It's sweet…warm…thick with sexual need.Itmakes my pulse spike, and my gut tighten all at once.
“Fuck…”Ihear myself groan.
It’s stronger than before, when she came to me atTheAnvil.Strongereven than when she stood in front of me, flushed and desperate, and begged me to take her.
This is different.Thisis…intense.
MyDrakesurges up hard, reacting instantly.
“Now you see,”he growls inside me.“Shecalls to us.”
“She’s not calling,”Imutter, though my voice comes out rougher thanIintend.
ButIcan’t deny whatIsmell.Thescent wraps around me, pulling at something deep and instinctive, somethingIdon’t fully understand.It’snot just want—it’s something heavier…something urgent…something wrong.It’sa cry for help onlyIcan hear–or in this case, smell.
From her scent she’s so deep in need she must be in pain.Thethought twists my heart, andIfollow it beforeIcan stop myself.
It leads me around the side of the temple, past a low stone wall tangled with ivy, toward the gardens.Imove slower now, more cautious, listening for any sign of theSisters.Butthere’s nothing–just the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
And thenIhear it–a sound so soft and brokenI’mnot sure whatI’mhearing at first.
I frown, straining to hear it again.There–a low, hitching breath…a quiet, hopeless kind of crying.
Something in my chest tightens.IsthatElowencrying?Shesounds fucking tormented–poor little priestess.
MyDrakesends me urgent feelings–we must protect her, we must comfort her.
For once, we’re in total agreement.
I move toward the sobbing, more carefully now–keeping low asIslip through a gap in the greenery and into the garden proper.
It’s quieter here–a verdant green place enclosed in silence.Rowsof plants stretch out in neat lines, herbs and vegetables and flowering vines climbing up trellises that cast dappled shadows across the ground.Theair is thick with the scent of growing things—green and alive and warm under the sun.
And there, beneath one of the trellises, half-hidden by trailing vines and bright yellow squash blossoms,Isee her–my little priestess.
She’s curled in on herself, sitting on the ground with her back against one of the wooden supports, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking.Herhair has come loose and spills over her shoulders shining like rubies, strands of it clinging to her damp cheeks.Thewhite robes she wears is rumpled and creased as though she’s been here for a while.
She’s crying like her heart is breaking.
I feel my heart twist in my chest.Whatis it about her?Whydoes she touch me so deeply?Fuck,IknowIshouldn’t get involved–whatever it is,Ishould let her work it out herself.
ButI’mphysically unable to leave.Ihaveto go to her.
“Mine,”theDrakesays again.“Ours.”
His tone is possessive but also protective–he wants to keep the little priestess safe–to comfort her.
I want the same thing, andIcan’t fight it.Ineed to know what’s wrong with her–if someone hurt her and made her cry…
The thought makes both me and myDrakeangry.Morethan angry–enraged.Ifanyone laid a finger on our little priestess…
No, be calm,Itell both him and myself.Wedon’t want to scare her.
I should turn around, walk away, leave her to whatever life she’s meant to have inside those walls.
But my feet don’t move, and my body doesn’t listen.
BecauseIcan still smell her–can still feel that strange pull that’s been keeping me up at nights.