Oriana’s eyes dropped, not to his lips, as they normally did when she wanted a kiss, or to his chest she loved to snuggle against, but to his penis. She licked her lips again, and his penis twitched. She grinned, winked, and then opened her mouth to say something inappropriate, no doubt, but closed it shut when her mother sighed, “Whatever you’re doing to make Marrok cringe with embarrassment, please stop. No one here, particularly Lita and I, want to bear witness to . . . well, you know.”
He swore his brothers laughed at him, as much as they could as werewolves.
“Marrok, please proceed, so we can complete this ritual. It’s clear to all present my daughter is incapable of acting the role of a proper Matriarch.”
“Trust me, Mother,” Oriana said, glancing over her shoulder, “I’ve been nothing but a proper Matriarch, thanks to Marrok.”
“That’s good to know,” Bader said, “and more than I wanted to know. I agree with Kalinda, let’s proceed.”
Lita backed up, giving him space to shift, not that he needed much.
Marrok lifted his face to the sky, his beloved moon hidden behind dark clouds and an even darker night sky. Willing his body to obey, he began to shift. Bones cracked, beginning at his feet and moving up his body. Falling to his hands-and-knees, back and hip muscles pushed out, lengthening, contorting, strengthening. Claws formed, knuckles bulged, jaw broke, and the Siren Snare adjusted to accommodate his wide, thick neck.
All the while, Oriana watched him in silence. He’d never shifted in front of her before. A part of him felt self-conscious, insecure even. Irrational, considering witches were werewolves natural mates. Except for the magic-and-blood lust, nothing about werewolves frightened them.
Oriana had always claimed he didn’t scare her, even when he towered over her, like he did now in his natural form. Like the witches, he had night vision while in human form. However, as a werewolf, he could see even better. Colors and shapes were sharper, and Oriana was even more beautiful.
She closed the short distance between them, pressed her hand to his chest, over his heart, and he waited for what would come next. Oriana had never used her magic on him, but she would have to to claim him as her consort, the same way Matriarch Kalinda had claimed Bader decades earlier. Yet, he sensed no magic coming from Oriana.
“You’re magnificent, Marrok. Please kneel.”
Without haste, he complied, putting himself at nearly eye level with his witch.
To Marrok’s delight, Oriana pressed her body to his, wrapping her arms around his him and hugging him to her. She felt amazing—soft, warm, curvy.
He returned her embrace, careful to keep his claws away from any part of her.
Oriana kept them there, her small hands stroking his back, his neck, his face. She even kissed his cold nose, sending shivers of need and want through him. “I’ll always take care of you,” Oriana promised. “Your heart. Your mind. Your soul. Our offspring. Every part of you is mine to love and to protect.”
A witch’s pledge to her werewolf mate. More, a Matriarch’s oath to her consort.
Her hand found the spot over his heart again. He still didn’t feel her magic. Nipping his ear, she spoke words so low they had to have been meant for him only. “I will not brand you with the mark of the Aku of Steelcross. I will not burn my mark into your skin, although you are burned into my heart. You are my moon, as I am your sun. But our life together will be an endless total eclipse, a rare phenomenon we’ll embrace with both hands, fighting to be the exception to the Earth Rift rule.”
She nipped his other ear, and a moan slipped free of Marrok. He held her tighter, wanting everything she offered, including the blinders she invited him to wear.
“I love you, Marrok.” Removing her warmth, she stepped back, every bit a Matriarch when she said, “Stand Marrok of Wild Moor.”
He did.
“From this day forward, you will carry the title of Marrok, Cyrus of Steelcross, Consort to Oriana, Matriarch of Steelcross.”
As he looked around at the gathered guests, their faces registered the same shock washing over him.
The witch had given a werewolf of the moon a title that literally translated as sun. Only witches were named after the magic-giving star. He had no idea what it meant or even what he wanted it to mean.
His witch had a way of knocking him on his ass without lifting a pretty, manicured finger. There were no words, not that he could speak as a werewolf.
Marrok shifted, quicker than ever. Then he was pulling her to him, kissing her laughing, smiling face. “You don’t need magic to stun everyone around you. I love you, my little red wicked witch.”
Oriana smacked his naked ass then jumped them away from Silentdrift Lake, his stomach plummeting to his feet.
Blood of the Sun Decree #3
April 1, 1309
By Matriarchal decree, witches thirteen and older
must complete the Rite of Endometal Fusion.
Failure to comply will result in the Matriarchal Family Head’s loss of status until which time
the obligation is fulfilled.
Alba, Matriarch of Earth Rift
Young Love
July 3, 2240
Steelcross Realm
Steelrise
They materialized in a dark room, crashing to the floor with a hard thud. Marrok swore, and Oriana could relate. Damn, who knew landing with a six foot, two-hundred-pound muscular male atop her would hurt so much?
Marrok glared down at her. “I guess you’re going to blame this messed-up landing on having gotten distracted too.”
Both hands found his ass with a loud smack. “Yes, it’s your own fault for having such a sexy body. A body, by the way, you refused to let me sample.”
“Yeah, right. You aren’t capable of limiting yourself to a sample.”
He settled himself more comfortably atop her, wedging himself between raised legs, her ceremonial dress pushed up her thighs. Oriana bit back a moan. For four years, Marrok’s hard, naked body had featured prominently in her dreams. Virginity was all fine and good when a witch wasn’t in love, the werewolf of her desire upstanding in a way that had her suppressing screams of frustration every time she tried to “sample” Marrok.
“Your so-called sample sex would’ve had us going all the way.”
“You would’ve enjoyed it, if we had.”
A big hand pushed her dress farther north, holding it in place while lowering his face to her neck. “Hell yes, I would’ve enjoyed it. Right before your parents found out and had me castrated. Matriarchs are supposed to be untouched until they take a consort.”
“I thought you were going to say innocent.”
Lips kissed her neck. Sucked. Bit. Licked. “There’s not an innocent thing about you except for this.” Marrok’s erection rubbed against her panty-covered sex.
They moaned, him against her pulsing neck, and her against his broad shoulder.
He did it over and again, rocking into her, his mouth never leaving her neck.
“Are we in Irongarde or Steelrise?”
“Steelrise.” She bit his shoulder, tasting his salty, woodsy flesh. Delicious. “My Whisperer of Echoes magic may not be as good as Solange’s, but I’m capable of not off-shooting my destination by an entire realm.”
“So you say. At least no one saw us, and we made it to your suite without me throwing up all over your arrogant ass.”
Oriana glanced around the room, difficult when pinned to the floor, but she could see enough to know exactly what suite she’d jumped them into, and it wasn’t hers. Umm, she’d just keep that fact to herself. No need to worry her consort with inconsequential details that would have him stopping what he was doing with his mouth and hips.
She’d waited years to get him exactly where he was—between her legs and at the core of her heated want. Oriana had no plans of moving from this room until she was breathless and boneless.
“Rip them.”
The hand that had been exploring the edge of her pan
ties stilled, a fingernail suddenly pointy, Marrok’s eyes pink.
“I can see you want to, so do it.”
“I shouldn’t. It’s your first time. I’m supposed to be soft and gentle with you. A werewolf can’t have everything he wants.”
“You can if your witch also wants it. It’s also your first time. But I have no intention of being soft and gentle with you.” Widening her legs, she pushed up, grazing herself against him. Then she was kissing Marrok—deep and hard.
Her panties fell away, a single flick of Marrok’s elongated nail having sliced through the silk garment.
“Yes,” she hissed against his ear. “Rip it all off.”
This time, he didn’t argue, not even a silent rebuttal in the eyes that watched her for a consent she’d already granted.
His grin was masculine satisfaction personified. “Hell no, not innocent at all.”
Careful slice after careful slice had Oriana’s ceremonial dress ripped to shreds, pieces of fabric on the floor around her. If someone came upon them, Marrok’s big body over hers, his hands holding her wrists over her head, Oriana’s dress torn, and she splayed like a starfish, they’d either draw an absolutely correct conclusion or a horribly inaccurate one.
“We should at least move to the bed. A gentleman doesn’t deflower his bride on a cold, hard floor.”
“You’re a werewolf.”
“Which doesn’t make me a rutting animal who’s so full of lust I’ll take you on the floor, no matter how much you tempt me. Up, Oriana.”
He jumped to his feet, scooping her up afterward and depositing her on the big, fluffy bed she’d been on many times over the years. Not in this context, however. Changing linen wouldn’t be enough to set right what they were about to do and where. The room hadn’t been used in over a year, she rationalized, happy to accept Marrok’s weight atop her again.
They kissed--unrushed, long, and sweet.
Gentle hands twined in her hair, fingers massaged scalp, and hips surged forward, joining them in a breath-stealing entry.
He stilled.
She gasped.
Together, they smiled at each other then began to move.
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 and cries loud.
“O-Oriana. Oriana.”
She loved the sound of her name, moaned as it was on Marrok’s sensual lips when he came.
Leaning down, she kissed her consort, tasting him with her tongue first. In the same sated way he’d moaned her name, she sighed his. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
Marrok gathered her in his arms, her head on his shoulder, sheets everywhere except for 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 the werewolves’ lust for witch magic?”
“And why witches magic is so hard to control without the aid of a funneling device.” Sitting up, she held both arms in front of her, showing them to Marrok. “On my thirteenth birthday, I had my Rite of Endometal Fusion. It was a grand event at Irongarde Skyrise. 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 her mother 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 Matriarch Kalinda’s. That day had been the beginning of the distance her father had placed between them.
“Yeah, Dad told me.”
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 channe 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 her channe when Marrok was eight to Zev’s prepubescent fourteen.
Nothing about their familial relations brought them more pain than the separation between parent and child. Oriana hated it. They all did, so why in the hell did everyone accept the misery as their fate?
“I’ve heard it doesn’t hurt when a werewolf receives the Rage Disrupter injection. Is that true?”
“For the most part. A little prick. That’s about it.” 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. She 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 nearly decade-old pain.
“The straps didn’t hurt.”
“You say that as if it excuses a bunch of grown witches from holding a kid down against her will.”
“Not against my will, Marrok. It’s the law. Even Matriarch Kalinda is beholden to the 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 inserted 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 damn heavy, Marrok.”
“Come here.” Holding her close, he hugged her to him, kissing her forehead and cursing. “The Rage Disrupter, Silver Snare, Rite of Endometal Fusion, they’re all bullshit. None of it is normal. 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, Oriana.”
“I know, and 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.”
Neither did Oriana. But there was one thing she did know. Separating herself from Marrok enough to gaze into 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 collars. Both are barbaric, and I’d overturn both decrees today, if I had a better way of addressing the werewolf-witch rift.”
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 Whisperer of Echoes magic. If we take this leap—”
“I’ll take the leap Marrok, you don’t have—”
“Unless you were lying about me being your Cyrus of Steelrise, 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. We 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 battle their mates, fathers, brothers, and sons to the death.”
“By your own government standard, what you’re saying would be deemed as 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.”
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 39
