by N. D. Jones
Marrok growled animalistically, making her stomach flutter as he devoured her in the one way witches did not mind being dominated and feasted upon by their werewolf lovers.
A long, wide tongue penetrated her—deep.
Oriana cried out, her hands fisting the bedsheets. Marrok fucked her with his tongue, a tongue that was more werewolf than human. She couldn’t keep her eyes open a second longer. They slammed shut.
Marrok wasn’t in his bleddyn form—half-human, half-werewolf. They couldn’t have unprotected sex that way as it would result in a male fetus. She had to first give birth to a female, the next Blood of the Sun matriarch. But he could shift individual parts of himself, and Oriana couldn’t help how her magic and blood flooded the area where his bleddyn tongue plundered her depths.
Furry hands held her open wide, Marrok’s tongue a relentless piston moving in and out of her. Over and over he licked her, his nose a constant, hard press against her clit. Oriana screamed and came.
And came.
And came.
He sucked her clit, a luscious pull, and she came a fourth time.
Marrok moved up and loomed over Oriana, arms on either side of her, caging her in the most mouthwatering way. “Are you okay?”
For all that he’d turned into a werewolf oral sex god, Marrok was still the same sweet, considerate male who protected her honor when she’d been ready to throw it away for a stolen moment of fleeting carnality.
Oriana sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly. She smiled, and the lines between Marrok’s forehead receded. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I had no idea you could be so inventive.”
“Neither did I.” Leaning down, he pressed a shy kiss to her lips. “You inspire me.”
“Hmm, I like the sound of that. What else do I inspire in you?”
“Show not tell.” Gentle hands twined in her hair, fingers massaged her scalp, and hips surged forward, joining them in a breath-stealing entry.
She gasped.
He stilled.
Oriana thought he’d ask about her well-being again. Instead, Marrok moved experimentally, and they moaned through their smiles. She’d had him in her hands before, knew he was big. But having Marrok inside her put his size in a different perspective.
Her eyes rolled back, mouth fell open, and she met his thrusts with her own.
The first time was hard and quick. The second time playful and slow. The third time had them drenched in sweat, Oriana astride Marrok, hands gripping the headboard, their rhythm desperate, cries thunderous.
“O-Oriana. Oriana.”
She loved the sound of her name, groaned as it was, on Marrok’s sensual lips. He came, hands holding her waist as he surged upward, pressing all of himself into her.
Leaning down, she kissed her consort. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
Marrok gathered her in his arms, her head on his shoulder, sheets everywhere except on the bed. “Sex with me?”
“Well, yes, of course. But I meant us. As much as I hope our union won’t end like everyone else’s, I know for that to happen we must figure out the secrets of self.”
“You mean figure out why werewolves lust for witch blood and magic?”
“Also why witch magic is so hard to control without the aid of a channeling device.” Sitting up, she held both arms in front of her, showing them to Marrok. “I’ve never told you this story, but on my thirteenth birthday, I went through the rite of endometal fusion. It was a grand event at Iron Spire. Food, music, decorations, presents. Did you know no werewolf is allowed at the ceremony, not even a witch’s father?”
Oriana lowered her arms. She’d begged Kalinda to invite Bader. “The rite of endometal fusion is a sacred ceremony for witches only,” her mother had told her. “They have their rites, and we have ours. You’ll see your father soon, Oriana. Stop crying, and go get dressed. Your guests will arrive soon.”
They hadn’t been her guests but Kalinda’s. That day had been the beginning of the distance her father had placed between them.
“Yeah, Dad told me what he knew.”
She nodded, lost in thought. “I knew I would all but lose my father when I turned thirteen and my magic and scent increased beyond my control. I knew it, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the pain of it actually happening.”
From their many conversations over the years, Oriana also knew Marrok had lost his mother at an even younger age. Most witch mothers stayed with their pup until a year or two before they began puberty and had the rage disrupter injected. With Zev being six years older than Marrok, Lita would’ve separated herself from the boys when Marrok was eight to Zev’s prepubescent fourteen.
Nothing about their familial relations brought them more pain than the separation of parent from child. Oriana hated it. They all did, so why did everyone accept the misery as inevitable?
“I’ve heard it doesn’t hurt when a werewolf receives the rage disrupter injection. Is that true?”
“For the most part.” Marrok patted his chest. “Come back down here.”
A tempting offer she would soon take advantage of, but not before she told him everything she’d been holding inside. Oriana couldn’t share such thoughts with Kalinda and while she could confide in Solange, she wouldn’t put her friend in an unfair position to keep a secret that challenged one of the most important Blood of the Sun decrees.
“I was placed on an altar. Correction, I was strapped to an altar.”
“You were what?” He sat up, angry about a pain that was thirteen years old.
“The straps didn’t hurt.”
“You say that as if it excuses the act of grown witches strapping a kid down against her will.”
“Not against my will, Marrok. It’s the law. Even my mother is beholden to laws that came before her reign.”
She wouldn’t reveal how her mother had come to a sobbing Oriana later that night in her bedroom, comforting her with kisses and apologies.
“I was injected with liquid steel.” If she concentrated, Oriana could still feel the metal burning its way through her arms, her body fighting against the invasion before succumbing—an unnatural fusion of organic with inorganic. “I screamed until I passed out. I have no idea what happened after that. When I came to, I was in my bedroom, magic-laced gauze on my arms from elbow to wrist. The healing itched and burned, and my arms were so heavy.”
“Come here.” Holding her close, he hugged her to him and kissed her forehead. “Rage disrupters, silver snares, rites of endometal fusion, they’re all bullshit. None of them are normal practices. How in the hell can it be normal for us to live like this? And we do it to ourselves. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“I know. I want it to all stop.”
“So do I. But the decrees, as awful as they are, exist for a good reason. Witches and werewolves love each other, but we can’t truly live in peace, not as long as werewolves are threats to witches. I don’t know what in the hell to do about that.”
Separating herself from Marrok enough to meet his eyes, she voiced the unthinkable. “I won’t submit our daughter to that kind of pain.”
“What are you saying?”
“No rite of endometal fusion. I won’t do that to our child, not when she’s too young to understand or to fully consent. I won’t do that to her.”
“If you don’t, you’ll lose your position in society.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do, Oriana.” Marrok took her face in his big hands. “Yes, you do. You were raised to be a matriarch, to rule with intelligence, kindness, and empathy. As Crimson Hunter, you help keep our planet safe, not only from feral werewolves, but from magic-abusing witches and criminal-minded humans. You love those roles, and you’re good at both.”
“I love you and our future children more. I won’t have our offspring subjected to liquid steel or silver snares. Both are barbaric, and I’d overturn both decrees today, if I had a better way of bridging the rift between witches and werewolves.”
With a gentle tug, Marrok coaxed Oriana down onto the bed and his chest. “The pattern of your thoughts is so much worse than your extraction magic. If we take this leap—”
“I’ll take the leap, you don’t have—”
“Unless you were lying about me being your Cyrus of Steelcross, whatever in the hell that actually means, then what we do we do together.” He touched her flat stomach, his palm warm. “In my human form, I can give you a witch. We may have even created one tonight. The thought thrills and frightens me but not as much as losing you and her. Once you give birth, we’ll have twelve years to figure something out.”
“That’s not a lot of time.”
“It isn’t, but you’re the one who wants to rip apart the system your ancestors built.”
“I don’t wish to rip anything apart. It’s already torn, Marrok. I want to mend, to build … to start over if that’s what it requires. I want us to live without fear. Something tells me we never truly have, even before the War of Eternal Hunger. Because happy witches would never have battled their mates, fathers, brothers, and sons to the death.”
“By our own government standard, what you’re saying would be deemed treason.”
“I know.” Propping on an elbow, she grinned down at him. “Cyrus of Steelcross is a title with no ascribed meaning, Marrok. I won’t dictate what kind of consort you’ll be. I won’t be commanded by you, and I don’t expect for you to be commanded by me because I’m Matriarch of Steelcross. That’s why I’ll never physically mark you. Human couples wear wedding rings as symbols of their union. I don’t wish to imitate them. We require no symbols, but if you need one, you have the new title. Define it as you will.”
“You sound very much like a matriarch, but your words are nothing any matriarch would ever say. Be careful, Oriana. You need to go slow to go fast.”
She kissed his chest. “Change is normal, even inevitable, but the unknown scares the shit out of most people.” She settled against his side.
“An endless solar eclipse, huh?”
“Not a perfect analogy, but yes.”
“You’re a madwoman.”
“You married me. What does that make you?”
Marrok’s rumble had her smiling. “A lovestruck werewolf who’d do anything for his outrageous witch.”
“Blasphemy.” Oriana pulled Marrok on top of her, opening her legs and body to him again. “Mmmm, yes, no more talking.”
He made love to her again, one leg propped on his shoulder, the other hitched around his hip. So good.
Lights turned on.
A female screamed.
Oriana swore.
And Marrok bolted off her, a string of curses following his retreat.
“Oriana,” her mother and consort yelled at the same time.
Cringing, she reached for her extraction magic, looped it around Marrok’s waist, and jumped them out of Kalinda’s bedroom. First thing tomorrow, she’d buy her mother a new bed.
July 15, 2240
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
“I can’t believe he married her and moved to Steelcross.”
Alarick downed the rest of his beer. “Shut up about it already. I’m tired of hearing you whine about Marrok and Oriana. It’s done. He’s happy, and so are Dad and Mom.”
Snatching up his own mug of beer, Zev coated his mouth with the bitter taste, swishing it around before swallowing. “Lita isn’t our mother. She’s the incubator who gave us birth.”
“Watch your mouth, or so help me, I’m going to hurt you.”
“What? Since when have you taken her side over mine?”
“You’ve always talked a lot of shit, especially about witches. I don’t know what your deal is, and I’ve never cared enough to think too hard on it. But I won’t sit here and stay quiet while you talk shit about Mom. If Dad were here, he’d knock your teeth down your throat.”
“Because he’s as witch-whipped as Marrok is—and you too, from the way you’re acting. Calm down and order another drink.”
“No, I’m done.”
“Come on. What’s your deal?” Zev raised his fist to punch his brother in the arm, but Alarick slapped his hand away with such force Zev’s instinct was to strike back.
He felt it, the silver snare materializing around his neck, followed by a hiss of magic from his reformed silver snare, dulling his anger, his urge to lash out in violence. Unballing his fist, Zev tried to fight against the magic seeping into his body, but it was a battle he couldn’t win easily—not as long as the damn rage disrupter functioned.
When a black werewolf did manage to hold on to their rage or hunger long enough to resist and act on their violent urges, they turned into a muraco.
“You can’t even control your anger enough to avoid setting off the silver snare. It might not last, but Marrok has the right idea. At least he’s living his life, which is more than I can say for the two of us. We work all day then come to this bar and get drunk. I’m twenty-nine and haven’t let myself fall in love with a witch since I broke up with Noor.”
“She dumped you. If you’re going to tell the story, don’t lie about how it ended.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And proud of it.” Zev gestured with his hand around the busy bar. “Take your pick.”
“I don’t want—”
“A human female? Yeah, that’s your problem. Witches will be the downfall of every werewolf. Dad still pines for Lita, although she left his ass the same way Noor dumped you. Give it a few years and Marrok will be back in this booth with us, tail between his legs, because Oriana kicked his dumbass out of Steel Rise after she used him to get the next heir to Earth Rift. That’s all we’re good for, Alarick, in case you’re too stupid to figure it out. If the witches could get pregnant any other way, they wouldn’t need us at all. They tried, you know, but conception can only happen the old-fashioned way. Which means they need us, at least for that.”
Zev snapped his fingers, but the redheaded waitress ignored him, her rolled eyes and nasty attitude ensuring she’d never get another tip from him.
“Something is seriously wrong with you.”
“You’re just mad because you can’t deal with the truth. Unlike you, I won’t lie to myself. Witches and werewolves can’t ever be anything more than lovers by necessity and enemies at heart. Two alphas can’t coexist without going for each other’s throats. We once had the witches by the throat, now they have us by our balls. One of these days, the pendulum will swing back to werewolves. With a little push, we can see it happen in our lifetime.”
Glancing around the bar again, this time making sure no one was listening, Zev slid closer to Alarick, who watched him as if he were a giant arachnid about to strike. Not a chance, since he’d triggered the silver snare. It wouldn’t disappear until he was “symptom-free” for twenty-four hours. One way or another, I’ll free myself.
“Listen, there’s this group I’ve heard about.”
Alarick’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of group?”
“The kind that has connections with a special doctor.”
Zev slid so close to Alarick he could smell, under the scents of mint toothpaste and beer, the witch he’d obviously been with before meeting him at the bar. Interesting. Who’s the witch, Alarick, and why haven’t you told me about her? I’ll get the truth out of you later.
Zev pointed to his head. “… a doctor who removes rage disrupters.”
Alarick’s eyes snapped to the crowd of people in the bar then back to Zev. “Are you trying to get our asses thrown in jail?”
“It’s fine, no one is paying any attention. But yeah, we should take this convo to a more private place. Your apartment is closest. We can go there.”
“Hell no. Whatever shit you’re thinking about getting into, don’t. Leave that underground dirt alone. That’s white werewolf shit that’ll get your ass killed or imprisoned.”
“Marrok is Cyrus of Steelcross. He’ll have my back, if som
ething happens.”
Alarick ran a hand over his face, shaking his head like an agitated Io. Out of the three brothers, Alarick was most like their father in temperament and mannerisms.
“No matter what fancy title Oriana gave Marrok, she’s still Crimson Hunter. If you’re caught without your rage disrupter and hanging out with muracos, there’s nothing Marrok will be able to do to save your werewolf hide. It isn’t even fair of you to expect him to bail you out of that kind of insane situation.”
“We’re brothers. We’re supposed to have each other’s back.”
“I do have your back, which is why I’m telling you to stay the hell away from the muraco underground. Once you take that step, Zev, there’s no coming back. Our disrupters are tracked. As soon as they go offline, Oriana will know. It’s her job to know, to hunt down rogue werewolves.”
“To kill them for seeking their freedom, you mean.”
Alarick did that face wipe and head shake thing again. “Have you ever truly listened to anyone other than yourself? If you had, you’d know Oriana uses lethal force as a final resort. She and the Hunter Division of Crimson Guards aren’t executioners and not every rogue werewolf is muraco. But yeah, Oriana is Crimson Hunter for a reason, and it’s not because her mother is matriarch.”
“Only thing you’ve said is that our baby brother married a witch willing and capable of killing a werewolf because she’s killed them before.”
“You really hear only what you want to.” Digging into his pants pocket, Alarick pulled out a few bills and slapped them on the table. “You’re my brother, and I love you. So, hear me when I say, stay away from that doctor and the underground werewolves. Stop looking for trouble before someone comes looking for you.” Alarick slipped from the booth, shoving hands in the front pockets of his black jeans. “I’m serious. For once in your life, don’t be selfish. If you don’t care what happens to you, think about your family. Think how Marrok will feel if his mate has to hunt down his rogue brother.”
“What about our freedom? Does that mean nothing to you?”
“We aren’t slaves to witches, Zev. That’s the part you keep forgetting. If we’re slaves to anything, it’s to our blood-and-magic lust. If you want to fight something begin with that and stop blaming witches for our shortcomings as werewolves.”