Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  "The boss man wants proof. My wallet wants more money. What's like got to do with it?"

  "Well, I'm so glad your boss man needs proof to murder someone. Shows he's at least got more scruples than the city he's ruling." She locked eyes with that gaze that reminded her of sun bleached grass, of running through the park with her dog on her heels, both of them chasing balls. Of feeling her toes in the turf, of laughing with her mother. Picnicking with her father. Days where she was just a girl and everything was possible in a world wide open to possibilities.

  Once again, she remembered how far gone those days were now, how they would never come back, and she thought that perhaps pharmaceutical bliss wasn't what she needed anymore. Maybe nights of mindless ecstasy followed by living through days of corruption weren't enough to keep her heart beating after all. Maybe if she performed her little trick, proved herself to the mayor, accepted the accusation and the death that would follow, maybe then there would be peace.

  She felt the tip of Ezekiel's finger probing against her mouth and she opened, letting him slip inside, wiggling against the inside of her cheek, pressing up into her palette until she curled her tongue around him and pulled hard on the wound.

  The magic of the re-visions was always so much like dropping onto solid ground from a tall tree, that at first she didn't realize she'd jumped. The copper taste of blood morphed into the taste of apples and cinnamon as her tongue twisted around the flesh of something she knew was no longer a finger. More supple, rasping across hers and drawing it forward. A tongue, she realized.

  She was breathless with excitement. Heart pounding into her throat, she could only register one thought: Finally. Finally she had him and his arms were pulling her close, so close she felt his erection through her skirts, the taste of the pie she'd fed him still on his mouth, so sweet but not gentle. Not anymore. Fever behind his kiss, as though he too had been waiting. Too long. They'd both been waiting too long.

  Phoenix: Act 6

  Clothing becomes an enemy that twists and snakes around their bodies, tying her to him with voluMinous skirts and petticoats. She can either take them off or hitch them up, but before she can make the decision, he chooses for her. The cold damask of her dress when he pushes it aside, lays heavy on her stomach, and his hands are already heating her midriff as he inches toward her navel with exploratory fingers. She's wearing nothing beneath so the air in her bedroom is cold on her sex, a delicious thing in contrast to the heat she's feeling. Burning for him, she thinks, and breaks away from his mouth to let go the moan trapped in her throat, hears it echoing back at her from the depths of his.

  "Cathrin," she hears him say. "I can't stop."

  "I know," she confesses. She understands fully; the need to feel him against her, in her, is so great she can't stop her hips from grinding into his hand. His fingers trail between her legs, tangle in her curls for a long moment until she thinks she'll need to ride them to feel some relief.

  "Don't stop," she tells him. "Whatever happens, Markus, don't stop."

  It's the permission she knows he's waiting for, but she barely gets the words out before he plunges both fingers inside of her, opening her, easing in a third, and she does ride him then, needing to feel the friction. He devours her mouth again, moaning into it as she moves against him. "You now," she says. "You. Please."

  "Oh, God, yes," he says and yanks his fingers free of her to work at his breeches. She can feel him rummaging at them as he stretches atop her. Both of them on her bed, stretched sideways across it where they've fallen. She presses into his forearms, unable to keep herself from moving. It's become instinct now; her sex seeking his, feeling empty and vacuous without him. She needs to be filled, plunged into, spread apart, and he's taking too long to do any of it. It seems like an eternity before he has his cock free, before it presses against her thigh.

  She reaches down, wraps her fingers around it, thinking to press it against her opening, let the slickness of her sex there ease his entry, her muscles, so thirsty for him pulling him inward, gripping him.

  "Your mouth," he says against her neck, panting. "I need your mouth or I just won't last."

  "I can't wait any more," she tells him.

  "Not much longer," he says. "But I've dreamed of you so long, I won't be able to do more than thrust the once." His hand moves to her jaw, fingers cupping the back of her neck. "Please, Cathrin."

  He shifts on the bed, expecting her obedience, and for once, she doesn't mind obeying. She can wait a little longer if it means having his cock inside of her somewhere, even if it is just her mouth, and truly, it could be as delicious as his tongue. She can use her mouth to make him beg to fuck her. Yes. She would like that.

  He's already throbbing with anticipation as she swirls her tongue over the tip. It's smooth like the satin of her best dress, but rigid and thick, and it spreads her cheeks like it would her sex, filling her up. She does want it this way, she realizes now. She's greedy for it, wrapping her tongue around, sucking him in. She can taste his renewed desire against the back of her throat. He fills her so she can hardly breathe and has to struggle to let her throat relax. Yes. She can let him ease even further in, just enough to force a moan from his mouth. Then pull away slowly, drag in a breath, joining to him by the thin string of saliva.

  He plunges in again, his hands in her hair, bucking against her mouth like he's fucking her, and she can feel her sex grow wetter with each thrust, aching to be filled like he's filling her now. She lets her fingers press against her clitoris, flicking it once, twice before she sinks her fingers inside. Pumps along with him, moaning against his erection each time she slides over it.

  "Now," he says, but it's a question not an order and she answers by looking up at him, asking her own. "Please, Cathrin. Please let me take you," he says.

  Her nod is all he seems to need. He withdraws and is pushing against her mound within seconds, demanding entry. He's fevered now, his hands trembling as he guides himself inside. Her gasp of pleasure as he buries himself into the walls of her womb ends in a long moan that speaks to the months they've spent waiting, wanting, unable to release themselves from the tension. She feels him there, knocking, pressing, rocking into her. His hands grip her buttocks, titling her higher so he can devour her at any rate he pleases. It's not enough. Not for her. She's waited so damn long for this.

  "Take me from behind. Take me hard. Take me like you're punishing me."

  "I should punish you," he says, gripping her wrist and twisting her around.

  He's inside of her again in moments, and this time she strains backward, lifting her so he can pummel her with his shaft, again and again. He can't fuck her nearly hard enough to dispel the months of waiting. His hands grip her hips, yanking her back onto him, cramming every inch of his cock into her, beating against her womb. She wants to feel him spasm inside her, wrapped so tightly around him that she can feel each final surge, her sex greedy as her mouth to devour him.

  Still, his release is a disappointment. It's too soon. She is nowhere near ready to forgive herself, even if she is coming, even if the world is spilling onto her sheets like the sun has exploded. She wants to cry because it's over, but she falls onto her belly exhausted, his seed already warm on her thigh, growing colder. He collapses beside her, panting but grinning at her from her side.

  "It'll be longer next time," he says. His finger trails along her cheek.

  She starts to grin at him, pleased to hear there will be a next time, but a voice at the door stops her cold.

  "I doubt it," the voice says.

  Cold washes over her as though it's been thrown at her; she knows the voice. It's his voice. She could grab for the sheets, pull her gown down, but instead she squeezes her eyes shut instinctively. Paralyzed by the reality of discovery.

  "Erich," she hears herself say. Her eyes won't open no matter how hard she tries. She can feel Markus beside her, moving about and guesses he's pulling up his breeches, trying to find some dignified way to face his best friend. S
he might not be able to see, but she can feel the tension charging hairs on her body, the sense that at any moment things will spiral out of control. She hears boots scuffling across the wooden floor. Still, she won't open her eyes.

  "Look at me, Cathrin." It's an order from a familiar voice. She chews on her lip, ashamed of herself for giving in, of wanting Markus so badly.

  "I said look at me," Erich's finger touches her beneath the chin. There is a shift in the sound of his voice. She swallows hard; her eyes flutter open. Even as she discovers that her fingers are clenching the sheets, she realizes that the face in front of her is not contorted in anger. She licks her lips. Waiting.

  "You should be punished, Cathrin," he whispers. His thumb moves from chin to earlobe. Snakes around the back of her neck, pulling her closer to him. There's the fleeting thought that she should wonder where Markus is, but she is so absorbed in her fear and shame, that she doesn't dare resist. Erich's mouth descends on hers, forcing her lips open. He suctions her tongue, pulling it into his mouth just to the point of pain, then releases it. He nibbles at her top lip, bites down.

  "You will be punished." His lips move from hers but his gaze bores into her, commanding her without speech to stay perfectly still.

  "I can't blame you for wanting my wife, Markus," he says. "She's very beautiful; Lucifer in disguise, I think."

  It's a strange description, and she tries to study his face, but can't make out the emotion beneath the careful mask. His hands descend to her bodice and tear at the material. He doesn't stop until it's fully rent, her belly straining for the air. Only then does his mouth descend again, this time to her navel, where he nibbles at the skin and sends trails of shivers down her legs. It's then that she knows this will be her punishment, to be taken in front of the man beside her, to be used forcefully, with no thought to love or tenderness. Her husband thinks it will shame them both, but he's wrong.

  The thought of Markus still standing next to the bed, watching, sends a thrill up her spine. She's dreamed of such a session; she's wild, she knows, but it doesn't matter in this moment. She revels in it. The nights she's succumbed to her husband's expert touch, all the while dreaming of having two men trailing kisses along her skin, of filling her, all those times she'd known she was wanton, but she'd fired to it just the same. Before Erich, she'd foolishly believed it was a woman's chore to please her husband, and when she'd realized he knew how to turn the chore into a pleasure, it became the one thing that decided her. Not his wealth and position. No. She needed a man to thrill her body, and Erich did.

  His mouth leaves her skin only long enough to curse at her, to tell her how she will be punished. To tell her all the delightfully delicious ways he will make her suffer. She can feel her lip trembling in anticipation and her eyes lock on Markus's even as her husband's mouth descends below her navel, to scour between her legs with his tongue. She can see the bulge in Markus's breeches, and knows he feels the same. Her husband might think to punish her with his touch, find his way to dignity through treating her like a harlot, but he can't imagine how badly she wants it.

  "Punish her, Markus," he says. "Make her suffer for making you wait, for cuckolding me."

  She half expects Markus to resist; he's a gentleman, after all. He's Erich's best friend. He should be mortified at his betrayal.

  But he isn't. He shifts onto the bed, facing her, on his knees with his cock insisting she open her mouth for him, and they throttle her together these two. Yet Erich's expression is never more than controlled complacency while Markus's is pure abandonment and surrender. Even in the heat of orgasm, Erich watches her carefully, as though he's examining her, searching for something.

  It's a fortnight before the truth of the punishment finally comes out and she realizes the depth of her betrayal, how profoundly Erich feels that his examination is nowhere near done.

  She's in the parlor when they come for her. At first, she's confused, thinking that Herr Schönenberg is there simply to pay his respects, to introduce her to the newest member of his diocese, Constable Fritzaen. She's seen the man about the village, dressed in cloth of gold as though he was royalty, his wife ingratiating herself among the nobility as though they always belonged. Of course they didn't; Erich would have organized a masque if it was so and he hadn't.

  No, this constable had no lineage but what came from the cesspools of execution and theft.

  She lays down her needlepoint, at any rate, smoothing her skirts as she stands to welcome them. She's about to ask them if they'd like some tea when she notices that Erich is coming in behind them. He doesn't so much as point a finger at her, or lock his eyes on hers when he speaks.

  "There she is," Erich says. "The mark is on her."

  "The mark?" she asks her husband, confused. "What mark are you talking about?"

  No one answers her. The only response she receives is to be manhandled by the constable. He's an ugly man, his face full of scars from the smallpox, his eyes a blue as hard as his grip on her elbow, even bluer against the purple of his doublet.

  "Where has the devil marked you, child?" he asks her.

  "The devil..." The panic is rising now, twisting its way up through the confusion as she searches for her husband's face. "What are they talking about, Erich?"

  "She's lain with the devil," Erich says to Herr Schönenberg "You'll see his mark there, on her thigh."

  Herr Schönenberg jerks his head at the constable, flaring that bulbous nose of his, the strip of his mustache wriggling grossly as he chews at his thin lip. Without so much as a sense of dignity, the hard-eyed constable--the witch Hunter--she realizes now, yanks her skirts up as he leans in to peer at her legs.

  "Yes," he says as his fingers pinch the tender flesh of her inner thigh. She knows what he sees. It's been there since Erich bit her a fortnight ago and has now healed into a perfect half-moon still as red and tender as a newborn bottom.

  "That's not the Devil's Mark," she protests. "Erich, tell him what it is." She tries her best to wrench her skirts back down, to twist herself out of the hard grasp of the constable.

  "Quiet, witch," Erich says. He makes a great show of being unable to meet her gaze. "The devil has you; the devil take you." His face is such a contortion of disgust, that she's unsure whether he's acting or whether he's genuinely afraid of her.

  "Please, Erich." She gets no more out as Archbishop Schönenberg takes her other arm and together with the constable, they twist her, shoeless, through the parlor and out the back kitchen onto the cobblestone streets. Her servants move aside like a wave.

  It's cold even for March, and the frost of the stones bites into her heels as she takes her first steps from her warm home. She can't help stumbling.

  "See how the devil faints in the face of divinity," the constable says.

  "A woman falls when she's dragged shoeless into the street," she corrects him then quickly realizes her mistake. Innocent or not, she'll pay for that haughtiness; that pride will fuel the constable's prejudice now; he has the scent of her wealth in his nose. He'll never see her as innocent.

  She twists her head to peer back at Erich as he stands just within the doorframe, shadowed by the inside. She hopes she can catch his eye, beseech him, remind him of all the nights they'd shared, how pleased he was to have her on his arm, consorting about Trier with such pride. While his fists are clenched at his sides, his mouth is now a controlled line. A sob catches in her throat as she begins to realize the full extent of what's happening. She won't get out of this, not alive.

  "Please, Erich," she says, resisting now. She drags against their arms, twists, kicks. He loves her, he wouldn't accuse her so. She can make it better, take it all back. She can be genteel for him, bear his children if he likes. "Please."

  A sharp sting in her cheek brings blood to her mouth. Her legs turn to water as the pain washes down to her jaw. From one knee she tries to regain her composure, closes her eyes as she drags in a breath.

  She's pulling in air, probing through the blood in he
r mouth when she's yanked back to her feet. Everything blurs: the house with its brown beams and stucco, the cobble stoned street, the faces about her. She could be swimming underwater with her eyes open as those images twists together, move forward, backward, around on each other.

  There's another sting in her cheek, this time rattling her teeth together and sending a scream of pain down her jaw.

  She fights to open her eyes, but the blackness that seeps in from the edges makes her lids too heavy.

  When she wakes, it's to pain in her wrists. She lifts a feeble head to the blackness around her, lit by torches in their sconces, the smell of sweat and blood heavy on the air. She tries to move and discovers she's manacled to a chair. Her expensive dress has been stripped away, and the shift she's left in is made of coarse flax instead of linen. Someone has undressed her, redressed her in something befitting a criminal or a lowborn peasant. She's cold; the goose bumps on her skin strain painfully away from her flesh. She tries to work through the muddle of thoughts, each trying to find its own prominence. Erich, she thinks. A flash of his face comes to her in the dark.

  "Your husband can't help you," a voice says. "He's the very one who accuses you."

  She lifts her gaze toward the voice. Herr Schönenberg, she realizes. Flanked by two other men, one of them Constable Fritzaen from earlier, the other she recognizes as a magistrate of the court. All of them sit at a table in front of her, one of them with a quill and ink.

  "Why am I here?" she manages to say. Her voice is feeble, as though she's been screaming, and then she realizes that's exactly what has been happening. She remembers that she's been here in front of these men for hours. The memory of that time tries to swim in front of her, but she bats it away, unwilling to revisit the images; they are too painful, that much she knows.

  "You've been charged with heinous crimes against God, surely you remember."

  She struggles with that. "I... I don't want to remember."

  "That's because your master, Lucifer, has taken away your memory. We can help you."