#WednesdayBriefs #FlashFiction Hand of Fate chapter 5 #fantasy #mfromance

Honey, I'm back! *grin*

 

I had a ton of work last week and couldn't find a momento to write, but this week I've managed to use my time more efficiently. I'm continuing with this fantasy romance which slowly but surely is turning into more, though into what, I can't say for sure. One thing is certain though, I'm having a lot of fun writing it. If you're new to the story, you can read previous chapters by clicking on the links below.:

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Finally,  The prompt I used today was Have you lost your mind?

Enjoy!
XOXO,
Elyzabeth

Hand of Fate 5

Have you lost your mind? That is what Jonlakar wanted to scream when his Lord asked him to touch the Kamaira. No one ever asked that. It was out of the question. Out of the equation. Out of this world. He stared at Ilvaneath, his Ilaildar Lord.

 

Silver eyes glinted knowingly. Lips curled into a tiny smile. Damnation. Jonlakar swallowed drily.

 

“My Lord.”

 

“Touch her, Uraima.”

 

He nodded. When Ilvanaeth used that tone of voice it was impossible to contradict him. Only another Ilaildar would be immune to the voice of darkness and light. He walked in slow measured steps to the woman named Mayra. She was human. A dainty thing, really, compared with them. It was incredible how their survival could depend on her. She kept her head bowed, her long hair hiding her features and keeping her enormous eyes and the portal to her emotions a secret. He knew them well, though. Like all Karaima she hated them. She didn’t understand that without the choosing the Ilaildar would die out and without them the humans would perish.

He clenched his jaw and reached for her head. Ilva’s gaze burned holes in his back. Bastard. He knew. He knew the effect she had on him. On them. He saw it in the other man’s eyes. Surprise. He’d only seen that once, over 13 years ago when he’d come to work for him. He’d been a boy then, barely seventeen years of age. How many things he’d learned with his master in that short amount of time.

“Ocalá, Jonlakar.”

 

Silk. Her hair was like the expensive material brought in from the eastern country. It slid through his fingers and fell back in place like a waterfall. Beautiful. He moved his hand further down her back, wincing as he felt the hardness of her bones. They would have to feed her if she was to be of any use.

“Iralá.”

 

“Il- My Lord.” He stopped himself just in time from using the familiar name. His gaze swept to the pointy eared man. He was smiling, his sharp canines visible in yellow light of the coach.  

“Iralá a os jos, Jonlakar. Azlo.”

Jonlakar took in a deep breath. He crouched in front of Mayra. She hadn’t moved. Her body did not shake with the usual tremors of one who was crying or scared. She was still as a statue.

“Look at me, Mayra,” he whispered. “Please.”

 

The last word caught her attention. He could see it in the way her shoulder slumped slightly. It was almost as if being polite defeated her. Perhaps, she expected worse from them. He knew the stories. The beatings. The pain. Some of them were true. Others were not.

 

“Please.”

 

Slowly, she lifted her head. Her enormous brown eyes found his and a tremor coursed through his body, causing his pulse to quicken. The reaction was similar to the one he’d felt when he met Ilvanaeth for the first time. Except, then he hadn’t known what it meant and now he did. Mayra’s lips parted. Her eyes widened full of confusion.

 

“Don’t be scared, Mayra.”

She didn’t speak, but the way her brow furrowed he knew she was asking him for a reason not to have fear. How could she not be scared when they were taking her to the unknown and away from her loved ones?

“Ocalá.”

“Let me see your hands, Mayra.”

She closed her mouth and glanced at her hands. He could imagine the questions. Why were they so interested in her hands? The Kamaira did not know. They speculated, of course, but the true reason was unknown to them. All they were certain of was that the uglier the hand the less chance of being chosen they had. They were wrong.

“Can I see your hands, Mayra, please?”

Jonlakar let out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding when she started to lift them from the floor. Abruptly, she stopped. His jaw dropped as she curled them into a fist and brought them to her chest as if she were holding a treasure. Behind him he could sense Ilvanaeth’s shock.

“Why?”

 

To be continued...

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Jim Dunaway

M.A. Church

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Jon Keys

Carol Pedroso

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Nephylim

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Rob Colton

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JC Wallace

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Don't know what to read? Check out the first 100 words of each brief at our webpage: www.wedbriefsfic.com 

 

 

 

#WednesdayBriefs #FlashFiction Hand of Fate chapter 4 #fantasy #mfromance

Greetings lovelies!


I wasn't able to make it last week, but here we are again. *grin* Today, I'm continuing where I left of with this fantasy romance I'm building up. You can read previous chapters by clicking on the links below.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3


I've had a hard time fitting in today's prompt, but I finally went with:  "It’s my treat."

Enjoy!
XOXO,
Elyzabeth

Hand of Fate 4

“Mayra.”

Her nipples hardened as he tried out her name. Every time he said it her body responded. There was no malice in his tone, quite the contrary, her name on his lips sounded like honey dripping from a spoon. She felt compelled to raise her head and look him in the eye. To see if in their depths there was any warmth or if it was truly all a spell.

“Mayra,” he crooned. Her back arched and she gasped as he touched her spine with his fingertip.  He slid it lower, causing sparks of desire to build between her legs. She moaned. Dear Gods. What was he doing to her? She shut her eyes and chewed on her bottom lip. She would fight. She would not succumb. The Ilaildar’s finger traced tiny circles over her bottom left cheek. Her lips parted as she fought to control her panting breath. A little more. A little more and he’d reach her folds. Yes. No. No. No. Yes. Abruptly, he stopped.

“Why did you pick her, Uraima?”

“My Lord?”

“Why her? She’s got spirit this one. She’s a fighter. She’ll be nothing but a load of trouble.”

Mayra cried out as the Ilaildar wrapped her hair around his hand and pulled her head back. Her eyes flew to the other man’s. His kind brown gaze was troubled.

“There is no doubt that she is beautiful. I can see that. Plump lips, soft large eyes, high cheekbones, a fine nose. Show me your hands, Mayra.”

Her hesitation caused sharp tug at her scalp that brought tears to her eyes. She flattened her hands on her knees.

“Ah, look at that. Long fingers, barely any callouses, no spots. Good hands.” The one on her hair loosened a bit. “Her body is not that great. She’s too wiry, too thin. Her bottom is well proportioned but her breasts are too small. There is nothing we can do about that but I’m certain that some quality food will help get some meat on the rest of those bones.”

He released her hair and she breathed in a sigh of relief. It didn’t last long as his cold fingers grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. The Ilaildar crouched before her. Eyes the color of frozen ice bore into her. Heat swamped her senses. Goosebumps sprouted over her flesh. Her breasts felt heavy, the nipples so distended they ached. She had no doubt that the spot on the floor where she kneeled was wet with her juices. She curled her hands into fists. It could not be. Why? Why did he have such power over her? Why did she want nothing more than to bed him?

“Mayra.”

She shut her eyes. No.

The Ilaildar chuckled and let go of her.  

“She is not immune but she fights it with all her heart.” He cocked his head. “I wonder…Touch her, Uraima.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“I want you to touch her. It’s my treat, my gift to you for picking such a delectable Kamaira.”

 

To be continued...

 

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M.A. Church

Kazy Reed

Carol Pedroso

LM Brown

Avery Dawes

Jon Keys

Johayan

Cia Nordwell

Ravon Silvius

Nephylim

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Don't know what to read? Check out the first 100 words of each brief at our webpage: www.wedbriefsfic.com 

#WednesdayBriefs: Myths, Secrets and Love

Greetings lovelies! As I anticipated last week, I'm taking a break from Light of Time and focusing on something else for a while. The result of that 'something else' is today's story. Enjoy and as always go and visit the other wonderful Briefers!

Myths, Secrets and Love

He scratched his head for the umpteenth time. Gods, he hoped he didn’t have lice. He’d told the men several times to keep their heads clean and to use the ointment that witch back in Hardsdael had gifted them.

“Sirens ahead, Captain.”

Rodric rolled his eyes. Now he broke the news? He’d seen the flashy tails and long locks floating in the wind about ten minutes ago. Gods, he hated being a pirate. He couldn’t wait to get back to firm land and his ol’ life but his damn friend – to which, allegedly, he owed a few favors- had asked him to come with him on his last pillage. Problem was, the bastard had gone off and gotten himself lost, killed, or kidnapped - He wasn’t sure which of the three- and now it was up to him to find him. 

“How shall we proceed, Captain?”

Rodric observed the wiry lad in front of him. He could be no older than sixteen or seventeen. His pale hair and blue eyes screamed innocence. There didn’t seem to be a mark on his body and his strength was not visible in those lanky arms and narrow chest he sported. Nothing compared to his scars and his over six feet, five stature. Rodric turned his back on him and climbed the steps to the quarter deck. He had no idea where Fergus had found the men on this ship, but they were a sorry excuse for pirates or sailors. Still, they managed to keep the boat afloat and him alive, so he couldn’t complain too much.

“Listen up, ye bunch of buffoons. Those wenches down there are dangerous. They’re gonna cajole you and seduce you. Don’t let them. Don’t speak to them. If you can, don’t even listen to them. Any man that throws himself into the water is a dead man. You hear me?”

There were cries of aye Captain and yes sir, across the boat. Silence spread over the deck like a blanket of fog as they came closer to the women with the fish tail. His cock did a little excited hop at the sight of their luscious forms. If it weren’t because of those nasty fish endings he’d be taking a chance on them. One of them, the redhead with green eyes that sparkled with charm, smiled at him. Rodric shuddered. His gaze averted to the blonde as she sensually gathered her hair to the side, exposing her full breasts. He heard one of the men swear in the background and watched bemused as a few of them adjusted their cocks in their trousers.

“Secure the boat.” His voice came out unexpectedly hoarse and he had to repeat the order twice before the men jumped into action. The large vessel stopped just short of the mossy rocks and the two sirens lounging on them. Respectfully, he removed his hat and nodded at the females, all the while fighting the urge to scratch his scalp and palm his cock. 

“Rodric Belavue, what a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” the blonde said. Her voice was like the softest caress, sliding over him like that material he’d touched once, what was it called, ah, silk.  

“You are a popular man, far and wide, Sir Belavue.” The redhead spoke up. He watched mesmerized as the tip of her tongue wet her bottom lip. Blood rushed to his dick, fattening it some more. Someone behind him grunted, bringing him out of the daze he was immersed in. Damn Fergus. When he found him, if he wasn’t dead, he’d kill him. With the image of his friend firmly in his mind, he smirked at the sirens.

“Good tales, I hope.” He said, suggestively running his hand across his crotch. The sirens laughed, the sound like tinkling bells. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched one of the men approach the railing.

“Stormy, grab your mate, will you?” He said harshly, not bothering to watch the order be carried out. He kept his attention on the fish-women.

“I’m not here to talk about the myths around my person. I’m here to ask about--“

“Fergus.” Both sirens exclaimed laughing hysterically. Rodric narrowed his eyes.

“Exactly.”

The blonde siren smiled at him. “We know your secret, Captain Rodric.”

“But don’t worry, we won’t tell,” the redhead added.

Rodric scratched his head, his fingers tangling in his long locks and making his blood boil in anger. How dare they presume? Pasting a smile on his face, he leaned into the railing.

“You know nothing about me, but I would appreciate it if you could let me know where Ferguson is.”

Abruptly, the blonde siren divided into the water. Rodric backed off just in time, as the woman broke the ocean’s surface and grasped the railing of the boat with startling ease.

“Come near.”

Rodric shuddered. Her voice had turned from sensual and exotic to deadly serious. Regardless of the prickle of warning in the back of his neck, he leaned forward.

 “Your friend passed through here three days ago. The boat did not stop and we do not know where it was headed.”

Rodric stared at the siren. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and he realized for the first time that her irises were wider and darker than any human being's, the white in them almost nonexistent.

 “But you can guess,” he finally said.

The siren’s lips curved into a predatory smile.  

“Of course, but that will cost you.”

To be continued… 

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#WednesdayBrief: Your hump day dose of flash fiction: Light of Time 2

Happy Hump Day! I'm much better from my cold and I'm flashing this week again! Hurrah!

This week, one of the prompts we could use was a "storm" so that's exactly what I've done. As a quick reminder on what happened last week (You can read it here): Bethany was waiting for a man to appear, she's nervous but tries not to show it. Finally, the man arrived and her final line before today's flash was: 
“General Hodgins, I presume?”

Light of Time 2

He came to stand a few feet away from her. Bethany’s breath caught and her stays seemed to dig into her ribs but she managed to remain still as a statue and not gasp for air like she wished to do.

The man did not confirm his identity. Not that he needed to. She’d heard the stories and there was no confusing him. He was tall as the northern folk and his hair was gold like wheat bathed by the sun, but it was the scar on his skull what gave him away. He wore his long hair tied back in a ponytail and the sides of his head shaved, a long pink scar coming from the back of his left year to the back of his right. That scar was a reminder of the vulnerability of her position. Women talked of how handsome General Hodgins was, but men, men talked about the war, the blood, the deaths. They talked about Hummingbird 121 and all the men that went down with that Zeppelin. All except one: General A. Hodgins. No one knew how he survived, but he had. Unwillingly, Bethany shivered.

As if sensing her discomfort, Hodgins finally bowed his head in silent answer to her question. Bethany’s pulse jumped. It was him. There were so many questions that needed answering, so many things that she didn’t understand but he did. Or so he claimed. He had been the one to seek her out and contrary to what everyone had advised, she had accepted seeing him.

“B. G. Deléger,” he said, straightening his back. His voice was deep, with a husky quality to it that made it seem like he was whispering or about to. Bethany stiffened. Though his face was an unreadable mask and his eyes were hidden behind dark golden rimmed glasses she had a feeling that he was observing her and measuring her.  Was she up to his standards?

“Perhaps we shall go inside, General Hodgins?”  Bethany smiled. Her hands were shaking inside her pockets but her voice had remained steady and she was proud of the feat.

“Do you fear the storm, B.G.?”  

Her smile disappeared as readily as it had come. Her heart climbed to her throat and a memory she had long thought buried reappeared in her mind.

“Do not call me that,” she ground out the words, and absentmindedly clutched the watch at her neck.  

“My apologies.” Hodgins bowed his head, his long hair swaying from side to side. “but you have not answered my question.” Bethany swallowed, nerves fluttering in her belly as Hodgins grasped the right leg of his glasses and pulled them off. Her tiny gasp was swallowed by the loud crack of thunder that shook the world around them. “Do you fear the storm, Beth?”

Bethany hurried to look away. She glanced at the Church’s dimly lit garden and pathway. Gone was the comfort of the lamp lighter. Gone was the warmth of the bright lamps. Now, their metal structures quivered and the fires captured within their glass domes trembled with them, drawing eerie shadows in the pavement. The trees that once offered shade to the Nuold’s believers now shook with the onslaught of a wind that grew bolder with every passing second. Her gaze went to the sky. The stars were gone and in its stead a grey mass illuminated by bolts of lightning took control of the skies.

Hodgins moved to her side to watch the oncoming storm. He wasn’t touching her, but he had moved closer and her body felt his heat as if his long fingers were resting on her body.

Was she afraid of the storm? No. She had seen countless storms since the day of her birth in this sad planet. Every day at eight o’clock the world would tremble and become pelted with heavy drops of water. No, she didn’t fear nature.

“No.”

What she feared were the eyes she felt gazing down at her and the man that possessed them.

To be continued...

And now go check out the rest of this week Briefers!

BL Morticia 

Lily Sawyer     

Cia Nordwell     

A.R. Von 

MA Church  

Victoria Adams      

 J.A. Harmon 

Andrew Gordon 

Julie Lynn Hayes

Romance Novels, Filled with Passionate Love and Torrid Sex, Mislead Women

Romance Novels, Filled with Passionate Love and Torrid Sex, Mislead Women

I just read this article on Time Magazine and I think they're forgetting the main point about romance novels: They're fiction. They help countless of women (and men) forget their sorrows and loneliness.
What would be the point of reading a romance novel that depicted the reality of a real relationship? To know pain, frustration, doubts, fear... we can look at the world around us.

Romantic fiction, just like any other fiction, is just that: Fiction. Imaginative magic.