The Wolf's Captive (Erotic Romance) (BDSM Bacchanal)

by Chloe Cox

  Cesare heard her breath catch. This was when she felt most open to him, most honest. This was something he could feel to be true. He needed this. He teased at her wet folds, and thrust a curled finger into her.

  “Tell me truly, Lucia,” he said, leaning his head into hers, rubbing against the rough patch deep inside her. “What did you think about, when you were up on that table, naked and spread for all to see?”

  She was beginning to shake, her hands clawing at his shoulders for some purchase. She swallowed, struggled to speak.

  “Tell me,” he urged, and thrust another finger in.

  “You,” she said, panting. “You, taking me right there, in front of all those people…showing them…”

  Lucia lost her words, her eyelids half closed, her lips pursed together. Cesare could hardly stand it. He could feel how close she was to him, how open, by how whole he felt. The only time he had any relief from the struggle to keep the beast down was the time she gave him.

  “Showing them what?” he said.

  “That I am yours…No!” Lucia cried as he pulled his hand away. Cesare ripped at his clothing, freed his pulsing cock, maneuvered the tip until it nestled in her folds, and…paused.

  He stood over her, large and looming and quaking with effort. He was balanced at the point of a great decision. Now that he knew what was at stake, he had to know. He had to ask her. And yet, if she lied to him, if he felt her lie…but Cesare had never been a coward, would never allow himself to be a coward, no matter what else he might become.

  Lucia grappled at him, tried to make him enter her. He snatched up her tiny wrists and held her fast. He could scarcely control himself, let alone her. But he had to know.

  “Lucia, do not lie,” he whispered into her hair. “I will know if you lie. Tell me truly: do you love me?”

  He felt her shock. The invisible cord that inexplicably connected them went suddenly rigid, and he feared it might shatter, might be gone forever. And then what? Would he turn in a terrible beast right there? Would he be lost to the Wolfenvask? Would it kill them both?

  Cesare rested his head on hers, and waited.

  He felt it before he heard it: a warm light, emanating from her tiny body, that chased the beast within to some dark, harmless corner.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes.”

  “And I, you,” Cesare said, and entered her in one full stroke. He plowed into her again and again, lifting one leg over his shoulder so he could plunge in deeper, ever deeper, until they were both slick with sweat and shock. She had come so quickly, contracting hard around his cock, drawing his own climax from him. Cesare still felt slightly dazed, slightly blinded by that warm light, even as he lay slumped over her on the desk.

  “Cesare,” she laughed softly into his chest. She sounded giddy, almost drunk. “Let me up.”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve made me hungry, and in need of a bath.” She batted at his shoulders, wriggling beneath him.

  Reluctantly, Cesare lifted himself, stealing one more glance at her naked beauty before she rolled off the desk. She wasn’t graceful, stepping to pick up her robe, smoothing down her hair, but she was her. He loved it.

  Cesare watched her saunter away—that was a saunter, wasn’t it? He’d have to discipline her for that later—and, incredibly, turn and smile at him, her hand on the open door. He was pretty sure this was what happiness felt like.

  Which is what made him immediately suspicious.

  He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t asked the big question, and he had to. He would know if she were lying, if she turned away from him, if she hid from him; the beast would wake, would stir, would make its presence felt. This was the time to ask. Groaning, Cesare dragged himself back to the real world, where he had real responsibilities.

  “Lucia,” he called. “One more question.”

  She raised an eyebrow. It would have been sexy, under different circumstances. Cesare felt his insides wrench.

  “My Lord?”

  “Lucia, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Her smiled crashed to the floor. Cesare saw her grip the doorframe, her knuckles white.

  “Lucia, is there anything else? Anything you’ve done, that…” he struggled to find the words. “Have you committed any crimes? I won’t be angry; you have my word. But I need to know.”

  And again he felt it before she said it. The bond between them, that invisible cord that he’d felt grow day by day, that thing that kept him tethered to her whims, it retreated. It withered from the root, began to fade away, to pull away from him, and as it weakened, the beast grew strong. Cesare dug his fingers into the old, faded wood, and held it back.

  “No,” she said.

  She was lying. And before he could speak, she gave him a wan smile and disappeared.

  Cesare sat rigid for a long time. It hadn’t seemed possible that she could both love him and betray him, but now that he simply thought about it, he realized how foolish that was. People betrayed those they loved all the time. Otherwise there wouldn’t be songs, there wouldn’t be art, there wouldn’t be theater. It was only Cesare’s painful inexperience at being loved that had led him to believe otherwise. By the time he felt strong enough to rise as himself, with no danger of the Wolfenvask—whatever that was—he’d dug impossible fingerprints into the finished wooden surface. There was something that Lucia was hiding from him. That was certain. And Cesare could only imagine one thing worth hiding.

  He would have to determine it for himself, then. There was only one thing to do: test both Lucia, and Grimaldi, and test them together, at the Player’s Feast.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Player’s Feast was a supposedly joyous celebration that was also a cutthroat competition for the next year’s theatrical commissions. It was always held in the Royal Theater. J’Amel hadn’t had a king for hundreds of years, but tradition was important, and tradition demanded that the city’s gilded rich spend a night being entertained by the theatrical groups that depended upon their patronage. It was where the most skillful actors in J’Amel put on delicate masks and watched the mere professional actors perform the most famous plays, but with raunchy, Bacchanalian twists. The troupe that could put on the most arousing performance, so to speak, could usually rely on the most commissions.

  Audience participation, especially where the most attractive young actors and actresses were concerned, was not unheard of. The Player’s Feast usually proved to be the most dramatic night of Bacchanal.

  And Lucia was delighted. She had never been to the Royal Theater, for one; she’d only ever seen the giant, golden dome, sparkling over the city like an enormous jewel, from afar. On hot nights, when she needed a break from her father’s still, she would sometimes climb up to the roof of their small house and watch the Royal Theater light up whenever the moon came out from behind the clouds. It was the one time she’d let herself entertain her own little fantasies, free of her grandmother’s constant reminders about duty and responsibility. She’d dream that some brilliant playwright would discover her, would write plays for her, and make her into the greatest star the Theater had ever known.

  In real life, Lucia had never even been able to even afford a ticket. And now she would be attending the Player’s Feast on the arm of Lord Cesare Lupin.

  Well, on his leash, anyway. Lucia smiled. She was looking forward to being led around in public as Cesare’s sexual toy, her identity hidden safely beneath a white mask. She was growing more and more confident in the things that brought her pleasure, and this was certainly one of them.

  Cesare. That’s how she thought of him now. As an actual person, not an office. And yet…

  He worried her. She looked up at him now, his head turned toward the carriage window and away from her. He was so intensely changeable. In only a few hours he had gone from terrifying to vulnerable to…whatever this was.

  He’d said he loved her, and he’d gotten inside her head. He’d made her admit that she loved him. Lucia hadn’t even been
able to admit that to herself, and yet, Cesare had forced it from her. It had so disoriented her that she’d nearly confessed, when asked, that she’d stolen a bottle of the Duke’s Blend, but at the last second she’d thought of her father, she’d thought of her grandmother, she’d thought of her promises, and she’d remembered to lie.

  That’s just an excuse, Lucia admonished herself. In truth, it had felt like the last way to keep part of herself to herself, and she knew it at the time. Yet now, it felt somehow wrong. Selfish. She still didn’t know what to do. She very much wanted to believe that she could have told him—it was a silly kind of crime, anyway, even if it was taken very seriously—but, in the end, her father was still imprisoned for some unknown reason, and she still needed Cesare’s help. And then, that afternoon, when she’d tried to broach the topic of her father’s case, Cesare had been inexplicably distant. Even cold.

  Lucia didn’t like to think about it, even now. But she had to.

  “My Lord,” she started, and halted uncertainly when he didn’t even turn his head. His scarred skin shone in the moonlight, and even under these circumstances, the shape of his muscles under his light, white shirt distracted her.

  “My Lord,” she said again, and this time he turned, his black eyes burning intensely. He looked nothing like the man who’d proclaimed his love for her. She pressed on, “Is there any progress with my father’s case?”

  He stared at her. “You mean beyond my loss of control at a crucial moment during last night’s festivities?”

  Lucia reached for his hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant, what’s happening next?” she snapped, and then covered her mouth with her hand. Once again, she’d lost her temper.

  Cesare gave her a grim smile before turning back to the window. “What’s happening next is what happens tonight,” he said.

  They rode the rest of the way to the Royal Theater in silence.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Players of J’Amel knew how to put on a show.

  Lucia’s anxiety evaporated in the bright lights of the Royal Theater. She stepped out of the carriage and into a pool of light, a glowing island in the dark night made of thousands of Bacchanal lanterns, and let herself bask in the illusion that she really had this kind of life. The effect was deliberate. The Players had painstakingly arranged the lanterns into intricate designs, lining the path all the way up the broad, stone steps to the great Theater doors, which were held open against the sticky air. Inside was blackness, the dark interior made impenetrable by the light from the lanterns, and each step forward heightened the suspense in Lucia’s heart.

  They’d only gone a few steps when the drums began. There was just the suggestion of drummers in the shadows beyond the lanterns, but Lucia felt their slow, winding beat in her bones, and found herself moving to it. It was hypnotic.

  Lucia imagined herself melting into the music as Cesare led her up the bright path. He seemed impatient to get inside, and not at all impressed with the acrobats who contorted themselves amongst the lanterns, or with the mime who popped up in Lucia’s path, presenting her with a delicate, folded paper flower.

  “Lucia,” he called, his brow furrowed, and pulled on her leash. She rushed to catch up, her breasts swaying against the thin white dress he’d chosen for her, and wondered at the way his disapproval—and the threat of his discipline—could make her feel both alarmed and aroused.

  Cesare slid his hand over her round bottom, and gripped her there, hard.

  “Tonight you will do exactly as I tell you,” he said, and his voice sounded strained. “Nothing more, and nothing less.”

  Startled, she nodded. What did he have planned for tonight? And what did it have to do with her father’s case?

  Lucia wanted to ask these questions, and more. She wanted to know what had changed since that morning, when he’d told her he loved her and then made her body come so hard against his that she thought she might die. But the hard line of Cesare’s lips, the tightness around his dark eyes, the way he kept opening and closing his fists—all of these things cautioned her. Instead she bit her lip, wishing there were some better way to show him how she felt.

  “My Lord,” she said, and dipped her head.

  Lucia thought she saw a smile twitch at his lips before he remembered to look dour again. Cesare turned and led her briskly through the dark entrance to the Royal Theater.

  The show was not over.

  The sudden darkness was total. The sounds of drums, beating out a constant rhythm, rose up from somewhere far ahead, along with the sounds of drunken laughter and revelry, coaxing them forward through the dark. Gradually their eyes began to adjust, and out of the darkness came the naked bodies of lithe dancers, painted in the luminescent dye of Bacchanal. The dancers circled round, their bodies gyrating to the drums, and slowly herded them forward, until one pulled aside a heavy curtain and they were thrust out onto a makeshift landing.

  The drums exploded, the rhythm speeding up until it was just an auditory blur, when suddenly it stopped and a herald stepped forward. Lucia blinked. The entire cavernous space of the Royal Theater was full of the celebrants of Bacchanal, and all eyes were on them.

  “The Lord Cesare Lupin!” the herald called out, and bowed with a flourish.

  Lucia clutched at Cesare’s arm. The pressure of a thousand masked stares bearing down on her all at once reminded her that she was, in reality, a fugitive, protected only by the mask on her face and the Lord at her side.

  “Hush,” Cesare whispered to her, almost as an afterthought, and this casual intimacy was enough to buoy Lucia until the polite applause died down, and the crowd’s attention turned back to the show proper.

  And what a show it was.

  Shows, in fact. Each active troupe in the city had their own performance space within the huge Theater, where they had spared no expense on set decoration and spectacle. The genteel patrons glided throughout the enormous room, kept dark except for the lanterns that lit the temporary stages, making their way from one debauched theatrical interpretation to another. Lucia immediately recognized Antonia and Tristan in one corner, doomed lovers in any normal performance, who seemed to be enjoying themselves on this particular night. Closer to the center of the room was an actress in the guise of the goddess Hetia, who moaned as an enthusiastic member of the audience interrupted her traditional monologue by shoving his hand under her robe.

  “Oh, my,” Lucia said.

  Cesare did not answer, and did not return her smile. Any levity he’d almost allowed himself to feel outside the Theater had disappeared entirely, and as he led Lucia into the quickly moving current of the crowd she saw why. Everywhere they went, conversation lulled. Masked beauties and drunken baronets alike moved hastily out of their way without ever needing to look up. It was as though some dark, repelling force emanated from them and made them dangerous.

  It was because of what had happened at the Dance of Lights, she realized. Because Cesare had snapped, because he had beaten the Marquis. No one else had been given the explanation she had; no one else had seen his private pain, his agony over it. All they’d seen was a bloodied berserker in place of the man who would one day rule them.

  Lucia had always assumed the son of the Duke must lead a charmed, easy life. She had been so terribly, terribly wrong. Cesare moved through the world with a permanent target on his back. And now he led them to a comfortable, sheltered corner near the performance space of a circus act, where it would be easier for the other guests to avoid them.

  “My Lord,” Lucia began.

  “Go get us a bottle of amberwine,” he cut her off, and detached her leash. She felt unmoored without it. “Now.”

  Lucia remembered her place; the best thing she could do was to obey.

  And, in fact, the pleasure she derived from obedience to Cesare was the only thing that propelled her back into the pulsating crowd. She’d had no understanding of how frightening this would be without h
im by her side. Perhaps he had meant to show her.

  Well, she could be brave.

  A few men approached her as she threaded her way through the crowd, attracted by the transparency of her thin, white dress and her long, bare legs, but they were all deterred by the sight of her collar. She was clearly claimed. Some might even have recognized her from the previous night, and didn’t want to risk offending the terrifying Wolf. That thought unnerved her; the last thing she needed was to be recognized. Lucia reached up and touched the mask to bring herself a bit of comfort.

  It helped for about two seconds, until someone actually did recognize her.

  She had finally located a waiter and had asked for a bottle of Beaujoux ’43, all the while pretending not to notice the lecherous stare of a man who stood just at the edge of her peripheral vision. She decided that it was best to just ignore it, which she did, until he spoke.

  “Lucia Lyselle?”

  She whirled around in a panic, only to find Vintner Claudio Clavel, her best friend’s cold father, staring at her in confusion, and lust. Lucia recovered first.

  “I beg you,” she said, gripping his arm. “Keep quiet.”

  Already she could see the many interconnected gears whirring to life in Clavel’s head. His eyes narrowed, the way they did when he discussed any business dealing, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

  “So it is you,” he said. “There have been quite a few people looking for you, young lady.”

  The ‘young lady’ particularly disgusted Lucia. Tonight was not the first time she’d felt Clavel’s hot eyes on her, but it was the first time she knew that he could see practically everything he was looking for. She didn’t care for the implied threat, either.

  “Everyone who needs to know where I am, knows where I am,” she said. For emphasis she fingered the collar at her neck. “I hope you’ll respect the discretion of Bacchanal?”