Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

“Dance with me, Iri.” Leslie stood and, ignoring the Hounds, went over to where Bananach was talking to Irial. It occurred to Leslie that this was a repetition of a tableau she could remember from other days: Bananach was around too often, taking Irial’s time and attention. Leslie didn’t like it.

“Move,” she told the raven-woman.

Irial laughed as Bananach tried to raise a hand, only to have it forced down by Gabriel and another Hound who both grabbed at her.

Irial said, “Bananach was just explaining why you aren’t of any use to us.”

Leslie felt the shivering in the tendrils that tied her to Irial, and she knew with perfect clarity in that moment that he had tamped down on their connection so she could have a few extra moments of lucidity. He did that.

“And what use am I, Irial? Did you tell her?” she asked.

“I did.” Irial was standing now, hand outstretched, palm up.

Leslie put her hand in his and stepped closer.

Beside Irial, Bananach had gone still. She tilted her head at an angle that made her look far less human than the other faeries. Her eyes—which were similar enough to Irial’s that Leslie paused—narrowed, but she did not speak. She does not speak to me. Leslie remembered that from other nights: Bananach refusing to address “the pet.”

Leslie glanced at Gabriel, who stood waiting, and then around the club. They were all waiting. For me. For food. She thought she should feel frightened, maybe angry, but all she felt was bored. “Can you keep a leash on her while I relax?”

Gabriel didn’t look to Irial for the Dark King’s accord. He smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Leslie knew that almost everyone in the club was watching her, but she suspected they’d seen her in far more mortifying circumstances. She slid her hands up Irial’s chest, over his collarbone, and down his arms—feeling the tension in him that was utterly absent from his posture and expression. She tilted her head up and waited until he looked down. Then she whispered, “Am I just for using up, then?”

She knew it, knew that the ink under her skin was intended to let him—let them—do just that. She knew that the bone-melting bliss she felt each time he funneled the storms of emotion through her, forcing a tidal wave through a straw, was a trick to keep her insensible to the clarity that she had grasped again in that moment—and she realized that she’d had similar moments of clarity other nights and forgotten each time when the rush hit.

“Am I?” she repeated.

He leaned closer still, until she could feel his lips on her neck. There was no sound, only movement, when he said it. “No.”

But she was willing to be: they both knew that as well. She thought about the life she’d had before—druggies in her home, drunken or missing father, bills to pay, hours waitressing, lying friends. What’s to miss? She didn’t want to return to pain, to worry, to fear, to any of that. She wanted euphoria. She wanted to feel her body go liquid in his arms. She wanted to feel the mad crescendo of pleasure that hit her with enough force to make her black out.

He pulled away to look at her.

She twined her arms around his neck and walked forward, forcing him to walk backward as she did so. “Later I’m going to be too blissed out to keep my hands off you….” She shivered against him at the thought, at the admission here in public of what she was going to be like, not sure if admitting the desire was worse or better than telling herself some pretty lie to allay the blame. “This is fun, though. Being here. Being with you. I’d like to start remembering more of the fun stuff. Can we do that? Let me remember more of the good times with you? Let me have more of this?”

The tension fled then. He looked beyond her and gestured. Music filled the room; bass rumbled so heavily, it felt like it was inside her. And they danced and laughed, and for a few hours the world felt right. The disdainful and adoring looks on the faces of the mortals and faeries didn’t matter. There was only Irial, only pleasure. But the longer she was clearheaded, the more she also remembered things that were awful. She didn’t feel the emotions, but the memories came into sharper focus. There, in Irial’s arms, she realized that she had the power to destroy every person who’d given her nightmares. Irial would do that: he’d find out who they were, and he’d bring them to her. It was a cold, clear understanding.

But she didn’t want it, didn’t want to truly destroy anyone. She just wanted to forget them again—even knowing she should feel pain was more than she wanted. “Irial? Feed them. Now.”

She stopped moving and waited for it, the flash of emotions ripping through her body.

“Gabe,” was all he said. And it was enough to start a melee. Bananach shrieked; Gabriel growled. Mortals screamed and moaned in pleasures and horrors. Cacophony rose

around them like a familiar lullaby.

Irial didn’t let her turn around. He didn’t let her see anything or anyone.

Stars flashed to life in some too-close distance. They burned her up for a few brief heartbeats, but in their wake they pulled a wave of ecstasy that made her eyes close. Every particle of her body cried out, and she remembered nothing—knew nothing—but felt only the pleasure of Irial’s skin against hers.

CHAPTER 31

Snatches of time were nothing but blurs and blank spaces, but the lucid periods were becoming more frequent. How long has it been? Her tattoo had been healed for a while. Her hair was longer. Often she could feel Irial close the connection, stopping the pull of emotions that slithered along the black vine that hovered between them. On those days almost everything was in order, sequential. So much of the time was a long blur, though. Weeks?

She hadn’t left his side yet. How long? How long have I…Today she would. Today she would prove she could. She knew she’d tried—and failed—to do this more times than she could guess. There were bits of memories jumbled together. Life was like that now: just montages of images and sensations, and through it all there was Irial. He was constant. Even as she moved, she heard him in the other room. Always at my reach. That was dangerous too. The raven-woman wanted to change that, take Irial away.

Leslie slipped into one of the countless outfits he’d ordered for her, a long dress that clung and swirled when she moved. Like everything he bought, it was of material that felt almost too sensuous as she slipped into it. Without a word, she opened the door to the second room.

He didn’t speak; he just watched her.