A Storm of Flames and Deceit

XXXVII. Smile Like a Saint

Eris
This is one of the less glamorous parts of what being High Lord is.
As soon as I was capable, father put me in charge of paperwork because he couldn't stand to read it. I can't complain really. It gives me an insight to all sorts of things happening among our court and others, but my mind isn't here today.
If I'm being honest, my mind hasn't been sharp in a good while. I can't even say it has just been the mating bond. Ever since the day I met Neph, my mind always reverts to trying to figure her out when I can't focus, and it seems like I never can focus.
I had left her in our chambers, napping gently atop the sheets. I barely left her, that is. She is so beautiful and unguarded when she sleeps. Staring at her feels like getting lost at sea. I barely pulled myself away.
And now I sit in my study alone, hours later, and it's like I never left. Surely this was the mating bond. I can't possibly be this enamored with someone outside of whatever connection the universe gave us, right?
I wonder if she could read my mind- maybe it would be simpler if she could. The door of my study opens too gently to be any Vansera save for maybe my mother. I look over my shoulder, finding Neph instead, holding a tray of food. My mouth waters a bit, though it's hard to say what I'm starving for.
"I thought you might be hungry," she says, walking over to me in her pale purple gown. It's empire waist oddly suits her, though not in the way other gowns do. Still, she pulls it off quite well, considering her mother probably picked it as a chastity robe, I'm sure. Some job it did. My mind still roams to what it might be like to bend her over the desk. What it might be like to make her moans echo through this horrible palace.
I clear my throat. "Thank you," I say quietly as she sets the tray down on my desk. She must've flagged down one of the servants for the food on her way here, probably when she must've stopped to ask directions.
It's nearly like she's serving me, and if she knew about our mating bond, right about now, tradition would allow me to make good on my fantasies and rip that horrendous dress from her body. I just need to figure out how to tell her.
If I should tell her.
She waits there for a second, raising her brow, crossing her arms. I blink and realize her quiet pushiness. "Would you like to eat with me, Nephele?"
Her grin breaks, and she rolls her eyes. "Since you're begging," she replies, hoping up onto the desk eagerly.
I snicker under my breath, clearing my papers out of my way. "How was your nap?"
"Delightful," she answers evasively, popping a grape in her mouth. "But I woke up hungry and bored."
"So you came here?"
She kicks me in the side softly. "Don't go getting a big ego about it, Hot Stuff," she teases. "You're my only friend."
I nearly choke on my food. Normally, I'm sure men aren't happy to be called a friend to the person they want in ways that exceed friendship, but maybe I'm just excited that she likes me at all. "You know I do so love charity work, Sweetheart."
She kicks me again. Harder. "I've been in a cellar for two centuries," she leans back on her hands. "What's your excuse?"
I chuckle. "Fair enough."
She looks over my desk. "So what's all this?"
"Paperwork," I reply. "I find it infinite."
"Looks like it," she answers, picking up a paper to skim the words. "There's no plausible way you actually read all of this."
I shrug. "Someone has to. My father won't," I say simply. "Fae earned their reputations as riddlers and tricksters for good reason. Nothing makes them happier than the trick of semantics." Contracts and legislation and reports use the slip of verbiage all the time. Even if I could get father to read any of it, I'm not certain he'd catch half of the infractions.
"I haven't made it very far today," I admit. Because I can't stop thinking about you, I withhold.
"Teach me," she says, pulling up a chair beside me. "I haven't been useful since we got back."
I roll my eyes at her ridiculousness. "Sure you have," I reply. "You've been preparing for the wedding."
"Which is a supreme joke, and you know it," she answers, and I'm not sure why my heart stings bitterly. I know she doesn't mean it as a slight against me. Still... "I want to help. The less time you spend doing paperwork, the more time we can spend taking down our fathers."
"You're going to wish you never offered," I warn her.
She shrugs. "I'm no homemaker," she tells me. "I need to learn something useful to occupy my days. That is unless you've changed your mind and want to be a father." Something of nervousness crosses her face at the possibility. I know she is like me. She likes children, but she isn't in that place right now. I know if I have her kids tomorrow, I might as well have thrown her back into the cellar.
"Alright," I say because how can I deny her? That's a serious question. I still am not sure. "Let's start with this one."
...
I spend the rest of the afternoon teaching her how to look for holes in the contracts and agreements and proposals. I share a personal trick of mine, telling her to pretend she's looking for a loophole to exploit in the contract herself. How would she exploit it? Are there any vague or broad words that go undefined? Are their any clauses that aren't disclaimed? Any legalities not in order?
She gets the hang of it pretty quick, which isn't all that surprising. She has the heart of a saint, but she has a sinner's mind. She understands how we tick. It makes a guy wonder what other sinful things her mind gets up to that her heart has stopped her from. It makes a guy wonder what sinful things her heart hasn't stopped her from.
Now, I'm on edge. Okay, maybe I've been on edge all day. All week. All month.
But hell, it's all building to be nearly intolerable. She must know it. She sits so closely that I'm drowning in the smell of lavender and rainwater. She's chewing on those pretty lips harshly as she concentrates. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she holds the paper up to her face, unknowingly pushing up her cleavage. Her too big, too innocent eyes are heavy lidded with exhaustion.
She must know.
I stand abruptly, startling her enough into a small gasp which surely doesn't help me. "I should... go bathe," I manage, thinking of war and open wounds and blisters. Anything to keep my erection at less than half mast. I shove my hands in my pockets. "Before dinner, I mean. I should bathe before dinner."
She tilts her head, brushing her face absentmindedly with the feathered tip of her quill, playing with her lip. "...okay," she says quietly. Skeptical. Confused. "I think I'll go see your mother then if we're done for the day."
I swallow, nodding. "Good. That's good," I say gruffly. "I'll find you before dinner."
She smiles at me like I've lost my mind. "Alright, Eris," she snorts, slipping onto her feet, condescendingly patting my chest in a way that makes my cock stiffen even worse. She glances down for a second, and my life flashes before my eyes to think that she has caught me. But instead, her fingers distantly fall around the Ruby I keep chained around my neck, rolling it between her fingers, her knuckles grazing my skin. She drops it shortly after, taking a step away. "I'll see you at dinner."
I can only grunt in response, trying to rip my eyes from the sway of her hips as she walks away.
I don't go to bathe.
How can I? I hardly make it the distance across the room to lock the door before I'm unbuttoning my pants, reaching down my briefs. A shuddered breath leaves my lips when I finally grasp my erection. Blindly, I stumble over to my desk, pulling out a bottle of lotion that I had stored there a while back. I don't use it all that often, considering my study isn't my preferred spot to jerk off, but hell, I'm desperate and grateful.
I pump a handful onto my finger tips before pressing my shoulder blades against the wall, shutting my eyes. It's like her smile was painted on the inside of my eyelids. Sighing in relief, I begin to stroke myself.
Then, I wonder if she has touched herself before. I know plenty of ladies had refused to give themselves pleasure out of some sort of broken obligation to propriety, but I'm almost certain Neph wouldn't be so patient all those years she spent alone.
I wonder if she has touched herself since she has seen her freedom. I can just see her now, laying back in our bed, sliding her panties down her endless legs. I stroke myself harder to the imagery.
She would spread her thighs on the duvet as she took out those beautiful tits to play with. I bet she loves to have her tits played with. I could tell the other night when we danced, when my knuckles accidentally grazed her breasts. Her breath caught inside her, and I could just smell her arousal, thick and sweet.
She would slide her fingers down her gleaming little cunt and spread herself, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip in preparation. She would coat herself in her dew, patient as an afternoon drizzle, working around her throbbing clit until she couldn't stand it anymore.
Then, she would slide her fingers inside of herself, a moan breaking from her sealed lips as her other hand kneaded her breasts. Her head would roll back onto the pillows as her thumb massaged her clit, her hips bobbing into the caress helplessly. Her muscles would flex as she tried to restrain herself against the sheets, trying to keep her legs and hips from bowing off the bed.
Maybe she would think of me as she touched herself how I think of her when I do the same. Maybe she'd imagine my head between her thighs. My head rolls back against the wall when I think of it, of tasting her. I'd like to think she'd beg me for it, she would swallow her pride and stop the teasing if for one second to truly beg.
I'd give her anything she ask for, I'm sure. She's deeply difficult to say no to.
And when her release finally came to her as mine comes to me now, she'd finish with my name on her lips, her eyes rolling back into her head as her body tensed then relaxed in the change of a heartbeat.
I'd kiss her as she finished. Even though I've never been the sort for tender and affectionate gestures, I'd kiss her when she was finished. I'd kiss her, and she'd lay her pretty head onto my chest and tell me how glad she is we met.
My own release doesn't feel nearly as sweet because the fantasy wasn't real. I know it. She doesn't want even the commitment of a husband, much less a mate. She might welcome the sex, but would she welcome it out of marital obligation? If she were out in the world, she wouldn't be bound to me and only me. And if I were a better man, I would set her free and tell her to have anyone she wants as long as she's discreet and doesn't get pregnant.
But I'm not a better man.
As I button myself back into my pants, that much becomes clear. If I were a better man, I'd be worthy of being her mate. I wouldn't feel so nauseated to tell her because I'd know I deserved it. If I were a good man, I wouldn't be so damn jealous and in love with her that I couldn't set her free.
In love with her...
There's no point lying to myself anymore. Of course, I'm in love with her. How could I not be? She's without flaw, the best person I've ever met. I could kill my father a thousand times, I could stop him from hurting mom, from poisoning my brothers, from poisoning me, and I'd still never deserve her, much less her love.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I leave the room, off to take a cold bath that I might not need any longer.