming her.

Melanthe jerked awake. Warm, almost hot, water spread soothingly over her limbs as she was lowered into a small natural pool. Lips brushed her temple as she moaned in confusion. Strong, tattooed arms cradled her in their circle where she rested on his lap. They sat on a wide stone shelf that spread along the pool's edge, the soothing water lapping at her gown where it clung to her breasts. Strange.

Her body had no fight to give, easing back against the muscled chest. Her hand rose through the surface of pale blue-green water, watching the concentration of ripples her movement caused. It wasn't a hallucination. He was here with her. Lord Aran. Her owner.

A jumble of feelings rushed through her at her instinctive knowledge of the man who held her. Anger, hate, a heady, unfamiliar need.

And tiredness. So, so tired.

"Melanthe, cidore, I am going to remove your gown so you can move freely."

His voice sent a shiver through her, making her skin prickle. She had dreamed of his voice, of the wicked things he had whispered against her skin as his body moved within hers.

Bemused eyes watched as tanned hands gathered the floating shift where it swirled around her legs. He drew the material up over her thighs and between their bodies. He drew one arm, then the other, through the holes then lifted the dripping gown over her head. The squelching sound as the material hit the rocks behind them made her the corners of her lips curl.

A warm mouth dragged down the side of her throat, the scrape of teeth a sensual threat. Whether it was the cool air or the intimate caress, she felt her bared nipples tighten where they peaked just above the water's reach.

The cave possessed a pristine, tranquil beauty. Here and there rock formations drooped from the arching roof, some reaching as far as the water's depths. The rock was a multitude of layers upon layers of colours, some with sparkling fragments scattered throughout. Small fingers of sunlight touched over rocks and pockets of water, turning the blue-green depths into a translucent glow in the shadowy cave.

A hand was splayed possessively against her belly and ribs, the fingers lazily stroking her flesh. Her head rolled against his shoulder, her drowsy eyes closing. Melanthe knew on some level she should care that she had been stripped of all modesty, but her mind was a hazy blur, unwilling to process anything except the immediate physical.

He shifted her on his lap, so that sat sideways across him, her back pressed against surprisingly smooth stone of the curving ledge. Beneath her bottom was the rough feel of his pants. Again, strange. She watched him from beneath lowered lashes. He untied his tunic and pulled it over his head. It followed the way of her shift. The bronzed skin went on for miles, only interrupted by the swirling black tattoos down his arms that she had briefly glimpsed once before. Her fingers rose to rest against the flesh of his shoulder. His skin felt impossibly hot, like a furnace. Slowly her hand moved, tracing the spirals and lines that marked him.

Fingers gripped her chin, titling her face up to his. Dark eyes met hers, their depths revealing none of his thoughts. He lifted his free hand to his mouth, sinking his teeth into his wrist. The scent of blood teased her nostrils as he raised his torn flesh to her mouth. Need twisted low in her belly.

"Drink of me."

She moaned, realising her meant to give her more of his blood. Fear rose within her. She couldn't remember why, but she shouldn't want his blood. She tried turning her face away, her hands lifting to push at his wrist. His hand held her chin firm, not ungently. Her ineffectual struggles met with calm resistance.

"Open your mouth, Melanthe."

Her eyes narrowed at him in silent mutiny.

"So be it." She watched in amazement as he lifted his wrist to his own mouth, drawing on his blood. Then he lifted her, one hand clamped about her waist, her naked breasts pressed flush against his chest. He strode into the darker depths of the pool, effortlessly holding her. She clung to his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips, the abrupt rush of fear and now uncertainty battling the sleepy tiredness pervading her entire body.

He halted in the middle of the pool, where the water reached to his shoulders. A hand captured the back of her head, tangled in her copper length. His mouth slanted over hers, then paused. Waiting.

Melanthe squeezed her eyes shut, continuing her silent protest. And gasped as he dragged them both fully under water. Aran's blood filled her mouth, and she gasped again. His tongue pushed inside to follow, teasing at her with the taste of him. His other hand reached up to close about her throat, fingers rubbing up and down the flesh, silently commanding her to swallow.

She didn't know how long he held her under the water's surface, his mouth commanding hers with strokes and swirls of his tongue. His intentions were clear. Until she swallowed his blood, he would torment her.

Her body started to crave oxygen. The jerky swallow was instinctive. And again. He instantly drew them up, the water splashing about them. This time when she turned her head, he let her. She buried her face against his neck, angry tears pricking her eyes. But even then, the effect of his blood was working its way through her body. Tingling heat lapped at her fingers and toes, building, like waves crashing on a shore. For the first time in days, her body felt something besides listlessness and cold.

When he drew her head back and raised his wrist to her again, she turned her head, her tongue eagerly seeking out his blood. Liquid heat sizzled through her, stronger than before. Or she was stronger? Her breasts felt tender and tight, and between her legs was an incredible, throbbing ache that would not abate.

Pressing her mouth against his wrist, held securely in his arms, she sucked on him greedily. Heady, floaty sensations rippled through her. Her body arched, needing more, wanting more...wanting him.

When he drew his wrist away, she murmured in protest to no avail. Right then, Melanthe hated him more, if that was possible.

"Open your eyes, Melanthe. Let me see you."

Her lashes flickered up, her grey eyes clashing with his. Then he smiled, and it reached his eyes. The breath caught in her lungs.

Dipping his head, his mouth caught hers. She shyly kissed him back, her tongue seeking every last drop of him. Her arms tightened about his neck as quivering heat thrummed between her legs. The straining material of his pants created an intense friction where she needed it the most. He groaned, his hands gripping her beneath her thighs, holding her still as he strode toward the wide ledge at the lip of the pool.

He sat on the ledge, her knees coming to rest on either side of his hips. He released her mouth and captured her breast, closing on her nipple. The sharp sting, then the yielding tug as he drew heavily on her, almost caused her to collapse against him, the pleasure so intense. Warm water lapped against her most intimate flesh, a strange, not unpleasant, sensation.

A hand slid over her bottom, finding the valley between and stroking her heat. Fingers tormented her aching nub, making her writhe against him. His mouth kissed up over chest, nuzzling the side of her neck while more fingers tugged and rolled her taut nipple. Fangs pierced her neck, then the slow drag on her blood that shot eddies of ecstasy between her thighs. Sweet pleasure flooded her, her young body tensing and quivering, her head thrown back.

Aran caught and held her, her body curling against his, all resistance fled. His hand slowly stroked up and down her back. Against her hip, she felt the straining heat of him. But he didn't try to take her. She didn't know if she was thankful for the small mercy or disappointed. She had been sore for days after his first sexual invasion.

Instead, he spoke to her. He told her many things, of the number of horses and swords in the king's army, of places he had explored and battles he had fought. She was lulled by his voice, her face pressed against his throat, her body clinging to his for strength. And finally peaceful sleep washed over her, for the first time in an eon.

~*~

Aran shifted so that he leaned against the curved stone, careful not to disrupt Melanthe. He gazed down at the feminine form lax in his arms, sleep once again having claimed her. The soft curves of her breasts rose and fell against his chest with easy breaths. Her skin flushed with her passion and his blood, no longer felt icy to the touch.

His eyes closed in relief, and he was simply content to hold her, for now. He couldn't remember a time he had held a sleeping woman in his arms, and wondered at the peace he felt.

Her passion had been gentle and sweet and yielding. He had been careful in his administrations of her tender body, giving her the pleasure she so obviously craved yet careful not to push her beyond her meagre strength. He had reined in the dark needs she inspired in him, a brutal desire to lay claim her, to drive her beyond her newly explored sensual boundaries to experience the depths and agony of the darkest ecstasy in his arms.

Aran would give her time now, but there was no denying he was keen to savour her innocent submission to his every whim.

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AnonymousAnonymousover 1 year ago

Please don't abandon this beautiful story!

abrunettevixenabrunettevixenover 1 year ago

Girl, where are you? why did you abandon us?

SamashahdiSamashahdiover 1 year ago

Please Please Please continue this.

Powerful , erotic and a great story line waiting to be explored.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 4 years ago
no more??

Why did you stop writing? I love your stories!!!!!!!!!

blissfuldreamsblissfuldreamsover 4 years ago

Is this the end? How does Melanthe's power benefit Aran?

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Melanthe Previous Part
Melanthe Series Info

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