by Sylvia Frost
I don’t ask him to use a condom, and not just because I have an IUD.
Once he’s naked he slides over me, adjusting my body so that it will ready itself for him. But I notice his eyes don’t leave my face, even now. He’s watching to make sure that I want this. That I’m ready.
I’m tired of him watching me. I reach out and palm his hardness, tugging it closer to me until he closes his eyes and moans. The tip of him reaches my entrance. He may not look beautiful down there, but he feels like it. Warm and silky. Throbbing.
His first thrust sucks the breath out of my lungs, turns me inside out and rewires my nerves, tangles them, until all paths, all thoughts lead only to the sensation of him inside of me. If having sex with Orion in the dream was black and white, then this is color and sound and taste and smell all in one. He fills in me in every direction.
It hurts so good, and I find myself staring up at him with wide, vulnerable yes. He has me. He has what he wanted. And now what…?
Orion doesn’t know, either. His lips are slightly parted and he pants for a moment, rocking just barely against me before he looks down. “Can you handle this, Little Mate?”
I bite my lip, about to shake my head. To say that he’s too big. That all of this is too much. But I find myself nodding anyway. Maybe because I want to please him, or maybe because I can feel my body shifting to accommodate him. Or maybe because of something darker, a hunger to be nothing more than this moment. To be nothing more than his.
I love this man, I realize. But god, how I crave his monster.
So, despite all my little cuts and bruises and even the deeper wounds lurking in the corners of my subconscious, I tilt my chin lower and look up at him and murmur, “I can handle more.”
“Oh, you dangerous thing.” He swears under his breath and then, in reply, flicks his hips.
This time I’m ready for it, and it rotates my universe instead of flipping it. I try to raise an eyebrow, but only succeed in smirking again. I’ll take it.
He won’t, though.
With agonizing slowness, never removing his gaze from mine, he withdraws his manhood.
Something in my soul scrambles at his departure, screams for his warmth and power. But I just tighten my lips and press own hands to my breasts, still covered by my shirt. Fine. If he wants to play dirty, I’ll show him what he’s missing. My tongue flicks out to tease the pad of my thumb before I undo the top button of my shirt. I feel like a naughty librarian licking her fingers before turning the page of a storybook.
“What are you doing?” Orion asks. His eyes are black and trapped in the promise of my cleavage. It’s so easy to make him want me. That’s why he’s not fucking me right now. Because he knows, as I do, that to stay inside of me is to lose himself. I wonder if all along, all of his warnings to me about being lost within the power of the bond weren’t for me at all.
He was worried I’d gain the upper hand and leave.
“I’m tempting you,” I say frankly.
His eyes narrow, and I can see that he knows I’ve found him out. Then he smirks too, grinding his hips against me, the tip of his cock rubbing against my clit as if to prove that he has control. But he doesn’t. Neither of us does.
He groans and closes his eyes and slips all the way in. I lean forward and claw at his shoulder, my breasts popping out of my bra, exposing my nipples. The moment he sees my ripe curves he ducks down to taste them, taking me between his teeth. At the same time he plunges deeper into me until I whimper.
He palms my breasts and traces a path of kisses and nips up my collarbone as he rolls his hips. “I need you,” he moans. “Gods, Artemis. I need you so much.”
I throw my head back against the pillow luxuriating in his touch, my toes tensing. My fingernails dig into his skin. Words are a foreign land to me now.
He tilts forward until he’s burying his nose against my neck, inhaling my scent. Our scents mingle together: my heady, human aroma of sweat, his sharp scent. They combine into something different.
I reach out to touch his hair. It’s so soft. But that doesn’t quell the fear inside me. My need hasn’t abated, and now it has a sharper, metallic taste to it. There have always been waves of pleasure, but now they’re a hundred feet tall, and I’m so close to drowning.
I need him, too. And I have him. But how will it ever be enough? How will everything ever be enough after everything that’s happened to me? After everything I’ve lost?
“Orion,” I whisper.
He soothes me with a gentle motion of his hips, the movement reminding me of his presence, his closeness. “Let go, Artemis.”
“I c-can’t.”
He strokes my neck with the back of his hand, somehow finding the exact spot of vulnerable skin I exposed to him before. “I promise I’ll protect you,” he says with such sincerity, it’s like looking at the sun. “I-I love you. “ Then his eyes widen farther, and his lips part, and I realize he’s surprised himself more than me.
“I love you, too,” I whisper, filled with gratitude and longing. I stroke his leg, surprised by the hardness of his muscles even though I shouldn’t be. “And I’ll protect you, too.”
He really is all muscle. Knowing that he’s a predator, his strength should unnerve me, but I find myself easing into the supple mattress and soft sheets.
“But I don’t just want to be protected,” I say.
“I know.” He smiles, a wicked thing that shows all of his teeth, but in his eyes is a kind of relief. He needs this too. We both do. Some way to look at our monsters, to let them out. He presses a kiss to my forehead as he readjusts himself. Keeping his stare searing into my skin, Orion parts my legs as far as they will go.
My sore muscles scream in protest, but I barely feel it. I’m transfixed by the sensation of him plunging into me, separating me, splitting me in two, molding my flesh to his. His rhythm is slow, but he’s gaining speed. The pleasure sneaks up on me, each crest a little higher, a little stronger, until I can’t breathe. Until I don’t care. I grasp at the sheets so hard I think I’ll rip them.
I need to claw, to scratch, to destroy. I want no rules or softness. When I squirm, I want him to fuck me harder. And he does. His thighs keep mine parted and he goes faster. Deeper.
I howl. It’s the strongest werecall I’ve ever produced, and it immediately makes all of the hairs on my body stand on end.
“Artemis!” Orion cries, his voice joining with my own.
I snarl up at him. I want to scratch my name onto his back until he bleeds. But my hand never makes contact with his flesh. He captures my wrists, pinning me down. Every inch of his body is pressed against mine.
“No,” he barks.
I snap at him with my teeth. Needing the fight, needing him to prove his strength. Needing him to prove that my darkness isn’t alone in this world. That I can be loved even like this.
“Come.” Then, in one final, glorious thrust, he presses all of himself into me.
I arch, my spine like a rubber band about to break. My muscles hurt from clenching. It hurts. It hurts so much it feels good. So close. But not enough. I need something more to drag me down.
“Come, Artemis. Come for me.”
And, then, finally, I do.
7
There is a moment between my dreams and waking up where everything is perfect. I could live forever in that moment, lying with my head on Orion’s chest. The sheets tangle around us, hiding our bodies from ourselves and each other until we are only collections of echoes of our pleasure—the wetness left between my thighs, the sweat still gleaming on his brow. The only demarcations of time are my breath and his heartbeat. There is no Lawrence. No FBSI. No Lola. No memories of my parents. Just this.
But what would this love be worth if I stayed in bed forever? If I gave up on finding Lawrence entirely? Because if I give up on Lawrence, if I stay lost in Orion forever, that would make me more of a monster than Orion has ever been.
I slide out of bed, stealing the quilt on my side o
f the bed and wrapping it around my body like a toga. The tattered remains of my clothes are scattered by the foot of the bed. It makes me smile and grimace at the same time before I pad down the stairway in search of my duffle bag and some fresh clothes.
I find it next to a cracked leather armchair near one of Orion’s many fur rugs. There certainly is enough insulation in the house, but after the nightmare I understand why he might have the desire to stay warm. Lying on top of the clothes is my gun. I take it out and set it to one side. The second thing I find is Lawrence’s phone. The text from Lawrence is still there.
My heart falls into my gut, guilt and grief warring for dominance. Lawrence’s face flashes in front of me, his dark skin and mysterious eyes. Thin limbs and long fingers.
We missed him. The intel was wrong again. Every single fucking time it’s been wrong. We’re doing nothing more than chasing ghosts. And now it’s too late.
Even if he isn’t dead by now, at the very least he won’t have been able to take his pills. Or have gotten any transfusions. Usually when a V-positive is shown feral on TV, they only show the after picture, when they’ve been found dead and gorged on blood, with a bloated face and red-rimmed eyes. The attacked, of course, get a school photo or a picture with their family. I guess it’s too hard for the media to sell a story where the monster is just as much a victim. No one wants to hear about underfunded hospitals, or the political intricacies of funding-gutted education programs.
No one wants to actually see Lawrence as Lawrence, instead of a statistic or a mug shot. Even me. Remembering him, how we met at McDonald’s, how he saved me, how we saved each other, makes the thought of losing him so much harder to bear.
But he’s not lost yet. He can’t be.
Morning has come. Dawn bursts through the dusty window in beams of clear sunlight. My once feverish sweat is cool on my skin.
Sheets rustle in the loft above and I know it’s Orion even before he speaks.
“Artemis?”
I slip into jeans and a t-shirt.
The stairs creak as he takes them down. He’s put on pants as well. “How are you…”
My fingers latch the button on my jeans, my belly straining against them. I miss my harem pants, but I vow that from now on I’ll buy clothes that fit me instead of my aspirations. “I want to see Lola,” I say. “If they haven’t found out anything, I can use my werecall to compel her to talk. And if they have, I want to go with them.”
“Artemis.” He turns me toward him, moving my shoulders, but his strength doesn’t unnerve me anymore. “You shouldn’t even be up yet. Our bond.”
With his touch comes that feeling of gravity shifting again, a pull in my belly. Just the hint of his caress is enough to reawaken my need. I look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I—” The force of his motion made me think he might be angry that I left the bed without him, but he’s not. His normally full mouth is twisted into a confused grimace, although there is a softness in his eyes from last night that still hasn’t gone away. “It should hurt. To be apart.”
“Well, it doesn’t for me.” I bridge the distance between us and grab his hand, then I bend over and press a kiss to his knuckles. It lasts longer than it needs to, but not longer than it should. “Does it for you?”
He snatches back his hand and holds it up in front of his face, frowning, as if I’ve put some kind of spell on it. On him. “No, it doesn’t.”
That almost makes me smirk. Now he knows how I felt when he first kissed me. Consumed. Controlled.
“Now. Lawrence.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m going with you to get him.”
That, it seems, is one step too far. His hand falls and his eyes narrow. “We don’t know where he is, Little Mate.”
“The FBSI thinks Lola does. Take me to her. I’ll make her talk.”
“And how are you going to do that?” He chuckles, but I can see the fear at the edges of his eyes now. Not a lot of it, and he hides it well. But he’s my mate now. There’s no more hiding, for either of us.
“Orion? Do you know why Stefania and Lola kidnapped me?”
“Do you?” Whatever uncertainty was in his face is gone as he steps around me and closes up my duffle bag with a final zip.
When he turns back around, I try to meet his intense gaze, but I can’t hold it. That, at least, he was right about. “I think I have a guess.”
He relaxes into the armchair, each of his hands resting on an armrest. He manages to make it look like a throne, and the way he cocks his head doesn’t help. He doesn’t cross his arms or hide his bandage. “Tell me.”
Unintentionally or not, his command gets under my skin. I bite my lip.
“Artemis.”
I shiver, wondering if I’ll ever fully know how to navigate this dynamic. In some ways understanding him makes it harder. He acts like I can’t hurt him, but I know I can. “It’s kind of a mess, and I’m pretty sure I could be totally wrong, but…” I let out a long breath. “You know the bloodmarking? The thing you’re convinced isn’t real?”
“Yes?”
I detect no emotion in his voice. Which makes what I’m about to say next all the more treacherous.
“Well, it is.”
If I had the courage to meet Orion’s eyes, I’d know what I’d see. An icy blue wall. A guard. Because he knows what I’m going to say next, what I’m going to insinuate. But I’m sick of secrets, and I won’t not tell him who I am just because I’m afraid. And I am afraid.
My hands tremble so much I have to clench them into fists. But that’s not all I am.
I’m something more. We’re something more.
Something different.
“I’m bloodmarked,” I say. “That’s why Stefania called Lola, the reason why all of this happened. It’s because Stefania thinks you killed my parents. They think you’re the reason I’m like this.”
8
Writers throughout time have been fascinated by werebeasts, and none more so than the bard himself. While most know the story of the wolf Romeo and the huntress Juliette, and the comedy of midsummer where a magical queen transforms a man into a weredonkey, another of Shakespeare’s plays never gets the same attention. The Tempest.
The story of a werebeast lord lost at sea who must give up his ability to shift by destroying his “spell book,” of all of the bard’s works, The Tempest is the least accurate play featuring werebeasts. A werebeast can never lose his ability to shift.
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and Their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
He doesn’t deny it right away, just sits on the chair, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted. The sunbeam hitting his face chases the shadows away, even the slight bags under his eyes, but he still looks tired. “You really think,” Orion asks emptily, “after what we just did, that I could…?”
“No, of course not. There must be something else, then. Some other reason.” My throat swells, thinking about all the quarters in my dad’s coin collection and how far away they feel right now, even though only hours ago I held one in the palm of my hand. Orion had given it to me.
“There’s not.” His hand clenches around the armrest so hard the leather starts to gather in his hands.
“But Stefania took a blood test, and I saw my DNA. You’ve seen my powers. I shouldn’t have had a werecall before we mated.”
“You trust her? She did kidnap you and allow a rogue FBSI agent to shoot me, if you recall.” His eyes are as pale as snow under a cloudy sky. We may have left the dream behind, but there’s still something frozen inside of him.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Why would Stefania have done something that drastic unless she had really good evidence that the bloodmarking has to be done by the mate?”
“All of it is ridiculous,” Orion snarls. Then he propels himself up from the chair and toward the window.
I follow him.
“You know it’s true.” Stretching out a single finger, I brush his cheek. H
is facial hair is so light that I haven’t noticed it until now, but his stubble has grown into fine platinum hairs. My skin tingles with the contact. “You can feel it.”
Orion’s shoulders tense and his jaw grits. His muscles tie themselves into knots so tightly that I worry that they’ll never be undone. His eyes don’t meet mine as he glares out the window at some faraway point I can’t see. If I didn’t know the reverse is true, I’d say that my caress is painful to him.
This, I realize, is why kissing was invented.
I maneuver myself in front of the window and into his embrace. Instantly, I feel my body relax, my thoughts blurring with comfort as I lose myself to the heat branching through my nerves like a fever. Then I press my lips to his, trying to pass on everything I can’t say. Everything I won’t say.
He’s careful with me. For the first time he doesn’t deepen our embrace, doesn’t take me the way I know he could. He cradles the small of my back, cloistering me closer to him. I grab his hair, trying to coax the alpha out of him, to make him help me forget about this. But with every move of aggression I make, his touches get gentler and gentler until I feel like he’s not holding me at all.
It’s only then that I break contact.
“Orion,” I whisper. “Please, just—”
But before I can finish my sentence, someone taps on the window behind me. I start, crashing against Orion. His arms tighten around me in response. Since he’s facing outside and I’m not, he can see the cause of the disturbance. I’m about to ask him who it is when a voice addresses us.
“We have news.”
The voice is muffled through the glass, but that ferociously sarcastic twang is unmistakable. It’s Cal.
9
I expect Orion to argue, to say that we can’t trust Cal or the FBSI now. But he stays silent as I fetch my sneakers and tie them in sloppy bows. Even after we’ve slid into the Camry, he barely guns the engine like he usually does to follow Cal back to FBSI headquarters. When we get to the highway he drives at the speed limit.