Private Tales Poisoned Words For the Heart

[Imogen Celreos]

Gods, even the way he was looking at her made her blood heat, and the graze of his fingers against hers had sparked a fresh flame.

“Nor am I…” she murmured, watching him over the rim of her glass as he tipped his head back, column of his throat bared - a perfect target, and yet the last thing she wanted was to harm him. Not when every instinct screamed at her to reach for him instead.

He spoke of physical activity, and her lips curved despite herself. Yes, that’s what’s on my mind too.

“I wouldn’t be afraid of injuring you,” she said at last, a quiet challenge threading through her tone. “Though sadly, I am on a very tight leash, and I doubt it extends to sparring with my betrothed’s most terrible cousin.”

Her mouth quirked faintly, but the smile in her eyes softened as they fell to the glass in her hand. The amber liquor caught the lamplight as she swirled it absently, trying to keep her heart from climbing out of her chest. His words echoed in her ears, left her cheeks warm.

“You shouldn’t say things like that…” she said softly, her reprimand barely more than a whisper as she flicked her gaze back up to him, only to feel that sting at the corners of her eyes.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t.

“I don’t want to marry him, Grey,” she admitted, barely above a whisper now. “This isn’t my choice… But it’s what I have to do.”

 

[Greydon]

To his credit, Greydon kept himself from smiling. Instead, he arched a brow and his head tilted to the side. "Can't say many women do once they realise what kind of man he is."

Eira had won everyone's heart, Thanasis and the Thunder, for her intelligent plots and schemes, all of which benefited not just herself. She knew what kept people interested, what they were invested in, and how to support them in those endeavours in exchange for a favour. She had the charm and charisma that would have made House Malennis continue to live out the legacy her father, and his father before him, had built.

"Ilir... had to live in the shadows of his own House. His own father's brother could not put himself on the Lord's seat, nor any of his children. None of them bore Moon Dragon bonds." Greydon ran a finger over the rim of his glass, catching the lone droplet of his drink and wiping it onto his lip. A slow trace of his tongue followed. "Ilir forced his bond, made a trade with a half bred moon dragon. No matter what make up his dragon has, it has no true bond to Ilir."

It tolerated the man. Greydon had observed the duo many times now, and could see there was a disconnect between them.

His eyes flicked up to meet Imogen's, a stare unwavering as his lips quirked with amusement. "If you want to piss off your groom to be, we can always spar. Only if you promise to actually hurt me."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen stared down into her glass, the amber liquid catching the light as her thoughts turned cold. “Yes…” she said quietly.. “I know what kind of man he is.”

Each time Ilir’s hands had been on her, his touch had been a cold, cruel thing that made her skin crawl. A reminder of the bars around her life.

Greydon’s hands, though… those had branded her in an entirely different way.

Her brow arched as he spoke of the forced bond, surprise flickering across her features. She hadn’t thought that was even possible. “Well,” she said after a beat, her tone dry, “as we learned with the girl who bonded the Sahar dragon…” She did not flinch at the memory of Lord Sahar’s blood on her hands. “Bonds can be broken.” She shrugged, though there was a sharpness to it. “Apparently she won the creature by simply being kinder to it than its rider was.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, emerald eyes glinting as a short, dry laugh escaped her. “Oh, I would hurt you,” she assured him, the corner of her mouth twitching with the faintest smirk.

But then her expression sobered, her head shaking as she tipped back the last of her drink. “I fear I have pissed him off enough…” she admitted, setting the glass down with a quiet click. “And he is likely to be arriving here soon.”

The warning was pointed, but her voice was softer now. A part of her wanted him to leave. A bigger part wanted him to stay. But here, around her, in her home, his life was in more danger than he realised.

 

[Greydon]

Something about the way she rose to say that she would hurt him made Greydon smirk. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and let his hands dangle there in the space between. "Oh, darling, I would love to see you make good on that." His eyes bore into her's, challenge held in his gaze.

"Fuck Ilir. Your door is locked..."

No. He shouldn't encourage this, but Greydon was sick and tired of Ilir getting things without working hard for it. His Lord and cousin did not care for much else, and by the fucking gods, Grey wanted to feel that gown she wore now bundled up in his hand.

"Your move, Celreos. Kick me out, or come here and pour me another drink."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

How many men in her life had, much to their later regret, called her things like darling or sweetheart? Quite a few. And never, not once, had she ever felt herself swoon. Never had her cheeks betrayed her like this, pale skin warming under the weight of the word as though he’d just lit a match and dropped it onto kindling.

Fuck Ilir…

Gods, her pulse was quickening, thrumming in her ears. What the hell was happening to her?

Her door was locked, yes, but his words lingered in the air, a provocation she couldn’t quite ignore. His challenge was met with the arch of a slender brow, and something slow, dangerous, and amused curled on her lips.

Imogen rose with deliberate grace, taking her time crossing back to the decanter. She poured herself another drink first, taking a slow sip without looking at him, letting him wait. Only then did she pour another measure into another glass, not bringing it to him, but setting it down on the table in front of her with a soft clink.

“You have two hands, Tomyris..” she said lightly, swirling her own glass before sinking back into her chair. “If you want a drink, you’ll have to come and get it yourself.”

Her verdant eyes glinted as she took another sip, never breaking their locked stare. She hadn’t kicked him out, and the air between them felt suddenly, dangerously charged.

 

[Greydon]

He was a man of action, setting aside his glass to the space beside him. It was empty, and he was in need of a refill, but the temptress before him posed a new challenge to him. Greydon lowered himself to his knees, whereas she moved with languid grace, he moved with a predator's precision. His two hands found the plush rug, his injured leg protesting lightly, but not hindering him as he crawled to her.

She was his reigning Lady. Every one else should bow before her. He was lower, even with the bloodlines running through him, Greydon could never measure up beside her.

He wanted to be trouble. Wanted to see her come undone by his loving hands.

Greydon kneeled before her, placing his two hands either side of her. He leaned in, smirking up at her. "I have other ideas for these hands..." Came his husky murmur. "I am very fascinated by this... silk..."

Should she refuse him, he only used one hand to pinch her dressing gown between thumb and forefinger. Rubbed the silk, pulling at the fabric until a glimpse of her leg was bared to him. Fuck. He truly wanted this death wish, but he also knew his cousin. Ilir would not go out of his way to see her if she did not want to join anyone for dinner. Not until they married.

And knowing the plots that he knew, there was a chance Imogen would not become Ilir's Lady Malennis.

So... he could afford to indulge.

His lips found the side of her knee, and a gentle, lingering kiss was placed there. A promise. Lust raged in his eyes as he looked up at her. It mixed with every other emotion and feeling he had for her.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her eyes never left him as he crawled to her, her face a picture of calm composure and subtle amusement, but her mind and heart were anything but calm.

She should tell him to go. She really, really should.

And yet… every inch of her skin prickled alive under the weight of his gaze.

Her fingers tightened around her glass before she swallowed another gulp, the whisky burning down her throat, steadying her as she tilted her head ever so slightly at him. Watching him study her like that made her pulse quicken.

She should stop him. She really.. really should.

But then his lips found her knee, and all reason left her. Her breath caught, her throat working as her eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, just long enough to let herself feel the heat of his mouth on her skin. Each breath she took was deep, her chest rising and falling in time with the pounding of her heart.

“This is dangerous, Grey…” she whispered, her voice low, roughened with a mix of warning and invitation.

Her leg shifted, just slightly, and the silk slid higher up her thigh, an unconscious invitation, an unspoken dare. Her lips curved in a ghost of a smile as she looked down at him, her eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Tell me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper now, “just how much trouble are you hoping to be, exactly?”

 

[Greydon]

Greydon was ablaze, roaring with the accelerant she poured all over him. His answering grin was all forms of mischief and lust. She didn't stop him, she dared him to continue. Who was he to refuse a Lady of such?

He could see her eyes flick to his lips, and Greydon made sure she watched his tongue run across them. His other hand now came to rest at her waist, the other abandoning the silk and wrapping around her ankle. Steadily, he held her, let her watch as he trailed slow and deliberate kisses up the path of shown flesh. The bared slit of silk only gave him enough that his lips stopped in the middle of her thigh, and there, leaned in closely, Greydon looked up at Imogen.

"Good fuckings gods..." he beheld her with such reverence, Greydon wondered what he would sacrifice at her alter. Himself. All of him. She deserved total devotion. "My thoughts are becoming depraved. I'm starved, Imogen. If I start, I don't think I will be able to stop..." If she was worried about noise, he would lock them both in her closet. If she wanted to lay down and let him feast, he would spread her here on this rug.

"But I can't do none of this without your word, my Lady." He tempted her, lifting her leg and hoisting it over his shoulder. Grey dared not to look down, instead putting his eyes and attention to her knee hooked over him. There, he pressed soft brushed kisses that felt better than the silks she wore.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her breaths grew shallow, tight, each one dragging through her chest as though she’d run for miles. Her pulse pounded in her throat and between her ribs, loud enough she was certain he could hear it. She could not take her eyes off of him, the sight of Greydon Tomyris, the face she’d thought of every day, kneeling at her feet, his mouth hot on her thigh, his hands steady as they held her in place.

Gods, she should tell him to stop. She should.

But she didn’t.

Every ounce of her composure felt stretched thin, and still she dared him to go on. She wanted to see how far this would go, to see how far she would go.

Her word?

She was not accustomed to breaking promises, and she had promised herself to another, however unwillingly. But she had already sinned, had already had his hands and mouth on her..

Wouldn’t it be all right, just once, to choose something for herself, before she entered into a life of misery?

The thought made her head swim, and as his lips pressed soft kisses to the knee hooked over his shoulder, she let out a shuddering breath. Slowly, oh so slowly, her fingers tugged at the knotted belt of her nightdress. The sound of it sliding loose was deafening in the quiet room. The silk whispered over her skin as it parted, baring her to him in answer.

Her leg stayed where he had placed it, her body taut with the invitation, her gaze molten as she finally whispered:

“Then don’t stop.”

A dangerous little smile curved her lips as she tilted her chin up, daring him now more openly, more boldly than ever before. “Show me how much trouble you really are, Tomyris.”

 

[Greydon]

Good and gracious gods.

She was an invitation he longed for, and as she loosened the hold of silks to her body, Greydon could not help himself. There was a shifting south of his lower abdomen, a heat and need growing rapidly in his pit. Hunger lingered in his eyes, and the feast before him was open only to him to dine alone.

"Fucking hells..." He groaned. Stilling, his closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. His hands moved, one keeping her leg aloft over his shoulder, and the other running down the lifted leg. Greydon opened his eyes, staring at her.

He wanted to watch her pretty face, see her react to his touches. The hand slid from knee and down her thigh, fingers trailing a treacherous path. They paused.

"Hmm... I don't know if we should risk you making any sound." For he knew she would. What he had planned for her, he wanted to hear her. "Unless you promise to keep as quiet as you can?"

A fool's promise. He ought to take her to another room within her quarters. "Or shall we tempt fate that no one will hear?"

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen sipped from her glass slowly, buying herself one more precious second of composure, though her pulse throbbed hot in her ears. Her lips curved into a languid smirk as she watched him squirm before her, and gods, she liked seeing him undone like this. She needed more of that. Her teeth caught her lower lip when his hand slid over her skin, and when he paused she felt that brief, delicious sting of denial that had her chest rising and falling faster.

Her laughter broke the tension, soft but wicked, her head tilting just slightly as though she were considering his offer with all the weight of a queen entertaining a petition.

“So confident,” she murmured, her voice smoky, “that you have the talent required to make me lose my self-control…”

Her fingers toyed lazily with the edge of her gaping nightdress, deliberately drawing his eyes where she wanted them, letting him see just how easily she could choose to close it again. Instead, she let the silk slip a little more off her shoulder.

“Perhaps,” she went on, slow and daring, “you can test that theory right here.”

Her grin widened, predatory and amused all at once. “But I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” she whispered. “If I scream, Grey, it will be your fault.”

And gods help him, there was a dare in her voice, one that said she almost wanted to tempt fate. One that said she didn't give a single fuck who heard her.

 

[Greydon]

Greydon knew the presence of death nearby on many occasions, perhaps too many times he stood by death as if they were allies, and that is why he had no qualms in striding through Malennis Manor some hours later. Midnight had been approaching, and as he ascended the stairs towards the wing where his dearest cousin resided, the chime of the new hour came.

He was not surprised Eira was still awake, where the candlelight of the study beside her room illuminated from within. Greydon knocked softly at the open door, waited for her to see him there in the doorway before striding in.

"Alone?"

"Yes." She straightened up in her chair, a book laid out on her lap. "You came here...?"

The question made him smirk, and perhaps the surprising act clued his cousin that something had changed. "You once told me when we were younger that you would name me your heir once you became Lady of House Malennis. Do you remember?"

"Because I did not want children or Ilir to boss me around." She recalled, amusement playing on her lips. "Has... your mind changed, Grey?"

Greydon could see it in her eyes. That if Greydon was to get involved, it would change the outcomes of everything. He would be a part of her revenge for Ilir stealing her birthright.

"You can't be the Lady of two Great Houses... and if no other Moon Dragon bonded Malennis wants to take up the mantle..."

Eira closed her book, her attention solely on him now. "Ilir plays games remember. He lashes out when there is no other way out other than the path offered to him. He will know you and I are allied..." It was the safest assumption. That the two cousins had bonded after being chosen by moon dragons. "But I need to know everything that goes on. What you plan to take the title from him."

Greydon hesitated now, ran a hand through his hair before moving to sit in the arm chair beside her own. He stared into the dying embers in the hearth. "I'm going to save Imogen from him." He announced. "You know that I saw her after..." Eira murmured her yes, recalling the conversation they had after that engagement dinner. "And when I heard she was to marry Ilir, I couldn't stop thinking of what he did to Cecily. The Marks she bears, punishment and scars. I tried to keep my distance from Imogen, to accept fate as it is..."

"You both could not stop the pull for each other that night. I saw it, only because I know you both well." The humour returned, and he knew she was burning with questions.

"I realised I wanted it all. The title, marrying her to keep the peace between our Houses... because I have always wanted her from the moment I made her acquaintance. I... came from her home just now. Eira... I don't want her to end up hurt from this."

Eira, small as she was, reached out her hand towards him. Her fingers were just shy from the arm of his chair, but he saw what she was offering. With a shaky breath he reached for her hand and held it. Connection, a reminder he was not alone in this.

"Imogen can take care of herself... she is like me in the way we had to be fashioned in this society. She will take caution as you would... but I am here for you, cousin. I would love nothing more than to see you rise and sit on the High Seat of this house."

Greydon sighed, sagging in his chair. "I did something stupid."

Eira chuckled. "So did I not long ago... but my love faded. Perhaps I knew it would not work out between myself and Cullen. Hells, Grey, you are wanting to change your life for this woman. I think that says it all, do you not think?"

Greydon glanced at their joined hands, saw the stone reminiscnent of dawn and the sun. The promise came from House Solherre. "He is a prick, you know that?" To which Eira laughed.

"To you all that do not see his brilliance."

 

[Ilir Malennis]

A week with illness, Ilir was growing impatient and bored of being entertained by Ivan all week.

He finally made it up the stairs again, lingered outside her door. His hand hovered over the handle, to admit himself in, but with a sigh he knocked.

"Imogen." His voice was deep enough that some words sounded like a snarl. "May I see you... please?"

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen startled slightly at the knock, her hand pausing where it rested on the balustrade. The sound of his voice made her stomach tighten and her pulse leap traitorously beneath her skin. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring out at the gardens below, trying to will away the sudden nausea she felt.

A week. A week since her life had come undone in every possible way, since she’d tried to put herself back together with trembling hands and a mind she could not stop from wandering back to him...

She rose carefully, pulling her dressing gown tight around her, tying the ribbon with a little more force than necessary. The silk hung loose on her now, she’d barely eaten, barely slept. She dabbed cool water along her neck and cheeks at the washstand, watching her reflection waver in the basin. She looked pale. Distant. But it was better that way, it matched the part she had to play.

Crossing the room, she hesitated for only a heartbeat before unlatching the door and opening it just a sliver. Her eyes lifted to his, wide and faintly glassy in the low light.

“My Lord…” she greeted softly, voice thin and raw from disuse. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself.” Her hand came up quickly to her mouth, feigning a gentle cough before she spoke again. “I would much rather spare you from whatever it is that plagues me.”

Her lips tilted in a ghost of a smile, tired but polite, and she dipped her head just slightly, as though to bow. “I am sure Ivan can provide better company than one so… indisposed.”

 

[Ilir Malennis]

He had to curse the fact that Imogen Celreos possessed beauty that stopped anyone in their tracks. Even when ill, Ilir found himself staring longer than he normally would have. Instead, he embraced the moment to stare, looking at her pale skin and the red eyes. Even her silver hair lacked any movement to it.

Ilir cleared his throat.

"Your brother is not my intended. I was hoping you would come save the awkward silence that has befallen our dinners as of late." He eyed her, not to stare in fascination, but something felt off about her. "If not tonight..." Ilir's words faded, his thoughts running again.

"Then I would like to accompany you for a walk through the Main Plaza tomorrow. I can arrange a carriage to collect you and meet in the Plaza so that I may take you for a short stroll. Perhaps getting out of your room will rejuvenate you." There was something in his tone that dared her to make an excuse and reject him. Ilir would insist on this. They were to wed, and sooner than later so he could secure himself an heir.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s hand tightened imperceptibly on the doorframe as he spoke, her knuckles paling with the effort it took to keep her expression composed. Gods, she wished he would stop looking at her like that. That calm, assessing stare that seemed to strip her bare and measure her worth. Once, she’d believed that kind of attention from a man like him meant freedom. Now it only made her feel trapped, like a butterfly pinned to a board.

She tried to summon some trace of warmth to her features, but it came out wan and uncertain. “I am sorry to hear that your dinners have been so… quiet, my lord,” she murmured, eyes dropping to the hem of her robe as though it required her full concentration. She could feel his gaze still, heavy on her face, and her stomach twisted tighter with each word he said. A carriage. The Plaza. A walk. Gods, she couldn’t..

But she had to.

Her lashes lowered, buying herself a heartbeat to think, to hide the flicker of dread that passed through her before she spoke again.. “Your are too kind, my lord. I suppose some air would do me well. I would not wish to appear ungrateful for such concern.”

Finally, she lifted her eyes to his, and even in her apparent frailty there was that faint, practiced smile, the one that never reached her eyes. “Tomorrow then,” she agreed softly. “I will be ready to meet you at the Plaza.”

A pause lingered, her hand still holding the edge of the door as if reluctant to let him further inside. “If you’ll forgive me, I think I should rest again. I… would not wish to look so frightful when we walk together.”

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir rewarded his bride to be with a small smile when she accepted the plans for tomorrow. He bowed his head, "Of course, get your rest. Perhaps I will ask my cook to make her famous soup. It... always made Eira feel better. Perhaps the same for you."

Another smile, this time it was warmer and short lived, as if Ilir was not sure how to maintain it. He stood back a few paces before lowering to bow.

"Tomorrow, then, Imogen."

He could have been arranged to marry someone else, someone with more power and standing, but Ilir was glad of the choice being Imogen. He did not care for her beauty, but he cared for that mind. She always had the appearance of appearing proper and poised, but he saw her emerald eyes and the poison she was capable of.

That was what Ilir wanted.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her head tilted ever so slightly at the mention of soup - a surprisingly gentle gesture that caught her off guard. For a fleeting moment, her expression softened. “That is… kind of you, my lord,” she murmured, offering a faint, weary smile and a small dip of her chin in gratitude.

The warmth of his brief smile lingered in the air between them like the faint glow of embers, and for a moment, she almost believed it sincere.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed quietly, her voice no more than a breath. “Good night, my lord.”

When the door clicked shut, Imogen leaned her forehead against the cool wood, her chest tightening as she exhaled. Tomorrow, she thought bitterly. A walk through the Plaza. An illusion of normalcy.

---

Morning came, pale and cold, the light filtering through her balcony doors in gentle gold ribbons. Imogen sat before her mirror, still and silent as her handmaidens dressed her. They spoke softly, voices hushed, as though afraid to disturb the stillness that clung to their lady.

They laced her into a gown of soft sage green, the silk rippling like riverwater when she moved. The bodice hugged her slender frame, embroidered delicately with silver thread in curling, leafy motifs that caught the light. The sleeves were sheer, the neckline modest but cut to flatter her collarbones. A thin belt of silver clasped at her waist, and her skirts flowed to the floor, whispering with each breath of motion.

Her hair, pale as moonlight, was brushed until it shone. The maids curled it into loose, soft waves and gathered them over one shoulder, pinning them in place with a silver comb shaped like a dragon’s wing.

When they finished, Imogen rose to her feet, staring at her reflection. The colour had returned faintly to her cheeks, though her eyes still carried a shadowed hollowness. She looked every inch the noblewoman.. the perfect bride.

But her hands betrayed her. As she stepped toward the waiting carriage, she could not stop wringing her fingers together, the nervous habit a quiet rebellion against her composure.

The carriage door closed behind her, and as it began to roll toward the Plaza, Imogen’s stomach twisted.

She had never dreaded a walk in the sun quite so much.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir opened the door to the carriage, looking much different to how he usually presented himself.

This was their first outing since the engagement, and as a Lord of House Malennis, he had a role to play. His hair, the curls were tighter and held more bounce, but styled in a pulled back way to really make his jaw stand out. There had never been doubt those of the Malennis household were handsome, but Ilir looked the best he ever had just now.

His eyes drew upwards, catching sight of Imogen.

He was pleased, offering her his hand and helped her from the carriage. "You look beautiful." Ilir wrapped his arm so that her hand had somewhere to hold. The Plaza was full of life and people, dragons and wares. It was a market day, and it was filled with artisans' creations and silks and chiffons from all over. This was a market made for those with the right amount of coin to their name.

"I thought we could visit the goldsmith. Have a ring fitted for you to symbolise our engagement."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen drew in a quiet breath as the carriage door swung open, and for a moment, she nearly didn’t recognise him.

Ilir stood in the morning light like he belonged to it, golden and polished. It was the first time she had truly seen the man he must have been in the courts of Malennis, poised, composed, dangerous in his refinement.

Her hand hesitated only a second before she placed it in his, her fingers light against his gloved palm as he helped her step down. The air was warm, full of the murmur of voices and the scent of spiced fruits and leather.

“Thank you…” she murmured, her smile soft and dutiful, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You look handsome also.”

The words came automatically, polite and measured. Gone was the sharpness that once lived in her tone, the wit that used to dance on her tongue when he’d first courted her. That Imogen, defiant and spirited, had been carefully, methodically pressed down beneath layers of caution. Of fear. Of survival.

She slipped her arm through his as expected, the perfect image of an obedient bride-to-be, her fingers resting lightly against the fine fabric of his sleeve. Her gaze, however, was restless, darting briefly over the crowd, the dragons, the merchant stalls glimmering beneath the sun. There was no joy in her eyes, only a soft, careful anxiety that she tried to hide behind her smile.

When he spoke of the goldsmith, of a ring to mark her engagement, her heart gave a sudden, fluttering twist in her chest. She glanced up at him, swallowing hard before her hand instinctively came to rest on her stomach as it churned with nausea. The gesture was subtle, but her throat tightened all the same.

“Oh, I…” she began, forcing another smile. “That sounds lovely.”

Her voice didn’t quite hold. It was fragile, tremulous. Like she was standing at the edge of a cliff and had to make herself sound calm before she fell.

Inside, though, she was screaming.