april
2nd Level Red Feather
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- Dec 16, 2006
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Draeven
A collaboration with element/Story concept by element
The chamber was carved from moonstone and shaped by elven artistry; smooth curves, etched vines, and a single blue magefire burning like a suspended star. It's soft glow washed the room in shades of glacier-blue and soft violet, setting the air shimmering with gentle hues.
Lady Serelis Moonspire, proud and sharp as a blade, sat bound to a velvet lined chair. The silken cords around her wrists were ceremonial; gentle, padded, and entirely unbreakable.
Her white gold hair glowed like winter sunlight, though her jaw was rigid, eyes hard with defiance.
“You'll get nothing from me,” She snapped, chin rising. “Not a breath. Not a whisper.”
From the shadows stepped Myrren.
Tall. Pale as frost. Black hair cascading like a starless night sky. Eyes blue enough to cut.
She didn't walk so much as glide, the faintest rustle of her leathers marking her presence.
“I don't need your cooperation,” Myrren said softly.
Serelis scoffed. “Then torture me, if you must.”
A slow smile curved Myrren's lips; one that was not cruel, merely assured.
“Not torture,” She breathed. “Just…persuasion.”
And then she kneeled, placing herself level with the royals ribs.
Serelis stiffened. “What are you doing?”
Myrren's fingertip traced a single line along the princesses' side.
Just one.
Serelis jolted like she'd been hit with a spark of lightning.
And a tiny, helpless giggle spilled from her lips.
“No…no…stop that…” She snapped, cheeks flushing instantly.
Myrren's smile widened ever so slightly.
“I see,” she murmured. “This will be over quickly.
The princess pressed her lips together, mortified.
Myrren's finger danced again; soft, rhythmic strokes from waist to rib, before dragging her nails lightly across her stomach.
Serelis burst into breathless laughter.
“D-dont…Not there! Ah! Stop!”
“You can end this whenever you wish,” Myrren said calmly, continuing her gentle torment. “Just whisper the name.”
The princess shook her head wildly, tears already threatening the corners of her panic-stricken eyes.
Myrren rose gracefully, moved behind her, and slipped both hands beneath Serelis's arms…
And scribbled with deft, merciless precision.
Serelis arched on the chair, a strangled giggle trapped in her throat.
“Hhhh…No! No, please! I can't stand it!”
Her feet kicked reflexively beneath her long gown.
Myrren noticed.
Her blue eyes gleamed with curiosity.
She circled slowly, crouching again, this time lifting the hem of the royals gown just enough to expose delicate, slippered feet.
Serelis froze. “Myrren…dont. Don't you dare!”
“Are these sensitive as well?” She asked the
question more to herself than to the panicked royal.
The princess squealed, shaking worriedly in her bindings.
“No! No…nonononononono!”
“Such a sensitive little royal,” Myrren teased. “Let's see how good you are at keeping secrets now.”
She removed the slipper from one foot with a soft glide, revealing a pale arch, elegant and trembling. Then she removed the second. Both feet were bare now in the magefire glow; vulnerable and incredibly expressive.
Myrren dragged two nails down both soft soles at once.
Serelis shrieked with laughter.
“AHHH! NO…STOP! PLEASE, MYRREN, PLEASE!”
She tried to curl her toes, to hide her feet, but Myrren caught both ankles in one firm grasp, holding them still, her nails skittering over arches, heels, the tender skin beneath each toe.
“Talk.” Myrren commanded.
Serelis shook her head frantically, tears streaming, hiccuping and sputtering between giggles.
“Myrren…I-I CAN'T! I CAN'T.”
“Then whisper it.”
Serelis, reduced to a trembling, breathless, wreckage, squeezed her eyes shut…and whispered the name into Myrren's waiting ear.
“Vaeliren.” She managed through the laughter.
But Myrren did not stop, nails still scratching mercilessly against the princesses' vulnerable feet.
“If I find you are lying to me,” she warned, “I'll torture you, just like this, and there will be no mercy, no escape.”
“I SPEAK THE TRUTH!” Serelis screamed pitifully. “JUST, STOP! IT'S TOO MUCH! I BEG YOU!”
Myrren exhaled. “Good girl.”
She slid the slippers back onto the royals quivering feet, her touch unexpectedly gentle. She untied the soft cords, helping the elven princess stand on shaking legs. Serelis's giggles still lingered in her throat, little aftershocks making her knees weaken.
“You…you didn't hurt me…” Serelis murmured, almost shy.
“I wouldn't dare.”
The door remained flung open as the princess fled the chamber, cheeks pink, dignity in tatters.
Myrren turned…
And she felt him before she saw him.
Draeven.
Hidden in the high shadows of the doorway.
He had seen everything; Myrren's precision, her power, her softness, the way she drew truth from laughter instead of pain.
And now she alone carried a secret he desperately needed.
His voice reached her like decadent velvet.
“Fascinating method, assassin."
Myrren froze.
Draeven stepped fully from the shadows, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed like a lock.
“And now,” he murmured, eyes deep and unreadable. “It is you I intend to question.”
Even in this chaotic scene, Draeven's beauty and presence were unmatched. He was the kind of vision that silenced rooms and unsettled hearts. At six foot five, he moved with lethal grace, long accustomed to both war and worship. Elves were known for their seductive traits, but Draeven put all his kin to shame beneath his sculpted features and aristocratic lines.
As he approached, Myrren's fingers brushed the dagger at her hip but Draeven moved faster than her eyes could follow. Steel flashed and then clattered to the stone floor, sliding into the shadows with a sharp hiss. Before she could step back, his towering frame filled her vision, shoulders broad and eyes burning with something dark.
Her pulse stammered.
“You never learn, little fae,” he murmured, voice low and intoxicating as he closed the distance. She retreated, steps light, graceful, defiant. But he matched her pace, each stride purposeful, prowling. She hit the back of her knees against the velvet chair and stumbled slightly. His hand was on her shoulder before she could recover.
With calculated calm, he pressed her down into the seat.
“Easy now,” he said, slowly crouching before her, his tone now sweet and patient as molasses. “No sudden movements. I just want to see what you've hidden under all that fire.”
Myrren's breath caught, though not from fear. “You've already disarmed me. What more do you want, general?”
Draeven smiled; slyly, predaciously. “Answers. Reactions. Whichever comes first.”
From a nearby table, he retrieved the same silken cords she had used on the elven noble. A curious twist of irony. She didn't stop him as he bound her, not really. Her token resistance was part of the ritual between them now, a dance as old as their rivalry.
“You enjoy this,” he whispered, knotting the final loop around her wrist. “The fight. The risk. Me.”
She didn't answer, but her silence was more damning than words.
Draeven bent on one knee, and slowly, with measured patience, he began to unlace her boots. Each tug of the leather thong was a message; I know exactly what I'm doing. And so do you.
“You wear these like armor,” he said, undoing the laces with graceful fingers. “But even armor can be undone.”
The boot slipped free. Then the other. Myrren bit down on her tongue. Her toes curled instinctively as his hands brushed tenderly over her ankles. Draeven tilted his head, watching her with a soldier's cunning, a lover's interest.
He didn't speak again. He didn't need to.
Instead, he trailed his fingers lightly over the arch of her foot. Once. Twice.
Myrren jerked against the bindings, a quiet huff escaping her throat, composure already beginning to fray.
Draeven grinned, only slightly, and continued.
His fingers were exasperatingly slow, tracing lines that burned with their gentleness. Across her heel, up the side of her sole, circling the ball of her foot. The subtle flick of his nails sent tremors up her leg.
Still, Myrren held her laughter in a tight knot behind her teeth. Barely.
“Srubborn,” he whispered. “But not unbreakable.”
He brought his face closer to her leg, breath warm against her skin, his hand pressing her foot into his palm as the other resumed its featherlight tracing; back and forth. Her whole body tensed, and this time, a tiny giggle escaped.
Draeven's eyes flicked up to hers, fire alight in his dark pupils. “Ah, there she is.”
He didn't quicken. No, he was methodical, seductive. He was a general on a battlefield, and she was the fortress he meant to breach, brick by brick.
By the time he moved in to her other foot, Myrren was trembling, her control unraveling. Her head lolled back. Her lips parted in a mix of laughter and something unspoken.
“You're learning,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “But you still have secrets.”
And Draeven always got his answers.
He began flicking his nails in tiny bursts beneath the soft underside of her toes, and she thrashed in the chair, writs flexing in the bonds.
“Draeven!”
“Ah,” he said teasingly, “you do know my name.” He leaned in, kissing the top of her foot. “Say it again…”
His fingers swept up, tracing her ankle, then dipping behind her knee, tickling cruelly. Myrren's composure cracked completely, twisting and kicking as much as his grip would allow. The flush on her cheeks wasn't just from laughter; it was the game. The heat. The knowledge that he saw through her completely.
Draeven paused for a moment, just long enough for her to catch a shallow breath, eyes wide and bright. He raised a brow. “Still holding back, little assassin?”
Her voice, when it came, was ragged and full of both frustration and thrill. “I hate you.”
“You say that,” he retorted, brushing his fingers just above her knee with unsettling softness. “But your eyes say otherwise.”
Draeven suddenly rose and Myrren's breath trembled in her chest. Without breaking eye contact, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, exposing her midriff. His touch skimmed lightly across her stomach, a tender, fluttering sensation that immediately sent her fighting against her bindings.
Her laughter burst out between wheezes she tried desperately to stifle.
“You're trying so hard,” he observed, eyes warm with amusement and something deeper. “But this is your undoing, little fae. You do not heed.”
His hands squeezed gently at her sides, thumbs caressing over the sensitive muscles there. She yelped and arched, her giggles bright and musical. Draeven's expression shifted as he watched his beautiful muse lose control; his own control wearing away at the edges as her reactions washed over him.
That sound did something to him.
Every time.
He angled in, pressing his forehead to her
shoulder, breathing in her scent as he tickled her again; slow strokes at first, then firmer squeezes along her lower ribs that drew from her peals of winded hysterics.
“Myrren,” he said softly, voice gentle but stern, “tell me the name.”
She shook her head dramatically. “N-never!” She sputtered.
Draeven’s hands paused.
Not because he was finished, but because he wasn't.
He lifted his head, dark eyes smoldering with wicked patience.
“If you do not tell me,” he said, tone low enough to raise the hairs on her neck, “I will stop.”
Myrren froze; chest rising and falling, heaving.
He tilted his head, amused by her horrified expression.
“Oh yes,” he teased. “I know you want this more than you want to defy me. And I will stop this entire interrogation…unless you speak the name.”
He leaned down, brushing her tummy again; this time with his lips, breathing her in as he nuzzled and lightly nipped, just enough to make her body quake.
“Say it,” he coaxed, “or I swear to the ancient stars…I will deny you another second of this.”
Myrren whimpered; actually whimpered, caught between desire and stubborn resolve. She clenched her jaw, refusing.
Draeven sighed dramatically. “Very well.”
He reached up and kissed her.
Not the way he had kissed her in stolen moments of battle and banter, but slowly, deeply, luxuriously. A kiss that unraveled every defense she had ever trained into her bones. A kiss that tasted like surrender and victory in the same breath.
Myrren melted under him, her body softening despite being bound, her thoughts dissolving into heat and sound. When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, his voice a whisper of warm smoke.
“I love you…” he said.
The words detonated inside her, quietly, devastatingly.
Her heart stuttered. Every instinct she had ever sharpened faltered. He rose as if to leave, as if the confession alone had gutted him enough to flee.
“Wait.” Her voice trembled; raw, vulnerable, honest.
He turned back toward her, and the look on her face; eyes wide, breath shallow, pupils blown with emotion, made something inside him break wide open.
“I love you…” she breathed. Then barely louder than a heartbeat, “Vaeliren.”
He went still.
“It's your second in command,” she whispered, “he's betrayed you.”
Silence strangled the air.
Then Draeven moved; swift, purposeful, terrifyingly controlled. He returned to her with a stillness that was far too calm, his eyes molten with darkness.
His hands were already sliding to her waist.
“Draeven…wait…”
He didn't.
He attacked, fingers splayed wide, digging in. Myrren broke instantly, her giggles spilling out in a chaotic, wild rush.
“Stop…! Draeven, please!” She squealed, bending under his will immediately.
“No.” He replied simply.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't punishment. It was release.
He repositioned his weight, fell to his knees, head dropping back down, stubble sweeping lightly against her stomach, and the rasp of it sparked another helpless giggle from her lips. Draeven chuckled low, the sound reverberating through his chest as he pressed closer.
“You're so jumpy, little fae.” He observed. “Even my breath sets you off.”
Then came the hum; deep and intentional as he brushed his lips across her stomach. The vibrations made her jump, eyes widening in panic as the laughter erupted again, crazed and inexorable. His shoulders shook with a quiet, controlled laugh of his own.
“Stop laughing!” She begged between peals, barely able to form words.
“You first,” he teased, his voice a rough murmur against her skin.
A snort broke free of her mid-plea, and Draeven paused, momentarily stunned before breaking into rare, rich laughter. “Oh no,” he grinned, looking up at her with mock accusation, “That was far too adorable, coming from the likes of you. That's a declaration of war, fae.”
Myrren leaned forward, arching a dark brow, her blue eyes sharpened and glowing with challenge. “Remove these cords and find out what retaliation looks like.” Her tone was sweet but laced with promise.
He let out a soft chuckle, low and musical, ghosting his fingers down her arms; slowly, methodically reminding her who still had the upper hand.
“Thats cute,” he whispered, “and so very bold.”
He stood, circled behind her bound form, paused for far longer than allowed her comfort, and leaned down to her ear. “But let's say I don't remove these cords. Let's say, I torment you instead.”
She tensed, a flicker of breath catching as his fingers hovered.
“I dare you.” She whispered.
And Draeven, never one to back down from a dare, accepted with wicked glee.
«
Draeven
A collaboration with element/Story concept by element
The chamber was carved from moonstone and shaped by elven artistry; smooth curves, etched vines, and a single blue magefire burning like a suspended star. It's soft glow washed the room in shades of glacier-blue and soft violet, setting the air shimmering with gentle hues.
Lady Serelis Moonspire, proud and sharp as a blade, sat bound to a velvet lined chair. The silken cords around her wrists were ceremonial; gentle, padded, and entirely unbreakable.
Her white gold hair glowed like winter sunlight, though her jaw was rigid, eyes hard with defiance.
“You'll get nothing from me,” She snapped, chin rising. “Not a breath. Not a whisper.”
From the shadows stepped Myrren.
Tall. Pale as frost. Black hair cascading like a starless night sky. Eyes blue enough to cut.
She didn't walk so much as glide, the faintest rustle of her leathers marking her presence.
“I don't need your cooperation,” Myrren said softly.
Serelis scoffed. “Then torture me, if you must.”
A slow smile curved Myrren's lips; one that was not cruel, merely assured.
“Not torture,” She breathed. “Just…persuasion.”
And then she kneeled, placing herself level with the royals ribs.
Serelis stiffened. “What are you doing?”
Myrren's fingertip traced a single line along the princesses' side.
Just one.
Serelis jolted like she'd been hit with a spark of lightning.
And a tiny, helpless giggle spilled from her lips.
“No…no…stop that…” She snapped, cheeks flushing instantly.
Myrren's smile widened ever so slightly.
“I see,” she murmured. “This will be over quickly.
The princess pressed her lips together, mortified.
Myrren's finger danced again; soft, rhythmic strokes from waist to rib, before dragging her nails lightly across her stomach.
Serelis burst into breathless laughter.
“D-dont…Not there! Ah! Stop!”
“You can end this whenever you wish,” Myrren said calmly, continuing her gentle torment. “Just whisper the name.”
The princess shook her head wildly, tears already threatening the corners of her panic-stricken eyes.
Myrren rose gracefully, moved behind her, and slipped both hands beneath Serelis's arms…
And scribbled with deft, merciless precision.
Serelis arched on the chair, a strangled giggle trapped in her throat.
“Hhhh…No! No, please! I can't stand it!”
Her feet kicked reflexively beneath her long gown.
Myrren noticed.
Her blue eyes gleamed with curiosity.
She circled slowly, crouching again, this time lifting the hem of the royals gown just enough to expose delicate, slippered feet.
Serelis froze. “Myrren…dont. Don't you dare!”
“Are these sensitive as well?” She asked the
question more to herself than to the panicked royal.
The princess squealed, shaking worriedly in her bindings.
“No! No…nonononononono!”
“Such a sensitive little royal,” Myrren teased. “Let's see how good you are at keeping secrets now.”
She removed the slipper from one foot with a soft glide, revealing a pale arch, elegant and trembling. Then she removed the second. Both feet were bare now in the magefire glow; vulnerable and incredibly expressive.
Myrren dragged two nails down both soft soles at once.
Serelis shrieked with laughter.
“AHHH! NO…STOP! PLEASE, MYRREN, PLEASE!”
She tried to curl her toes, to hide her feet, but Myrren caught both ankles in one firm grasp, holding them still, her nails skittering over arches, heels, the tender skin beneath each toe.
“Talk.” Myrren commanded.
Serelis shook her head frantically, tears streaming, hiccuping and sputtering between giggles.
“Myrren…I-I CAN'T! I CAN'T.”
“Then whisper it.”
Serelis, reduced to a trembling, breathless, wreckage, squeezed her eyes shut…and whispered the name into Myrren's waiting ear.
“Vaeliren.” She managed through the laughter.
But Myrren did not stop, nails still scratching mercilessly against the princesses' vulnerable feet.
“If I find you are lying to me,” she warned, “I'll torture you, just like this, and there will be no mercy, no escape.”
“I SPEAK THE TRUTH!” Serelis screamed pitifully. “JUST, STOP! IT'S TOO MUCH! I BEG YOU!”
Myrren exhaled. “Good girl.”
She slid the slippers back onto the royals quivering feet, her touch unexpectedly gentle. She untied the soft cords, helping the elven princess stand on shaking legs. Serelis's giggles still lingered in her throat, little aftershocks making her knees weaken.
“You…you didn't hurt me…” Serelis murmured, almost shy.
“I wouldn't dare.”
The door remained flung open as the princess fled the chamber, cheeks pink, dignity in tatters.
Myrren turned…
And she felt him before she saw him.
Draeven.
Hidden in the high shadows of the doorway.
He had seen everything; Myrren's precision, her power, her softness, the way she drew truth from laughter instead of pain.
And now she alone carried a secret he desperately needed.
His voice reached her like decadent velvet.
“Fascinating method, assassin."
Myrren froze.
Draeven stepped fully from the shadows, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed like a lock.
“And now,” he murmured, eyes deep and unreadable. “It is you I intend to question.”
Even in this chaotic scene, Draeven's beauty and presence were unmatched. He was the kind of vision that silenced rooms and unsettled hearts. At six foot five, he moved with lethal grace, long accustomed to both war and worship. Elves were known for their seductive traits, but Draeven put all his kin to shame beneath his sculpted features and aristocratic lines.
As he approached, Myrren's fingers brushed the dagger at her hip but Draeven moved faster than her eyes could follow. Steel flashed and then clattered to the stone floor, sliding into the shadows with a sharp hiss. Before she could step back, his towering frame filled her vision, shoulders broad and eyes burning with something dark.
Her pulse stammered.
“You never learn, little fae,” he murmured, voice low and intoxicating as he closed the distance. She retreated, steps light, graceful, defiant. But he matched her pace, each stride purposeful, prowling. She hit the back of her knees against the velvet chair and stumbled slightly. His hand was on her shoulder before she could recover.
With calculated calm, he pressed her down into the seat.
“Easy now,” he said, slowly crouching before her, his tone now sweet and patient as molasses. “No sudden movements. I just want to see what you've hidden under all that fire.”
Myrren's breath caught, though not from fear. “You've already disarmed me. What more do you want, general?”
Draeven smiled; slyly, predaciously. “Answers. Reactions. Whichever comes first.”
From a nearby table, he retrieved the same silken cords she had used on the elven noble. A curious twist of irony. She didn't stop him as he bound her, not really. Her token resistance was part of the ritual between them now, a dance as old as their rivalry.
“You enjoy this,” he whispered, knotting the final loop around her wrist. “The fight. The risk. Me.”
She didn't answer, but her silence was more damning than words.
Draeven bent on one knee, and slowly, with measured patience, he began to unlace her boots. Each tug of the leather thong was a message; I know exactly what I'm doing. And so do you.
“You wear these like armor,” he said, undoing the laces with graceful fingers. “But even armor can be undone.”
The boot slipped free. Then the other. Myrren bit down on her tongue. Her toes curled instinctively as his hands brushed tenderly over her ankles. Draeven tilted his head, watching her with a soldier's cunning, a lover's interest.
He didn't speak again. He didn't need to.
Instead, he trailed his fingers lightly over the arch of her foot. Once. Twice.
Myrren jerked against the bindings, a quiet huff escaping her throat, composure already beginning to fray.
Draeven grinned, only slightly, and continued.
His fingers were exasperatingly slow, tracing lines that burned with their gentleness. Across her heel, up the side of her sole, circling the ball of her foot. The subtle flick of his nails sent tremors up her leg.
Still, Myrren held her laughter in a tight knot behind her teeth. Barely.
“Srubborn,” he whispered. “But not unbreakable.”
He brought his face closer to her leg, breath warm against her skin, his hand pressing her foot into his palm as the other resumed its featherlight tracing; back and forth. Her whole body tensed, and this time, a tiny giggle escaped.
Draeven's eyes flicked up to hers, fire alight in his dark pupils. “Ah, there she is.”
He didn't quicken. No, he was methodical, seductive. He was a general on a battlefield, and she was the fortress he meant to breach, brick by brick.
By the time he moved in to her other foot, Myrren was trembling, her control unraveling. Her head lolled back. Her lips parted in a mix of laughter and something unspoken.
“You're learning,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “But you still have secrets.”
And Draeven always got his answers.
He began flicking his nails in tiny bursts beneath the soft underside of her toes, and she thrashed in the chair, writs flexing in the bonds.
“Draeven!”
“Ah,” he said teasingly, “you do know my name.” He leaned in, kissing the top of her foot. “Say it again…”
His fingers swept up, tracing her ankle, then dipping behind her knee, tickling cruelly. Myrren's composure cracked completely, twisting and kicking as much as his grip would allow. The flush on her cheeks wasn't just from laughter; it was the game. The heat. The knowledge that he saw through her completely.
Draeven paused for a moment, just long enough for her to catch a shallow breath, eyes wide and bright. He raised a brow. “Still holding back, little assassin?”
Her voice, when it came, was ragged and full of both frustration and thrill. “I hate you.”
“You say that,” he retorted, brushing his fingers just above her knee with unsettling softness. “But your eyes say otherwise.”
Draeven suddenly rose and Myrren's breath trembled in her chest. Without breaking eye contact, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, exposing her midriff. His touch skimmed lightly across her stomach, a tender, fluttering sensation that immediately sent her fighting against her bindings.
Her laughter burst out between wheezes she tried desperately to stifle.
“You're trying so hard,” he observed, eyes warm with amusement and something deeper. “But this is your undoing, little fae. You do not heed.”
His hands squeezed gently at her sides, thumbs caressing over the sensitive muscles there. She yelped and arched, her giggles bright and musical. Draeven's expression shifted as he watched his beautiful muse lose control; his own control wearing away at the edges as her reactions washed over him.
That sound did something to him.
Every time.
He angled in, pressing his forehead to her
shoulder, breathing in her scent as he tickled her again; slow strokes at first, then firmer squeezes along her lower ribs that drew from her peals of winded hysterics.
“Myrren,” he said softly, voice gentle but stern, “tell me the name.”
She shook her head dramatically. “N-never!” She sputtered.
Draeven’s hands paused.
Not because he was finished, but because he wasn't.
He lifted his head, dark eyes smoldering with wicked patience.
“If you do not tell me,” he said, tone low enough to raise the hairs on her neck, “I will stop.”
Myrren froze; chest rising and falling, heaving.
He tilted his head, amused by her horrified expression.
“Oh yes,” he teased. “I know you want this more than you want to defy me. And I will stop this entire interrogation…unless you speak the name.”
He leaned down, brushing her tummy again; this time with his lips, breathing her in as he nuzzled and lightly nipped, just enough to make her body quake.
“Say it,” he coaxed, “or I swear to the ancient stars…I will deny you another second of this.”
Myrren whimpered; actually whimpered, caught between desire and stubborn resolve. She clenched her jaw, refusing.
Draeven sighed dramatically. “Very well.”
He reached up and kissed her.
Not the way he had kissed her in stolen moments of battle and banter, but slowly, deeply, luxuriously. A kiss that unraveled every defense she had ever trained into her bones. A kiss that tasted like surrender and victory in the same breath.
Myrren melted under him, her body softening despite being bound, her thoughts dissolving into heat and sound. When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, his voice a whisper of warm smoke.
“I love you…” he said.
The words detonated inside her, quietly, devastatingly.
Her heart stuttered. Every instinct she had ever sharpened faltered. He rose as if to leave, as if the confession alone had gutted him enough to flee.
“Wait.” Her voice trembled; raw, vulnerable, honest.
He turned back toward her, and the look on her face; eyes wide, breath shallow, pupils blown with emotion, made something inside him break wide open.
“I love you…” she breathed. Then barely louder than a heartbeat, “Vaeliren.”
He went still.
“It's your second in command,” she whispered, “he's betrayed you.”
Silence strangled the air.
Then Draeven moved; swift, purposeful, terrifyingly controlled. He returned to her with a stillness that was far too calm, his eyes molten with darkness.
His hands were already sliding to her waist.
“Draeven…wait…”
He didn't.
He attacked, fingers splayed wide, digging in. Myrren broke instantly, her giggles spilling out in a chaotic, wild rush.
“Stop…! Draeven, please!” She squealed, bending under his will immediately.
“No.” He replied simply.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't punishment. It was release.
He repositioned his weight, fell to his knees, head dropping back down, stubble sweeping lightly against her stomach, and the rasp of it sparked another helpless giggle from her lips. Draeven chuckled low, the sound reverberating through his chest as he pressed closer.
“You're so jumpy, little fae.” He observed. “Even my breath sets you off.”
Then came the hum; deep and intentional as he brushed his lips across her stomach. The vibrations made her jump, eyes widening in panic as the laughter erupted again, crazed and inexorable. His shoulders shook with a quiet, controlled laugh of his own.
“Stop laughing!” She begged between peals, barely able to form words.
“You first,” he teased, his voice a rough murmur against her skin.
A snort broke free of her mid-plea, and Draeven paused, momentarily stunned before breaking into rare, rich laughter. “Oh no,” he grinned, looking up at her with mock accusation, “That was far too adorable, coming from the likes of you. That's a declaration of war, fae.”
Myrren leaned forward, arching a dark brow, her blue eyes sharpened and glowing with challenge. “Remove these cords and find out what retaliation looks like.” Her tone was sweet but laced with promise.
He let out a soft chuckle, low and musical, ghosting his fingers down her arms; slowly, methodically reminding her who still had the upper hand.
“Thats cute,” he whispered, “and so very bold.”
He stood, circled behind her bound form, paused for far longer than allowed her comfort, and leaned down to her ear. “But let's say I don't remove these cords. Let's say, I torment you instead.”
She tensed, a flicker of breath catching as his fingers hovered.
“I dare you.” She whispered.
And Draeven, never one to back down from a dare, accepted with wicked glee.
«
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