Lines of Violence

05

It was all rather dark, the sky dark as obsidian, void of all stars. Leona twisted around, a snarl in her gaze. Her black rimmed eyes flickered to him, and Gaspard couldn't help but walk towards her, his hems soaked with rain. She - draped in sheer silks - was golden light in this abysmal darkness.

A flash of colour and sensations, all a mad blur and suddenly his hand was on her cold cheek. Her silks melted away beneath his touch, chest heaving with desire. The snarl never left her gaze, but she quivered all the same when his lips pressed to her neck. His hunger was unmatched - so long he had waited - and his hands brushed over the sides of her breasts. Down, down, down, and she arched into his touch.

"Gaspard," she gasped.

He wanted to see her unravel beneath him.

"Gaspard."

"Gaspard!"

(Oh how it felt to be called by your dream in flesh and blood.)

He woke abruptly, feeling a hand on his arm. It was out of pure instinct he moved, pushing the person back onto the bed. His iron gaze softened at the sight of Leona beneath him, her eyes widening slightly with surprise. His touch did not relent, still half mesmerised by his dream, lingering in that world of darkness and silks.

There was a moment of tense silence and he realised that a blush was spreading across her cheeks. For a moment he was content with this position, having her pliant beneath him. His arousal was pressed against her soft stomach and she tried to squirm from his grasp. His jaws clenched, for that did not help the situation. "Leona," his voice was hoarse, his hold on her still tight. Gods have mercy. "Stop that."

It was unbearable for her. She had only meant to wake him, for they had slept long enough after she had dragged him to bed. But his magic reached out to her when they touched. It started with a jolt, running through her like heady smoke, vicious and intoxicating. She didn't trust herself to remain unresponsive, especially when he gazed down her with such fire. "Let go," she managed to say. A memory flashed in her mind - the vague sight of Gaspard between her thighs. "I ought to punch you in the face." Her voice was too husky for her own liking.

His fingers brushed against her flushed cheeks - the touch fleeting like a ghost. "But I know you won't." He spoke with such certainty and a shiver ran through her, victim to the feel of his magic. He leaned down as if to kiss her, and she wasn't sure she would refuse him. Her heart thudded in her ears. But thankfully he pushed himself off of the bed, stalking off to take a bath. A very cold one.

.

.

.

Gaspard's youngest brother stood laughing at Selim's jokes, a hearty sound that brought a grin to his own face. Mehmed was the second eldest Aelia brother, followed by Selim and then Ahmed. Gaspard was the eldest and, unlike his brothers, did not share an arabic name. His mother had demanded to name him, and Akram could only surrender to her wish.

The brothers had escaped to a field they often visited as boys, the hills rolling and the winds whistling. Noon reached down with dazzling sunlight, basking the field in golden warmth. There was nothing here but peace and the mischief between brothers. Selim's robes fluttered in the gentle breeze, and Ahmed ran a hand through his blond hair. "To think we used to be boys riding our ponies here," said Selim, his voice a baritone. "Nothing but happiness and carelessness."

Ahmed grinned, thinking about that time years ago when Selim's spell went wrong, turning his pony into a rabbit instead. Gaspard glanced at Ahmed, shadow of amusement in his eyes, thinking of the very same event.