Fear me, Love me

Maniac with a Borrowed Face

"Ryder." Ryder turned at the sound of his name being called. Michael appraised him, a deep crease of concern furrowing his brow. "You should eat something." He chided softly. For a moment Ryder seemed to not see him, to look blindly, but then Ryder shook his head - clearing it.

"I'm fine." His voice was gravelly.

He returned to staring out of the window at the distant horizon. Michael's gaze lowered, sliding over Ryder's exposed torso. Thick muscles hugged his broad shoulders, the skin was smooth and tanned and Michael had to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. His gaze lowered further to the perfect cup of Ryder's ass, neatly encased by tight, leather pants. Michael trembled with desire.

Oblivious to the scrutiny he was under, Ryder sighed heavily. He rested his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. The shadow of his long lashes obscured his rough cheeks from the suns glare.

"What are you thinking?" Michael pressed, his breath caressing Ryder's exposed throat. Down below the crack of a whip was swiftly followed by a strangled cry. Ryder clenched his hands into tight, trembling fists.

"Leave me," his voice was gentle, soft as a leopard's purr, "I want to be alone."

*

Rain thundered down from the heavens. Ryder marched down the dirt track, muddy droplets sprayed up his legs from the pounding of his heavy boots. He broke into a run. The storm obscured his vision, and his sodden, unkempt hair plastered it to his rough skin. A fork of lightning stabbed the blackening sky, reflecting in his cold, grey eyes.

             "He's not back yet?" Elle asked, moving silently across the room to stand at Michael's side.

"No," Michael's stare was morose. Elle frowned unhappily. She was a tiny creature, young but with thin, silvery hair.

"It's killing him," she mused softly, "trying not to love her."

"I hope she's dead." Michael spat, his fingers curling into fists. Elle winced, putting a trembling hand to her temple.

"He'll see her again," she announced suddenly, her voice had altered - taken on a deeper pitch. Michael's gaze snapped to her face.

"When?" He asked quickly, not doubting the truth of her words.

"Soon, very soon." Michael's face turned white.

"How can I prevent it?" His voice was low and hushed. Elle shook her head and sighed, her shoulders sagging.

"You can't," her voice had returned to normal, she swayed and would have fallen if not for Michael's steadying hand. "It's already too late."

*

Chloe was shoved through a set of large oak doors. She entered the castles entrance hall with a large grand staircase directly ahead of her. Guttering candles cast lengthy writhing shadows up the stone walls.

"You're part of Prince Naethro's household now. He brought you from the network." The woman leading her informed in an imperious tone. Chloe was guarded by a demon on either side - this woman had spoken with them in their language. Chloe glared at her suspiciously.

"The network?" They headed down a set of stone steps and Chloe had to concentrate on not falling. They'd secured her hands behind her back and her wrists chaffed miserably against their bonds.