by Ann Aguirre
“Oh, shit,” she breathed. “You like being held down. Does this feel like foreplay?”
Gavriel might die of shame.
The heat of it singed his cheeks, burning like red coals. He might have answered honestly—yes—or I’m sorry, it does. Time had taught him that his parameters for excitement differed from most and couldn’t be triggered through soft touches or sweet kisses. His throat closed, and he lay quiet beneath her, feeling her weight against his surging cock. If the Animari woman mocked him, he would perish in a white-hot burst. If she moved, he might do something even worse.
Thankfully, she rolled away without waiting for an answer, leaving him with an imprint of how hot and strong her body was. He could still feel the weight of her on top of him, forcing him to feel as no one ever did—aroused and enraged. His shoulders and upper arms ached from the force of her hold, but that was to be expected. Watching her button her blouse, he had no way to resolve the unanticipated throb of his cock.
“I don’t lose. I survive, withdraw, and look for another opportunity to win,” he said with a false calm, trying to act as if she hadn’t said—or noticed—anything.
“Right, sure. Look, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
He hated that he had no idea whether she was talking about his awkward erection or losing their sparring match, so he simply stared, waiting for her to elaborate.
“I’m undefeated in Ash Valley, that’s how I ended up as security chief. Well, that and I’m good with tech, too.”
A wave of gratitude suffused him. Other than her initial, impulsive inquiry, we’re pretending it didn’t happen. Perfect.
“I’ll bear that in mind. Good evening.”
He strode out of the practice room, leaving shirt and shoes behind. With any luck, the cold walk back to his quarters might freeze some sense into him. Gavriel avoided a few guards, hiding in the shadows until they passed because he didn’t want to answer inconvenient questions. He was shivering by the time he reached his room, fingers clumsy with cold, and nobody had lit the fire in his hearth.
Unsurprising, he held no tangible rank in Princess Thalia’s court, and he frightened the staff, who watched him with wary eyes, as if he might commit murder at the breakfast table. Which explained why he most often chose to eat alone.
It hadn’t always been like this. Ironic, that the princess’s captivity had been brighter for him personally, but all his sword mates were alive then, along with his brother, Oriel, and Zan, always the closest of his companions. The names of the lost gouged at him, excoriating like a dull blade that would hollow him out completely.
First, he kindled the light, one solar lantern because he didn’t need it to be bright, just enough to see, then he built a fire, using the last of the wood, and the flames crackled orange and hungry, granting the bare stones some false cheer. His stomach rumbled, but it was too much trouble to go down to the kitchen in search of food. He’d missed more than one meal while working for the princess’s ends; another wouldn’t matter, and the gnawing discomfort fit his current mood.
He carried that gloom with him to the shower, where it took ten minutes to coax a trickle of lukewarm water. Despite the lack of luxury, he lingered, trying to scrub away the sensory impressions the Animari woman had left behind, but even when he stepped out into the chilly bathroom, wet from head to toe, he couldn’t erase the heaviness in his groin. Under normal circumstances, he didn’t lose control of his urges like this, but it had been a long time since anyone touched him, apart from training and violence.
The way he’d felt, pinned beneath her… the sensations came back in a rush. Her body was incredibly solid and strong, powerful enough to hold him against his will. Dark little vignettes flickered in his imagination, where she bound him and did things to him. Against his will, the possibility danced in his head, endlessly humiliating.
A little voice whispered, Nobody has to know. That’s why fantasies exist.
Gavriel tried—he did try to resist. Tried to turn his thoughts to other paths, but the princess never starred in his fantasies. She’d rarely touched him, apart from a cool clasp on the shoulder, and he certainly couldn’t imagine her forcing him to the ground and—
I’m so hard.
Princess Thalia had no place in his filthy yearnings. With her, he’d never bridged the gap between adoration and desire, probably because his secret cravings weren’t romantic, no starlight and rose petals. It was better to nip this small tempest in the bud than to agonize over it or let it build into a maddening obsession.
Still naked, he padded over to the bed and got under the covers to keep from freezing. Closing his eyes, he let the mental images come without resisting anymore. For long moments, he only imagined and didn’t touch. He relived the brutal strength of her thighs parting his legs. Powerless, can’t resist. He’d never trusted anyone enough to give himself, but it was impossible for him not to wish to be taken.
Gavriel licked his lips and finally took hold of his aching cock. He hated himself for this weakness, but somehow that loathing only made it better when he yanked on his shaft, hard and vicious. The movement drew out the soreness in his arms and shoulders. Soon, he’d have marks from where she’d pinned him, her imprint on his skin.
Yes.
He opened his eyes and paused, bringing his hand out from under the covers to inspect the place where she’d bit him. Her teeth marks were still faintly visible, red against his pale skin. His lashes fluttered as he fought the compulsion, but eventually, he gave in and put his mouth on the mark, sucking at the forming bruise. The pain was light and gorgeous, making him shiver. His nipples tightened, more excitement than cold. With his tongue, he traced the outline of Magda’s teeth.
Nobody else would’ve dared.
Gavriel shuddered and slipped his hand back down, taking hold of his cock again, faster this time. At no point in recent memory could he recollect being this hard, this ready. Moving his hand slowly, he savored the build, the slippery feel of the head slick with precome. He smoothed it around, pleasuring himself as he’d let nobody else. His thighs tensed, relaxed, and his stomach quivered as more mental pictures flowered, sleek and cruel and seductive. Magda wouldn’t be gentle, not even if he begged.
He held his breath as a soft punishment and imagined her arm across his throat, only exhaling in a noisy gust when the pleasure built too hard and fast, and his head went starry with it. With his other hand, he pinched himself, hard enough to bruise, and then he came, hot and messy, all over his hand, smearing on his blankets.
Once his breathing settled, he got up to tidy himself. With merciless eyes, he watched himself in the mirror, washing the semen from his hands, his softening cock. The salty smell of it was both beautiful and terrible. He scrubbed longer than he needed to, then he sponged the stains on his bedcovers. He was so cold that his joints hurt.
The sheet would dry if he draped it, and they’d collect his linens in a few days. Currently, he hated himself, almost as much as he hated Magda Versai for making him feel this way. He knelt, naked, by the fire until the chill and the grief passed, yielding to something akin to peace.
Eventually, Gavriel got in bed and pulled the remaining covers up, letting his breathing even out. Maybe he wouldn’t sleep tonight, but he felt calm and easy for the first time in longer than he could recall, so there was some silent gratitude too. It took a lot to provoke him to his point; his control was legendary, but she’d unraveled him in a handful of minutes of close contact and with a few whispered words.
He could happily kill her for that.
3.
After getting dressed, Mags scooped up the personal items the Noxblade had left.
Part of her considered ignoring them, but if a random staffer found the clothes and shoes, he wouldn’t know who they belonged to and simplicity was generally best. I’ll give Gavriel a chance to calm down, then return his stuff. But first… her stomach growled, reminding her how long ago her last meal was. The Eldritch didn’t eat nearly a
s much as the Animari, and she needed more protein, too.
She threaded a path through the old fortress, following her nose to the kitchen. There was only a young Eldritch left, sleepily swishing a mop around, and he didn’t protest when she loaded up with bread, cheese, dried fruit, and cold fish. The wolf women might be asleep by now, and she didn’t relish the idea of crouching in the dark over her food, trying not to wake them. Mags didn’t love being the only cat among wolves and liked it even less when she was surrounded by the Eldritch instead.
Maybe I’ll eat on the walls by starlight.
That sounded better than most of her alternatives, but she needed to stop by Gavriel’s room first. She found him the same way she’d located the kitchen, tracing his scent through the corridors. The cinnamon scent strengthened, the closer she got, and eventually, the olfactory markers practically glowed before his door. Mags rapped twice.
It took several moments for the door to open, then Gavriel appeared, black shirt hastily thrown on and buttons done up incorrectly. He was barefoot, wearing loose trousers that hung from lean hips. His pallor made his skin shimmer in the dark, so visible that she marveled at his ability to disappear in the shadows. With a face like a beacon, that required real skill.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I’m returning this.” She thrust the shirt and shoes at him, which he caught with instinctive good reflexes.
His jaw clenched, and Mags could tell that he didn’t want to express gratitude. She watched him bite back the sharp retort. Finally, he muttered, “Thanks,” instead of what he really wanted to say. Then he started to slam the door in her face.
Funny fact about certain cats, though. They always wanted to sit on the person in the room who least wanted them there, and the more that soul protested, the more cat he got. Mags had that propensity too because she didn’t take kindly to the idea of being denied. It was the principle of the thing.
Smiling, she caught the door with one hand. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Since I delivered your stuff, it’s the least you can do to be polite.”
Gavriel’s eyes sparked hate, but eventually, he stepped back. “You’re doing this to agitate me, but it won’t work.”
It already has. At least, his scent sharpened, layered with a peppery sharpness that spoke of repressed anger. As she came into his space, she also breathed in the smell of recent sex, but the room carried only his traces, no hint of a partner. He’d hate that she knew, however, so she didn’t let on. It was his private business, none of hers.
“Actually, I’m doing this because I heard your stomach growling before. Thought you might like something to eat.” She sat on the rug spread before the hearth and set the tray of food beside her.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he snapped.
She paused in the midst of assembling a strange fish sandwich. “What’s your point? Are you hungry or not?”
“Nothing I can say will drive you out?” He seemed astonished by that fact, as if he’d never come across anyone who didn’t bow to his bad attitude.
“Nope. Your carpet is soft, and this fire is warm, way better than eating outside, which was my plan before. You can watch or you can join me. Which will it be?”
In answer, he dropped at the far edge of the rug, eyeing her warily. “Your behavior makes no sense.”
She raised a brow. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. What could be more practical than eating?”
Screwing with him was fun. Mags knew damn well he wanted to talk about how much he disliked her, but it was hard to do that when someone was offering food. She tried not to smirk as she took the first bite of fish and bread, both fresh and delicious. For all his claims otherwise, Gavriel was clearly starving because he ate his share with gusto and between them, they left nothing on the plate.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked in a grudging tone. “I could make tea.”
In all honesty, tea wasn’t her favorite drink, but she recognized an olive branch. He was trying to reciprocate hospitality in his prickly, antisocial way. “Sounds good.”
To her amazement, he got a copper kettle, filled it in the bathroom, then hung it on a stand near the fire. So old school. Then he scrounged up two chipped mugs and mixed dry herbs in graceful motions. When the water heated enough, he added the wire basket to the kettle and glanced up to meet her gaze with an oddly diffident expression.
“Is it strange to see me doing this?”
“A little,” she admitted. “I suspect there aren’t many who can say they’ve had a tea party with a master assassin.”
For a moment, it looked like he might smile, but he controlled his features, leaving Mags faintly disappointed. “I hardly know what to dispute first, but never let it be said that I balk at conflict. I’m not a master, nor is this a party.”
“I don’t know, feels pretty festive to me. We just need to get some jugglers in here, maybe hold a knife-throwing competition.” She read the shock and reluctant amusement in his face before he strangled it and served the tea.
Normally, she wasn’t like this. In Ash Valley, she carried so much weight that she was serious and intense, all the time. There was no space for levity with Raff either, because the wolf lord took so little seriously. The Noxblade, on the other hand, just looked so sad and tragic all the damn time that she couldn’t resist trying to see what it would take to lighten him up.
“I don’t have the space. You’ll have to make do with a hot drink.”
Taking her cue, Mags sipped and lowered her mug halfway to eye it in surprise. “This is delicious.”
“You sound shocked.”
“It usually tastes like weeds. This is different, spicy and complex. Tell me the truth, you got a secret recipe?”
“You’re welcome. Drink it and get out.” His voice lacked its usual edge, though he was expressing the same hostile sentiments. Something had softened Gavriel’s mood, leaving him uncharacteristically gentle.
“Admit it, tonight I made your life better.”
“Delusional,” he muttered. “I was in bed, trying to sleep when you showed up.”
“I didn’t knock that loud. If you had succeeded instead of trying, you wouldn’t have heard me,” she pointed out.
“I never sleep that soundly.” Gavriel bit his lower lip, apparently frozen in shock over the admission.
It wasn’t exactly breaking news so far as Mags was concerned, but the Noxblade seemed to think he’d let slip some deeply personal secret. “Yeah, that’s common among people who spend a lot of time in the field. It’s worse for Animari soldiers because we fucking hear everything anyway. Squirrels fighting two hundred meters away? Little bastards have kept me up all night before.”
“How do you cope?”
That sounded like a genuine question, so Mags gave it real consideration. “You learn to filter. After my first shift, I thought I’d go crazy from the sensory overload, but after a while, you learn what sounds and smells are vital to your safety. Everything else, you can choose to let go, but it also depends on mental strength. When I’m stressed, it’s harder to keep those screens in place.”
“I never considered that before.”
“What?”
“That I could use noise to confuse an Animari foe. I’ll have to incorporate this information into my stratagems.”
Fury sparked to life as she slammed her mug down. “You’re still craving better ways to kill us, even as your princess plans to marry Raff? I read you wrong, Gavriel. I thought you had a heart buried deep but you’re a monster after all.”
“It would be wise to remember that,” he said softly.
That ought to be enough to make her go.
Gavriel expected the tiger woman to quit his quarters in a rage, but to his astonishment, she stood and took a step closer to him. “I can smell the lies on you, thick as shit. You act like you hate us so much, but the truth is, you hate yourself more.”
“Shut up,” he bit out.
“Because you’
re alive, and the people you love aren’t. I understand that, believe me, but we live in troubled times. Maybe I can take your venom, but with somebody else, you might start a war, one your people can’t win.” Her hand curled into a fist as if she wanted to hit him, and fates help him, he wished she would. “You think I don’t struggle, surrounded by Eldritch? Old Lord Talfayen blew up my home, killed way too many of my people, but I’m trying my best not to blame you or the princess.”
“I don’t care if you loathe me for his crimes.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he was accustomed to a certain amount of undue infamy.
“That’s not the point. If I hate a whole people for the crimes of one, then I’m a bigot, exactly like those I rail against, assholes who call us names because we can shift. We’re still fighting prejudice against the Golgoth in our ranks. Our older folks just won’t stop calling them demon-kin, no matter how many times they hear it’s wrong.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because deep down, you want more for your people, too. You’re loyal to Thalia and you’re backing her play. Your behavior reflects on her, so fucking do better.”
He stared at her, unable to respond for a few seconds, grappling with the emotions she stirred, an intricate cocktail of shame, admiration, spiced lightly by reluctant respect. Finally, he said, “Point taken.”
“Anyway, I know damn well you just want to piss me off and make me leave. But didn’t you ever hear that the more you want a cat gone, the more likely she is to stay? We’re contrary that way.”
Before he could ask about that strange truism, she stripped out of her clothes and shifted smoothly. Suddenly, there was a tiger curling up on his rug, enormous and ferociously beautiful. There was no earthly way he could move her in this form, maybe not even if she was woman-shaped, so he settled for a verbal protest. “You cannot possibly mean to stay here. What would people say?”
