by Lyra Evans
Oliver closed the door gently behind them, then sidled over to the bed and gestured with a hand toward the windows. Instantly, a set of blackout curtains drew down the windowpanes, blocking out all the light of early morning and thrusting them into darkness. There were gemstones inlaid along the window frames in this room, to make things more intuitive for Oliver when he visited.
Oliver pulled off the new clothes and hat he wore, setting the useless glasses aside on the nightstand. He slipped into bed, blinking uselessly around for Connor. But there was no movement in the room, no sound of rustled clothing or glasses on a table.
“Connor?” Oli asked. “Come to bed. We need to rest a bit. Rory will alert us when she gets to the scene. No use in wearing ourselves thin.”
A breath and a heartbeat, and the bed next to Oliver sagged under Connor’s weight. He shifted several times, possibly removing his clothes too, and Oliver reached up to rub at his back. Connor’s skin was smooth and soft, the muscles beneath wrought to tension and bulging beneath Oliver’s fingertips.
“I don’t know that I can sleep,” Connor said, heaving a slow sigh and turning in bed to sit by Oliver. Oliver let his hand move around Connor to his from, playing lightly across his chest and smoothing over him until he lay back. “Logan is gone. He was the closest family I had left,” Connor went on. It was a kind matter-of-fact statement, blank of intention or implication. “And now this inane inquiry,” he added, and Oliver tensed slightly.
“Inane?” Oliver asked, lying back onto the pillow, his eyes searching through a darkness he couldn’t penetrate. “What do you mean?”
“The NCPD shouldn’t be investigating this,” he answered, words hard as steel. “Logan’s death is a matter for his Court, for our Court. Werewolves should be in charge. We should be the ones to decide whether or not there was foul play, or whether it was a legitimate fight. Wizards have no way of understanding the nuances.”
Oliver frowned, though Connor couldn’t see him. “Do you really think you’re impartial in this situation?” Oliver asked and immediately regretted it.
“You think I’d ever let my personal feelings cloud my judgment on a matter this important?” It was sharp and cutting, and every letter of every word told Oliver Connor was poised to attack or defend, whichever became necessary. Oliver sighed.
“That’s not the point,” Oliver said. “NCPD is just trying to help, I’m sure. Plus, since the body was found in Nimueh’s Court, it’s rather out of your hands, isn’t it?”
Connor grew quiet, his body tense next to Oliver, then with a heavy rush of air, he relaxed and curled into Oliver. He gathered Oliver into his arms and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. Oliver melted against Connor.
“I just hate being helpless,” Connor said into Oliver’s skin. His soft hair tickled at Oliver’s cheek. “I’m accused of something so vile, and I can’t even defend myself from the accusation. People will always decide on their own who is guilty and not, regardless of evidence. Regardless of culture.” He sighed against, his hot breath heating Oliver. He moved against Oliver, his hips aligning with Oli’s, and Connor pressed his mouth to Oliver’s neck again.
“We aren’t helpless,” Oliver said, his eyes fluttering shut as Connor sucked at the spot on his neck that always made him hot. “We’ll solve this case like every other. Together.”
Connor pulled away a moment, pressing his lips instead to Oliver’s mouth. He sucked on Oli’s lower lip, nibbling at it as his hands travelled down Oliver’s back to grope his ass. Connor kneaded the skin there, his hips moving a slow rhythm against Oliver. Connor was hard already, his long, thick shaft digging into Oliver’s hip as Oli felt himself filling. It didn’t take much, just a few more gentle gyrations, and Oliver was hard as a rock again, his hands searching for purchase in Connor’s hair, his skin, the sheets. He dragged Connor closer, deepening the kiss as he did. Raising one leg, Oliver wrapped it around Connor’s waist, pressing their erections together with more force. Connor’s hands, meanwhile, drew lines down Oliver’s back, one hand slipping between Oliver’s cheeks to his hole, probing at the entrance gently. He was still stretched from earlier, and his entire body quivered with the need.
Connor released Oliver’s lip a moment. “Prepare yourself for me,” he breathed, and Oliver moaned in agreement, casting the spell he so often used. It was sloppy, without his collar or any stones, but the magic still worked well enough. The lubricant spilled out of him, smearing on Connor’s skin, but neither of them seemed to care. Connor reached between Oliver’s legs and grabbed his own cock, slicking it with the excess lube Oliver conjured. Then, placing himself at Oliver’s hole, he thrust in hard. In one distinct motion, Connor was sheathed inside Oliver.
Oliver cried out from the movement, from the intensity of the pleasure. He was so ready for Connor, so close already it was embarrassing. But Connor was his lover, his partner, his mate. They were going to be bonded forever, and Oliver’s desperation for Connor was only part of that. Connor pressed open-mouthed kisses to Oliver’s throat, raking his teeth across the skin every so often.
“This is how I wanted you,” Connor said, his voice barely louder than a whisper in Oliver’s ear. “This is how I wanted to take you, in front of everyone, at the ceremony. I wanted to fuck you into the stone under the mountain, until we could never be parted. And I’d wake every day fucking you, and fall asleep still inside you. I’d have you, inside out, and you’d ride me like you were born to it.”
“Yes,” Oliver exhaled, scratching down Connor’s back as Connor thrust into him, harder and harder, his cock buried deep inside Oliver. Oli’s erection bobbed against Connor’s chest in their awkward position, the slight touches to the head driving him mad. He needed more, needed Connor to make good on this fantasy, to fuck him until Oliver couldn’t hold himself upright. “Yes, Connor, yes.”
His orgasm building, Oliver gasped as Connor flipped them both, Oliver swinging up until he was seated on Connor, impaled on his cock. Connor bucked upward, thrusting in deeper than ever, and Oliver threw his head back.
“Ride me,” he said, and Oliver moaned. He pressed forward, his hands on Connor’s chest, and lifted himself up off Connor’s cock. He held himself aloft a moment, trying to clear his head, but it was no use. He was too far gone. So Oliver dropped back down onto Connor’s cock, and again, and again, fucking himself on Connor’s erection as though it was all he ever wanted to do.
Connor’s hands grasped Oliver’s hips tightly, his fingers digging in to Oliver’s skin, and Oli rode him harder still. The bed creaked and whined, the wood frame jerking against the wall, and Oliver bounced harder and higher on Connor’s cock. He spread his legs as wide as he could, his own cock bobbing wildly around, until suddenly his vision went white. He dropped one final time onto Connor and tensed. Oliver shot jets of white, sticky liquid all over Connor’s chest, his every muscle tightening for the climax. Connor moaned and thrust up once more, hard enough to make Oliver cry out, then pulsed thickly inside Oliver, filling him to bursting with his come. Oliver felt as though he would rend in half, the force of Connor’s orgasm was so strong. It took minutes before Oliver sagged against Connor and, whispering a cleaning spell as an afterthought to remove the mess from them. Connor heaved beneath Oliver, but wrapped his arms around Oli and cradled him against his chest.
They fell asleep like that, in each other’s embrace, Connor still inside Oliver, their yearning sated.
When Oliver woke, it was with an ache in his belly and legs and to the distant sound of a dull chirping. He blinked awake, Connor still holding fast to him, and sought out the source of the chirping. A tiny green bird, one of Rory’s testers, fluttered by Oliver’s ear.
Suddenly aware of how naked he was, sprawled across Connor’s body as though Oliver was some kind of nymphomaniac, Oliver pushed himself up off Connor’s chest and slid to the side. He acknowledged the bird and held out his hand to perch it. Drawing it up to his ear, he listened to the message.
In a tinny, distant version of Rory’s voice, the green bird chirped, “Either wake up or stop having sex. Or both. Get down to the VR room. I’m at the scene. You’re going to want to see this.”
Chapter 8
The door to the VR room slid shut, plunging Connor and Oliver into pure darkness once again. Oliver closed his eyes and reached out with his magic, casting the spell necessary to turn on the system and connect the magical panel to the peridot Rory carried with her. He brought the obsidian collar with him for the task, fastening it to his wrist by wrapping it twice instead of placing it around his neck. It felt unusual on his wrist, but he felt a modicum of relief just by having it at all, even though it was Connor’s.
The obsidian pulsed and drew on the magic, a powerful and difficult transfer with all the moving parts of the operation, but finally, Oliver opened his eyes and gasped. It was as though Connor and Oliver had travelled the distance of the Three Courts in the span of a wink. They stood, in their ridiculous outfits, on either side of Rory, surrounded by other reporters. A hovering, glowing yellow ribbon marked Do Not Cross kept them back, while officers milled around the scene just beyond view. There were more officers present than Oliver had seen at any other crime scene, even during the Carmichael Case in which a young courtier was murderer. But Eloise Carmichael, niece of the High Warlock and richest Witch in Nimueh’s Court though she was, was not the leader of one of the Three Courts. Logan’s murder on Nimueh’s Court land called for a proportional response. Which is to say, in NCPD terms, a disproportional response.
At Oliver’s count, nearly the entirety of the NCPD was present, and most of them were doing nothing at all. He wondered if it was a good time to commit crime in Nimueh’s Court, what with all the on duty officers standing uselessly around a crime scene contaminating evidence. He pressed a finger to his temple and rubbed circles there.
“Excuse me?” Rory’s voice echoed around them, as though she was present but a ghost. It was like she was speaking from just to Oliver’s right, and just to his left at the same time. Shivers ran down Oliver’s spine, and Connor glanced at him with much the same expression. “But is it normal procedure to have so many officers on scene? As I understand it, evidence collection was already completed and your suspect is still at large,” Rory said, her expression and words both pointed. Oliver smiled. There was a reason she was where she was in her career. The other reporters around her surged eagerly forward, poised to capture the answer to a question they all should have asked.
“Who’re you?” a voice asked, and Oliver rolled his eyes. Davin, his department’s most useless and bigoted cop, stepped forward with the inflated demeanour of someone with no importance. Rory looked him up and down and, Oli was sure, pegged him in an instant.
“Aurora Birch, political reporter for The Banshee and special correspondent for the Daily Spell,” she said in one breath.
“Well, Ms. Birch,” Davin said, his tone and expression indicating without doubt that though he was disgusted by reporters and anyone non-Witch or Wizard, he would certainly make an exception if Rory was in the mood to be handcuffed and awkwardly groped. Rory’s expression remained stone-faced at his leering eyebrow raise. “I don’t know where you get your information, but evidence collection is still in progress. We’re on scene to protect it, see? I know you Maeve’s Court party-girls don’t believe in a standard police system like ours, but this is standard procedure for a crime of this type.”
A low growling sound emerged from around Oliver, and he turned to find Connor with his teeth gritted, his eyes trained on Davin. Oliver reached out to soothe him. Davin tended to have that effect on people; Oli was unfortunately acclimatized to Davin’s particular brand of bullshit.
“Standard procedure for the Nimueh’s Court Police Department is to crowd a crime scene and contaminate evidence?” Rory asked, deadpanned. Davin coloured. “As I understand it, the guidelines for officers on scene state that a ratio of three officers per ten square meters is ideal to protect the integrity of the scene.” Rory looked around him briefly, apparently pretending to count. “It looks to me like you’ve more than quadrupled that number.” She paused, and Davin’s face turned an unattractive colour of puce. “That’s four times, in lamens terms.”
Oliver snorted down his laugh, more thankful than ever that he’d made a friend of Rory rather than an enemy. Connor, though more relaxed than before, was looking off beyond Davin to the crowd of officers in the distance.
“Listen, lady,” Davin started, but Rory waved him off.
“I’ve no time for petty officers too small for their shoes,” she said. “I’ve been granted access to the scene.” She held up her shining press pass. “Now I want in, or I’ll be writing headlines about how the NCPD is obfuscating evidence and blocking the press from access to the most significant political event of recent centuries.”
Stymied by words too large for his brain, Davin made a strange choking sound and rolled his eyes. “Well in the interest of clarity,” he said through gritted teeth, waving aside the glowing yellow ribbon to allow her entry. The other reporters around Rory surged forward with questions and demands, but not one was intelligible between the cacophony of the others. Davin spun on them. “No more questions! Get yourselves your own press passes, you vultures!”
As Rory walked, Oliver and Connor were launched forward, moving through space as though they hovered on the air. It was disorienting and slightly nauseating, but thankfully Rory was only walking. Had she been driving somewhere, Oliver thought he might have vomited up his stomach onto the VR room floor.
“Speaking of procedure,” Rory said, eying the group of officers ahead of them. “Considering the political delicacy of this matter, shouldn’t you have a member of the Special Investigations Team on hand? A Fae to act as a neutral party in this investigation? I believe that’s procedure, too.”
Davin’s face broke into a slimy smile. “As a matter of fact, we do,” he said, pointing to someone in the distance. A man with dark purple hair it nearly looked black stood at the far edge of the group of officers. He seemed somewhat bland for a Fae, his features largely unremarkable, his clothing lacking any uniqueness. Oliver had grown used to Fae like Rory, bright and bubbly, or like his ex, Sky, had been—devastatingly hot and bold in every aspect of it. This Fae was none of those things. Oliver didn’t recognize him but hoped that the Special Investigations Team had done a review of their agents after Sky turned out to be a psychopathic serial killer.
They came to a stop at the edge of a group of trees, just before the border. There was nothing particularly special or unique about this spot, except that it was surrounded on all sides by police officers and in the centre was a massive pool of blood. It spread out like a small pond between the tree roots, except that ponds didn’t encompass tree limbs or splatter bark. There was blood everywhere. The iron tang of it pierced Oliver’s senses, filling his nose and coating his throat. The scent of wet earth and green wood mingled with it, leaving Oli with a sense of unease. Connor visibly recoiled from the sight and the smell, his head turned abruptly to the side. His wolfishness showed in the grimace, the gritting of teeth and bowing of his head.
Oliver tried to see past the blood, to the other details of the scene, knowing that finding another solution to this case was crucial to Connor’s freedom. And his future with Oliver.
The body had been removed. Oliver didn’t know where it had been taken, but he didn’t have time to tell Connor to ask Rory, because Connor was already doing it.
“Who took him away?” he said to the room. The earring he punctured his lobe with connected him to Rory, but she wasn’t able to hear Oliver through it.
Rory gave little indication that anything had happened but looked around thoughtfully before asking, “was the body removed by NCPD or by Wolves from Logan’s Court?”
Davin had arranged his face in a mask of disinterest that didn’t quite hit the mark. Instead of looking haughty, as he no doubt aimed, he looked petulant and chi
ldish. “NCPD took him to the medical examiner. The Werewolves don’t have a medical examiner. Can you believe that? Because apparently murders don’t happen there.” He snorted. “Seems to me they kill each other plenty, but who’m I to comment on the inner-workings of dog society? They probably sniff each other’s asses, over there, to say hello.”
A few of the nearby officers snickered quietly, but most looked alarmed. Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, his eyes turned away from the blood of his fallen Alpha and trained, once again, on Davin’s face. As though he was marking him to memory, Connor studied Davin closely. Remembering the time Davin filled Oli’s locker with flyers for male escorts and threw all manner of derogatory words at him, Oliver shrugged this off and turned his attention back to the scene.
“Who is the medical examiner?” Rory asked.
“Dr. Vivian Keller,” Davin said. “Is that a problem?”
Oliver turned to Connor. “Keller’s good. She’s detailed, if a bit rigid. Very ambitious woman.” Connor nodded and delivered the information to Rory.
“Just trying to collect all the facts,” Rory said to Davin, her attention back on the crime scene. “It’s the kind of practice you might want to try to espouse.”
Davin’s skin was becoming a mottled red-green colour, and Oliver was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The as minutes ticked by and he didn’t find anything to overturn the NCPD’s assessment that Connor was their suspect, the narrower their chances to save Connor became.
“Marks said something about evidence,” Connor said. “What evidence have they found?”
Rory considered for a moment, then shook her head. “There’s nothing here but blood,” she said. “I was told you suspect Connor Pierce of this crime. But there’s nothing here that suggests even a Werewolf. What evidence have you collected? Oh, I’m sorry, are you still collecting?” she added, remembering Davin’s vain attempt to explain away the unnecessary police presence at the scene.