Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong (15 page)

After a while, though, she figured,
what was the point
? Toran refused to lower himself to engage with her on even the most innocent of topics. Books, movies… the general state of the Mythos?
 

Nothing.
 

And they never touched.

This, despite the fact that it seemed as if he was waiting desperately for something to happen with her.

What that something was, she hadn’t a clue.

Liv sighed as she sat down with Toran’s men as they had their dinner, figuring later that night she’d have more of the same. Earlier, she had picked out a new book from the library, and BBC Scotland, the newscast he preferred, started at eleven…

She was between conversations when, out of nowhere, the men around her scrapped their chairs back against the floors. They stood at attention as Toran stalked into the room.

This was a first.

Merus caught her eye and winked.
 

“Be at ease.” From across the way, Liv heard the soft rumble of Toran's murmured command. He took the seat at the head of the table. Eyes scanning his guests, his gaze landed briefly on her face before moving on.
 

His men resumed their meal, easily picking up their conversations, interruption forgotten.

“This is different, is it not?”

Liv looked up to see Merus grinning at her from across the table. From the moment they had met, she had been struck by how familiar the daemon had seemed. Perhaps, she had asked, they had met somewhere before?

He had assured her that they had not.

Regardless, she had come to enjoy his friendship, a friendship that had started when the daemon handed her a smart phone just days after she had awakened in Venn Dom. The phone had rung the moment it hit her palm, with Mandy on the other end giving Liv an earful.

Merus had given the witch her number. For that kindness, she’d be forever grateful.

Returning his smile, Liv shrugged. “Apparently, there’s a first time for everything.”

At their friendly exchange, venna––Toran's venna––brushed with brazen discontent against her skin. Though she refused to look his way, she could feel his unhappy eyes upon her.
 

And that was the weird thing about him. While his behavior was, for the most part, reserved and ever-distant, his venna and his gaze––whenever he deigned to look in her direction––felt heated, possessive.

Once, when she had been out for a walk with Merus, a bolt of crystal blue lightning had cut through the sky the second Merus had wrapped a friendly arm around her shoulder. Apparently, Toran had been watching, completely unseen. Merus had laughed it off. But it soon became apparent that he made a point not to touch her again––as did the other males in Venn Dom, each of whom kept a polite, slightly fearful, distance.

Yes, Toran's behavior was exceedingly odd.

It wasn’t even as if she was remotely interested in his cousin… or anyone else for that matter. In Merus’s case, she thought of him more as a brother than anything. Even if she did feel something for him, she’d never act on it. Though Mandy was unusually––and shockingly––tight-lipped about the daemon, Liv could tell she liked him. If her intuition was right, the feeling was mutual––if peculiarly expressed.

With Toran, nothing was clearly expressed, peculiar or not, except his tepid indifference.

She had no idea what he wanted from her… or if he truly wanted anything at all.

When they had first discussed their arrangement so many weeks ago, Liv had readily agreed to his terms, vague though they were. After all, as she had waited for centuries for Toran to find her, Liv had clung to the last words her mother had given her.

He will gift you with life.

A hopeless romantic, Liv had always assumed that this meant she and Toran were destined to build a life together.
 

Now, she was starting to wonder. Perhaps it simply meant exactly what they’d agreed on from the very beginning. In exchange for her healing presence, he’d let her feed, thus giving her the strength she needed to live the life she’d always dreamed of living.

So far, he hadn’t let her feed, not really. Liv knew the power of his touch, and he had denied her that for nearly two months.
 

Thus, while her life now was different than before, she wasn’t quite sure it was any better.

Sure, with Toran's venna quickening her senses, indirect though it was, she was stronger than she’d ever been.
 

So, in a way, he had already gifted her with
something
of a life.

Was that what her mother had meant?

Maybe.

Looking around the table at Toran's men, she sensed that if she were so inclined, she was strong enough now to try to take a male to her bed.

Now, that would be more of a life, for sure.

What was there to stop her from trying?

Fear?

Or was it something more?

Though she had long lost track of the dinner conversation, Liv paused her thoughts to laugh along with the others at something Merus had said… and, once again, felt the prickling heat of Toran's venna.

And, there it was.

Despite his continued disinterest, in her silliest moments of weakness when she felt the brush of his venna and the heat of his gaze, Liv prayed he’d come to want her.

Pathetic. But true.

*****

She smiles at others.

Though business with his uncle had eaten into his time with his faine this afternoon, Toran could see that coming to dinner to be near her was a mistake.

As she laughed with his men, his resentment raged.

It was never supposed to be like this.

Over the past few weeks, Toran had followed as much of the doctor’s orders as he willingly could. He had spent countless hours with the faine. This, despite the fact that he could barely stand being in her presence.
 

He did not like the way she made him feel.

How she made him
want.

When he had found her, he hadn’t expected to feel anything other than cold satisfaction.
 

So what the hell is this I feel?

Even from a distance, she called to him.

And, just as he had since the day he’d found her, Toran battled the urge to answer.

Thus, the one compromise he found he could not make, regardless of Anara’s insistence––and his uncle’s ever-present prodding––was that he be near the faine as much as possible. Toran could not spend his nights in his bedroom, connected by just a short passageway to where she lay. The thought of her lying so close––
so accessible
––made him feel raw to the bone.

Even though he purposefully put miles––sometime entire ‘els––between them, each night after he left her, he ached for hours.

The faine should have brought him some measure of comfort, some modicum of relief. After all, it was her duty to do so. Instead, Toran was lately hanging by a thread.

More so than ever.
 

Her smiles, her everyday kindnesses, her ruthless yet joyful competitiveness he’d seen the time or two she’d challenged him to a video game, all these things made him want to be near her more and more.

Though he felt as physically strong as ever, she was making him weak…
with need.

Unable to endure much longer, he had met again with Anara earlier that morning. At the end of his rope, Toran had agreed to some last-ditch test, some far-fetched genetic look-see conducted at a renowned research hospital on the mortal ‘el.
 

According to Anara, the humans might be able to shed some light on his condition.

But, gods, he was frustrated with the doctor’s lack of progress––and his own. For weeks, Toran had poured over the charred scraps of the ancient texts, searching for clues on how he could best harness the power of his faine––without having to endure the indignity of touching her body.

Yet, just like Anara, he had failed to uncover anything to save himself from that lamentable fate.

It seemed physical touch was the best, most efficient way she could take in all that he needed to give.

For him, he was beginning to fear it was
the only way.

What had Anara told him the faine had shared with her?
That she was a masseuse on the human ‘el?
Anara had then helpfully explained that the faine had been one for a reason.
 

His gut burned at the thought that other males had fed her senses.

Motherfucker.

Furious with himself, Toran jabbed at a piece of meat on his plate, a hiss of his venna kissing the air.

He fucking
refused
to go down that route.

It had been nearly two months of daily contact with the faine––hell, he had graced her with the presence of his venna multiple times a day.

Surely what he was doing was enough.

And, surely, he could survive just two more months without…

Unable to stop himself, Toran glanced in the faine’s direction. He found her talking with one of his men, a soft and happy glint in her eye. His fingers gripped the knife he used to cut his meat, the metal softening under the heat of his venna.

Just today, his uncle had again made the point that Toran had the very means––the faine here in his house––to end his misery.

Immediately and without question.

So why the hell was he being so stubborn?

All he had to do was touch her body…

His brain shorted out.

For long moments, he sat there, completely dazed, his eyes unseeing.

Somehow, he managed to shake himself out of his stupor.

Enough of this bullshit.

Toran pushed aside his forbidden thoughts and looked around for something more appropriate to occupy his mind…
and his bed.
Scanning the room, his gaze landed on a young daemoness, a servant girl who helped in the castle kitchens. His soldiers had made it well known her favors were easily bought.

Therefore, just like last time,
he could simply pay.

Toran dropped his fork. He stared down at his plate, the runaway beat of his heart pounding in his ears.

But no,
Toran was quick to reason as he lifted his head,
everything would be fine.

There was no cause to worry.

There was no reason to suffer any longer.

He knew what needed to be done.

Toran called the servant girl over, the patter of his soldiers’ conversations falling silent at the harsh bite of his voice.
 

He could feel their curious eyes upon him.

The daemoness came forward to stand obediently at his side. Toran didn’t bother to hide his intent from the guests at his table as he looked the female up and down, sizing up her strength.

She’d do.

Placing a possessive hand at the female’s hip, he raised his head, fully aware that the glint in his eye matched the hard look in his cousin’s own. Turning away from Merus’s reproving gaze, Toran stared down the faine, his pique fed now by the dampened expression in her eyes.

There was simply no room for his petty pride…
or his shame.

Toran gave the wench a knowing nod. Though a flicker of fear flared in her eyes, she licked her lips and acknowledged his desire, his need evident in his hungry gaze. With a jerk of his chin, he sent her away.
 

Decision made, Toran began to eat.
 

It was time to man up and get this done.

This very night, he’d let the faine feed.
 

Then, he’d happily slake his hunger on another.

“I say we go in tonight and take the faine,” a drunken voice slurred into the darkness.

Loud assents came from all points around the campfire.

Only Kellen the 8
th
held his tongue.

“Now that she’s been returned to him, the prophecy can be fulfilled,” a daemon called out. “We can’t afford to let that happen. All that we have worked for––and died for––will be lost.”

“Yet, as usual, the daemon prince hasn’t acted,” said another. “What the fuck is he waiting for?”

“Each and every day, the Tenn grows stronger in her presence,” Kellen murmured. He shifted his body, trying to find some comfort on the cold, unforgiving ground. He and his men were camped high atop a cliff, hidden away, as always, by magic.

A chorus of voices rose in the night, each note united in dissent.

“That’s heresy,” a brave soul ventured.

“Maybe,” Kellen answered, “but it’s true.”

Despite his fellow daemons’ knee-jerk impulse to vilify the faine, Kellen knew venna––all energy really––wasn’t some zero sum game. His mother, a lowly human seer who had somehow clawed out a life amongst the Strong, had taught him that well enough. True, the faine fed off of venna and raw emotions. But they weren’t furtive thieves in the night, draining strength in pursuit of iron-fisted control over the soul of Venn Dom.

No, it was much more complicated than that.
 

Especially when it involved the would-be king of the Vimor daemons.

Because, if Kellen knew anything, it was this:
Toran was broken without his faine.

He could see that now.

And Kellen had spent his entire life fracturing the pieces. Since his mother’s death, he had killed Vimora Elden with gruesome regularity, unleashing untold amounts of venna to fan the flames of Toran’s weakness.

Like pouring gasoline on a fire.

He could also see now that his murderous ways hadn’t been just about punishing the Tenn with agony; Kellen had been
preparing the future king to face his destiny.

A destiny Toran apparently wanted no part of.

An explosion rocked the night, a wall of flames erupting in the valley below them.

The rebels continued eating their supper, long used to the Sumari’s assaults on the unfortunate Vimora villages along the border.

Kellen found himself staring down the hill, searching for answers in the dancing flames. If he were a praying man, he knew he’d pray for the strength to escape his mother’s obsession, to just walk away from the misery her rambled words had wrought.