Page 63 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

I floated in the meadow of gray gloaming between life and death, with the pull of both suspending me in stasis.

I could see nothing in the murky haze of this realm, either real or imagined, but I wasn’t alone.

Voices spoke in tongues I didn’t know, murmuring in the middle distance, swirling like eddies in tide pools.

And there was the smooth brush of the Drudge, a serpent winding through water.

When it grew too bold, slithering over my stomach, a warm light, reminiscent of those that flashed in the immense vastness of Dark Hall, startled it away.

And so I waited, for a lifetime, two, wrapped in the cycle of curses and magic, neither of them staking claim.

When I could sense my body — the smoky rawness in my throat, muscles sore from being tightly wound, the tingling in my wrist where magic had burned flesh — I knew I was being released.

I opened my eyes to a rough-hewn beech-wood ceiling, abused by the elements.

The nip in the air was kept at bay by the fire roaring in the iron fireplace nearby.

I’d been placed on an old sailor’s cot, tucked under blankets smelling mildly of mildew and wood smoke.

The sound of the sea was persistent, a white, even wash of waves hitting rocky shores.

It sang a song that felt like home, even when I didn’t have one anymore.

The ruined dress had been removed and lay discarded in the corner of the small room, and I wore my silk slip, skin washed clean of soot. Someone had unpinned my hair, rinsed the foulness from it with seawater, and left it to dry, coiling at my shoulders.

The traumatized skin of my wrist was smooth, scarred, and shining from the magical cauterization of the flesh, the outline of my fingers obscuring once-visible branches of veins.

It should have been agony, but the wound appeared to have already healed, a mark I would bear forever in memory of William Nightglass.

As for the Drudge I’d been strong-armed into accommodating, Auntie had taken most of it, which was a mystery I’d consider another day when my emotional energy wasn’t so depleted that I felt like a shell.

What was left of the Drudge lay curled like a viper in its den, interested more in maintaining its residence than taking ground. For now.

The rest of the space was simple: a single room with no electric lights, a small copper sink, and a heavy wooden table.

I was in a dock house, part of a row of bare quarters built for the sailors who had worked the ships.

Although it had contradicted our mother’s rules, Fiona and I had played in these houses, imagining someday having safe, humble homes of our own, our dreams small and impossible.

Near an open window overlooking the pebbled shore, Victor leaned, arms crossed, dressed in a worn cotton undershirt and a pair of battered corduroy work pants, favored by dockworkers from times gone by.

His hair was untamed, curling at his temples, brushing the top of his scarred cheek.

He gazed at the waves, golden light from either sunrise or sunset illuminating him with a divine glow, wisps of white escaping his mouth like smoke from an absent cigarette.

He was curse eating.

When I sat up, Victor’s trance was broken, and he turned his head my way .

We stared at each other; the silence punctuated by the creak of the house’s stilted foundation in the winter wind.

“Ramsey and Hannah are searching for Thea and the boy,” he said. “They’ll be back at sunrise, and we’ll discuss what to do.”

The comment was pragmatic, logical, making me aware the golden glow indicated nightfall rather than dawn.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A full day,” he replied, “less than you need. Get more rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Instead of lying back as instructed, I stood, pulling the blanket with me to offer some cover for my near-nakedness. Victor uncrossed his arms, preparing to catch me if I took a tumble.

“My injuries?” The words were accusatory, as if I were angry someone had stolen the proof of what I’d survived.

“Hannah’s an adept healer. She was capable of things I’ve never seen.” His gaze dipped to my wrist, and I raised it, placing my hand upon the melted flesh, smooth to the touch. “She tended to you, and pretty aggressively denied me entry until you were tucked in the cot.”

I was trying to regain my bearings, accept that Victor was alive, that I was alive, that we were here together while William was dead, and the Authority was in shambles.

“You didn’t die,” I managed, tears overtaking me.

In two swift steps, Victor was cradling my face in his powerful hands—hands so often used to force compliance, to wound, now gentle, his thumbs moving to wipe my cheeks with a fondness that further wrecked me.

“I saw what was in front of me,” he said, echoing my words, though his tone remained emotionless, his demeanor as grave as usual. “A fierce woman in gold chiffon stabbing a vile man in the neck with a dinner knife. Only a lunatic would give that up. ”

Relief and affection alloyed with lingering panic and fury. Still fed by a curse I feared might be permanent, anger won, and I knocked his hand away, the blanket dropping from my shoulders.

“I’d like to stab you too for putting me through that, you selfish….”

He enfolded me in his arms, the embrace ardent, his mouth claiming my rage as much as quieting it.

Tired of repressing my needs, I lowered my defenses, permitting him to plunder my magic, if it meant I could feel him alive.

He responded with little restraint, his power delving deep into the essence of me, causing the curse to tremble and retreat.

We fed from each other, giving and taking until I was nothing more than molten need.

He ended the kiss in an effort to anchor himself.

“I am selfish,” he said, voice jagged. “I deserve to be dust, but as long as you still breathe, there’s something in this life I want, and I’m going to choose it always.”

“Choose it now, Victor,” I said, fingers clutching his undershirt, my flush of anger giving way to something much more demanding.

He led a hand down my back, coming to rest at the base of my spine.

“What are you asking for, Eleanora?” He murmured.

I’d done so many things I’d never thought myself capable of, yet in the face of genuine desire, there was a halting I couldn’t overcome.

Victor’s laugh was thunder deep in his chest.

“You’re still struggling to tell me what you want. But if you can kill a man, you can ask me to fuck you.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, annoyed at being found out, but he gripped my backside, bruising, pinning me close and inviting me to appreciate the hardened length of him against my belly .

“I’ve imagined you saying it since catching you chasing noises in the hall. It was a trial to be in that house at night.”

The scratching in the night, the long marks on the wooden door frame, like a prisoner clawing at a cell wall.

“Restraint was hard to come by with you mere feet away.” His voice was husky, lips lingering at my cheek, lowering to press along my jaw. “Protected by nothing but a flimsy wooden door. I wanted to taste you.”

He ran his tongue along my neck, constricting the muscles in my core, encouraging the pooling wet heat.

“We’ve both wanted to taste you,” he rasped, fluctuating from his familiar timbre to the register I’d heard once in the tower, the rustling din of every destructive force in nature.

I surrendered.

“Then please do it. Fuck me, finally,” I begged, foregoing pride for necessity.

The words hadn’t fully formed when he seized my thighs, lifting me so my legs parted around his waist, pivoting to deposit me on the kitchen table.

For a chaotic moment, we were only our hands, grasping at fabric.

Victor removed his shirt as I unclasped the belt at his waist, and when his beautiful, battered chest was in view, I leaned into him, running a hand along the notched skin, darting my tongue across a dark nipple, nipping it brazenly.

Victor swore, taking my slip and yanking it roughly over my head, my arms forced to raise and reveal to him the line of my body, bare breasts forming goosebumps, crests growing hard with both eagerness and the cold.

Taking my wrists in one hand, he kept them hoisted above my head, leaning over me to return the favor, pinching a pink crown in his lips, the exquisite pain wilding me.

My magic was writhing as I watched, lust-addled, as Victor continued to torture my breast with his attention, fondling the sensitive skin, circling the pink areola with his tongue, flicking the tight peak, deliberately provoking me to imagine other parts he could be worshiping.

Unable to use my hands, I tried to slide further forward, toward him, but he was too far from me.

“I need to feel you Victor, don’t tease me,” I grated, and he had mercy, releasing my wrists.

“Very well,” he invited, removing the unfastened belt from its loops in a harsh pull before unfastening the button. “Feel me, Curse Eater.”

He towered, broad and destructive, the firm plane of his stomach narrowing, framing the trail of black hair disappearing into the loosened waist, where his stiff length remained confined. I pushed the trousers from his hips, liberating him.

I led my hand up his shaft, beginning at the thick base.

As with the first time I’d held his rigid cock in my hand, I was daunted by his size, aware he’d restrained himself when I’d tantalized him with my mouth. This memory turned me liquid, and I dipped my head to take the swollen tip, sucking.