Page 54 of The Shape of Monsters
Her frown is so thick he wants to bite it. “I do, but—”
“Did you tell the Moon-Eater?”
Iriset jerks away. “What?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not! I’m glad you’re saving her.”
“And going against him, your red god.” Lyric feels so clearheaded suddenly, intensely aware of a very fine but solid line between them again.
Iriset pushes his hands off her shoulders. “I don’t serve any god, of Silence or apostasy.”
Lyric opens his mouth to say he’s sorry, but this time, the tremor under the street is noticeable. He frowns, looking down.
Then he hears a distant sound that some combat-trained instinct knows is not a firework. He turns so he’s in between Iriset and the sound—the sensation—and he taps the defense necklace she’s wearing just before everything explodes around them.
THE MOON-EATER’S REAL MOUTH
In the future that may or may not come to pass depending on how messy Iriset and Lyric get, Amaranth mé Esmail Her Glory is having a very bad day.
She’s spent years, absolute years, perfecting her ability to get herself off—quickly, efficiently, slowly, languorously, teasing and tormenting and gratifying her body—for the sake of the Moon-Eater, the mirané princes, the Vertex Seal, the whole entire empire really. But this morning nothing is coming. Ha ha ha.
Uncle Lirdal, the Mistress before her, would say it’s stress. Amaranth is certain that can’t be it, because today is no more stressful than many, many of the days in the past half year, since she met that cursed apostate in prison. Today won’t be the first time she’s attending a memorial for someone she loved. It won’t be the first time Amaranth says things she doesn’t mean, or the first time she uses her epic falling force to draw people to her, to make them listen, make them agree, give her more power, let her decide. It won’t even be the first time she tries to pass someone wearing a craftmask off as a member of her family!
Amaranth has been in far more stressful situations. So why does every touch feel like too much? Why does her skin practically burn? The soft robe is satin-woven godgrass fibers, one of the gentlest materials in the world, yet it grates against her nipples, her hips, the nape of her neck.
If miran got sick, she’d think she has a fever.
Standing before the altar, robe hanging loose on her shoulders, she tilts her face up to the cracked dome of the Moon-Eater’s Temple. The midnight-blue tiles that fell have not been replaced, and the lighter plaster infrastructure of the dome itself is like a scar. Amaranth breathes carefully. Her heavy hair is bunched in loops and curls at her crown, dragging her head back. Her neck aches.
Amaranth closes her eyes, willing the ache to travel down her spine as a warm flush, an illusory touch from her god. She parts her lips to breathe, focused on the sensation of air on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, sliding down her throat, and she imagines the shivering, drowning sensation of the Moon-Eater’s pleasure resounding back to her, back to her, back to her after she builds up her orgasm.
Amaranth presses her hand to her sternum. She knows herself and she’s good at loving herself. Her body knows how to do this. So do her heart and mind.
Lowering her hand, she lets her fingers ripple individually over the rolls of her belly, the valley of her navel, circles her middle finger there, like it’s another mouth—isn’t it? “Isn’t it?” she whispers, and her smallest finger brushes the line of soft black curls at her pelvis, and Amaranth’s knees quake. She slams her thighs together with a curse. It feels wrong. Off. She’s off.
With a growl, Amaranth plops down on the hard edge of the altar. Stone cuts into the bottom curves of her ass. Amaranth pushes harder, rolls her hips into the pressure. She leans over, shifting so the line of cold stone slices over her hole, which isn’t even wet. This is bullshit!
Amaranth whirls and grabs one of the teeth off the altar, then flings it with all her might toward the screens blocking her off from the temple foyer. It cracks into a wooden seam. Leaves a dent.
She shoves the rest of the teeth onto the floor in a loud clatter and flops onto her back. Though she knows this place is very, very clean, she feels grimy. Like dust continually falls from the broken ceiling.
The little sigh she makes is not quite amused at herself. She wishes she found any of this funny. Amaranth prides herself on finding things funny when she probably shouldn’t. Her jaw clenches. Her fists clench. She clenches her thighs together. Several times in the past she’s held one of those larger molar teeth in between her legs, just above her knees so she can squeeze her legs together with all her might but still have space for her own hands to dig into herself. Those are usually good orgasms, though she’s pretty vicious afterward. So maybegoodisn’t the right word.
“Your Glory?” her body-twin inquires worriedly from behind the damaged screen.
Right—throwing the tooth was definitely abnormal behavior. Amaranth groans in frustration. What she needs is someone to pin her down and just use her body, just make it do what it needs to do. What she needs is for somebody else to fuck the Moon-Eater today. What she needs is somebody else. “Anis,” she says in her most lazy voice. “Everything is fine. The Moon-Eater and I are taking our time.”
Too bad Anis likes dick and Amaranth doesn’t particularly, or her body-twin could help.
“It’s good to steal time for yourself, Ama,” Anis says with that particular tone that’s equal parts soothing and sardonic.
It brings a real smile to Amaranth’s lips. She closes her eyes on the hard altar and relaxes her muscles one at a time, starting with her shoulders, and moving down down down toward her feet. Theair is warm in the Moon-Eater’s Temple, even as they move further into autumn. Her robe drapes the altar protectively, and Amaranth lounges there, letting her mind wander. No focus, just her mind loose to think its thoughts, as her hands settle on her belly, sliding up and down. Her right hand cups the weight of her left breast; her left hand curls over the lowest round of her abdomen.
There is so much she should already be doing for the day. Bathing, dressing for the memorial, then a few last-minute meetings arranged by her secretary while her hair is done and her face is painted—probably one of which will be with the persistent, sexy small king of Sharp-Shin precinct who’s leading the coalition of non-mirané demanding to see the Vertex Seal. And that’s all before Amaranth is to lead a processional of the mirané princes to the royal tombs at the northern edge of the crater. To bury her mother.
Without Lyric. Without his fucking wife.
