Crimson Hunter

by N. D. Jones

  Without a second of hesitation, he came to her, chest to breasts, lips to lips.

  They’d dated for six years. Having met their junior year of college, through a mutual acquaintance, Marrok had given Oriana his contact information. When she’d reached out to him a week later, he’d admitted, “I didn’t think the matriarch’s daughter would be interested in a guy she met at a werewolf-owned club.”

  “Are you saying you think I’m a snob?” she’d asked, trying to sound light and playful as opposed to offended and well … snobbish.

  “Which answer will give me the best chance of you going out with me?”

  She couldn’t help it. Oriana had laughed. “I’ve always been a fan of the truth.”

  “Then, nope. I never once thought the only child of the matriarch, reared to become the next matriarch, would be elitist. Nope, not me. I have no idea why anyone would even think that way.”

  She’d laughed again. The tongue-in-cheek approach had been the right move to make with a woman who, indeed, despite her true nature, was often viewed as untouchable and a snob, particularly by werewolves. In Marrok’s unique way, he’d charmed her, leaving her wanting to know more about him.

  Marrok now worked his way down her chest—licking and kissing. It wasn’t enough. She burned for him, her skin no longer wet from the lake. Oriana wanted Marrok to remove her bra. She craved the feel of his mouth on her aching breasts. More, on her throbbing sex.

  Experience, however, told her Marrok wouldn’t take the initiative. Oriana cupped him on the outside of his drenched jeans. Squeezed. Rubbed. She smiled when he moaned, eyes closing and hips pushing into her hand.

  Acting quickly, before he regained his senses, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Slipping her hand into his jeans, Oriana followed the path of dark, curly stomach hair into his boxers, and around an erection harder than her Ravagers of the Lost cannons. She stroked him in earnest, pleased with his guttural moans and hungry kisses.

  Oriana contemplated rolling him over, straddling his knees, and taking him into her mouth. She’d never pleasured him that way. Every time she’d tried, Marrok had stopped her. Not because he hadn’t wanted her mouth on him as much as she desired the taste of him on her tongue, but because he viewed oral sex as a slippery slope. For Oriana, oral sex was meant to be slippery, no slope necessary.

  She gripped him harder, increased her pace, and wedged her other hand between their bodies, working at her own zipper. All the while she hoped Marrok would, for once, accept the path she was leading them down. They were alone, engaged, and ready.

  Damn, if Oriana was any more ready to become Marrok’s lover she would combust from the heat of the long wait. From his heavy breathing and fast rutting into her hand, Marrok’s own explosion was a few strokes away.

  “O-Oriana. Shit. That … that’s soooo good.” Marrok bit her neck, his penis growing and pulsing in her hand. “I’m going to …”

  Come, yes, on her stomach. She milked him until his penis stopped twitching and his breaths came in slow gulps.

  “Y-you’re not supposed to do stuff like that.”

  If Marrok meant his words to be a scold, he should’ve communicated the same to his still-hard penis. Bless werewolf stamina.

  Marrok rolled off her, grabbed his shirt, and used it to wipe Oriana’s stomach and hand clean. Kneeling beside her, his eyes traveled from her face to her breasts and then to her undone pants. Marrok exemplified the word wolfish. They were in a forest, he was a werewolf and she was laid out before him, weak from her own arousal and the leftover enjoyment of watching him orgasm. Would Marrok continue what Oriana had started, or leave her horny, hot, and unfulfilled?

  “The ceremony is in a month. But it feels like another six years.”

  “We don’t have to wait. We could,” Oriana’s gaze fell to Marrok’s lap, his erection tenting his boxers, “play around.” Lifting her eyes, she found his glued to her face. “Just a little playing, if you want.”

  “You know I want. You’re counting on me wanting to do more than play around.”

  Of course Oriana was, but she wouldn’t press the issue or complain if Marrok decided they’d played enough for one day. Protocol dictated that matriarchs maintain their virginity until they took a consort. One of the many reasons she loved Marrok was his decision to abstain from sex along with Oriana. She hadn’t asked or expected it of him, especially when they’d begun dating.

  “I can smell your desire for me.”

  “Not very romantic, my love.”

  “Maybe not, but neither was shoving your hand down my pants and jerking me off.”

  “I heard many sounds coming from you, but not one of them was a protest.”

  Marrok reclined beside Oriana, his nearness a tangible temptation. “My father didn’t raise a fool.” He kissed her, his tongue slipping inside her mouth and his fingers into her panties—exploring. “Or a selfish werewolf. I won’t make love to you before our wedding, but I’ll repay the pleasure you gave me. I’m still seeing stars.” Nose lowered to her neck, sniffing her. “I like this scent on you. I want more of it.”

  She shivered, wanting more of Marrok but accepting the boundary he’d drawn.

  Oriana’s legs parted, relaxing as Marrok’s thick digit penetrated her—not deep, but inside her enough to offer her more than teasing thrusts. Two fingers stretched her. Slick from her desire, his thumb rubbed her clit, drawing it to a hard, pulsating erection.

  She gripped his shoulders, pulled him to her, and claimed his mouth again. The closer the night of the ceremony drew, the more impatient Oriana became to physically consummate their relationship. They had to be the only twenty-six-year-old virgins in Earth Rift. Delayed gratification wasn’t a virtue she valued, certainly not with Marrok’s tongue and fingers simulating a joining of bodies and hearts.

  Her stomach tightened. So close. Yes, so close. “Marrok, please. Please.” Nails dug into his bare back, and hips lifted, needing him deeper. “Marrok. Please. I need. I need …”

  “I know, baby, I know. But I can’t cross that threshold inside of you. That’s for our wedding night. I’ll give you all of me then.”

  “But I want … I need you now.” His fingers weren’t enough, not after so long.

  But then he rubbed her in just the right spot, and she moaned loud and long. Yes, Marrok had found Oriana’s need, the place inside her that had her biting his neck and squirting her release.

  Ironically, or perhaps typically—she lacked the experience to know—falling apart in his arms made her want him even more. Marrok didn’t help the situation, when he sucked on the fingers that had been inside her, their gazes locked. Damn, she could come again from the sheer pleasure of watching him enjoy the taste of her.

  How they’d abstained for so long she didn’t know.

  “That is so hot.”

  “You taste good. You’ll taste even better when my lips are on you and my tongue is in you. I can’t wait.”

  Neither could Oriana. Her sex quivered at the thought, Marrok’s husky voice a carnal promise she couldn’t wait to indulge.

  Knowing they’d gone as far as they dared, Oriana and Marrok dressed, her clothes even more uncomfortable over sensitive post-orgasm skin.

  They got to their feet.

  “This place smells nothing like the cities.”

  Marrok’s contented awe reaffirmed her commitment to breathing life back into Bronze Ward.

  “No metal. No towers or skyrises. No witch magic. Nothing but fresh, clean air. You should shift. I know you want to.”

  “But …”

  Oriana could sense his desire to run wild and free in his natural form.

  “I shouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

  “You should. You can. This is what I want to give to the werewolves in my part of the realm. To all of Earth Rift, but that’s a long-term goal that may never happen if Mother fights me on it. But this” —she playfully smacked his chest — “I can give to you now. Go, run, be happy. I’ll
return in a couple of hours.”

  “You don’t have to leave. I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “As I’ve told you many times, I’m not afraid of you in werewolf form. But I want you to experience the lake and forest without worrying about what you think I’m thinking and feeling. With a matriarchal override command, I can force the recall of the silver snare, if you like.”

  He appeared scared to death at that prospect, so Oriana let that offer go unanswered.

  On another note, Oriana looked down at her disheveled clothing. She may have landed them in Silentdrift Lake, but she was fairly certain, without Marrok as a distraction, she could magic jump into her bedroom without anyone seeing her.

  Her hair must look terrible. She pushed the wet strands behind her ears. “Have fun. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

  “How can I? There’s no one else out here.” Marrok popped the button on his jeans, his arched eyebrow and grin a challenge.

  She gulped, called her magic, and jumped to Steel Rise. The wedding ceremony could not come soon enough for Oriana.

  June 8, 2240

  Steelcross Realm

  City of Steelburgh

  Crimson Guard Headquarters

  “They’re a bunch of animals.” Forehead pressed to a window, Abelone despised the sight below. Muracos: filthy, untrustworthy, barbaric. Not just the creatures walking up and down the steel-smoothed street, but the entire worthless city.

  “Every time you come here, you stare out that window. You just passed them on your way in. No need to torture yourself by watching them go about their business.”

  “They have no business to go about.” Opening the window, Abelone leaned out and spat. Not waiting to see which werewolf it landed on, she slammed and locked the window. Turning, she shrugged at Bharavi’s crinkled nose and shaking head. “What?”

  “That was nasty, even for you.”

  “Don’t make it sound as if you care any more about them than I do.”

  Her long blonde bangs covered one eye. Abelone had considered cutting her asymmetrical bangs to match the rest of her hairstyle. She preferred short and simple to long and annoying. But Bharavi enjoyed running her fingers through the sun-kissed locks, so the too-long bangs with otherwise cropped hair was Abelone’s concession to a witch whose shiny midnight hair fell to her waist. It was too much for Abelone’s taste, but it was silky-soft, like Bharavi, so she didn’t complain. Much.

  “Come. Sit. And stop glowering.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.” Abelone stalked away from the window to sit in the chair on the other side of Bharavi’s desk. Crossing her legs, she let her foot swing forward and back, lightly kicking the desk with each frontward motion. “We shouldn’t be here.” Cocking her head in the direction of the window, but meaning all Steelburgh, she amended, “They shouldn’t be here.”

  Dressed in her knee-length white coat, name badge hanging from the breast pocket, Bharavi inclined her head. Dark eyes shimmered with the same disappointment Abelone had seen in the gaze of every Crimson Guard assigned to police Steelburgh, the city Matriarch Oriana had created to house the muracos who had served their prison sentences but who could not be released back into society.

  “At least you don’t have to examine them. They like it too much. The touching, the closeness, the small examination room filled with my scent. I can hear them breathing me in—sharp, greedy inhalations.”

  Forearms that had been leaning on the desk crossed over chest, a self-defense posture Abelone knew well.

  “I replace their rage disrupters when they arrive. But we both know if they worked properly on them, they wouldn’t be here. Muracos serve no purpose, have no greater goal than to see us dead. Matriarch Kalinda should’ve never agreed to Matriarch Oriana’s whims.”

  Bharavi, a forty-eight-year-old physician, liked Matriarch Oriana—her wit, sensitivity, and intelligence. The girl possessed a kind nature her mother lacked, as well as magical abilities beyond her years. Underneath her kindness, however, was a bullheadedness all too common in young witches. Girls Matriarch Oriana’s age thought they knew more than they did, including how the world worked and what needed doing to keep it from disintegrating into chaos.

  “I was thinking.” Bharavi pushed a button on her desk, darkening the window to prevent Abelone from looking out. Not that she could see anything from her seated position other than buildings across the street and the graying sky. “We could request transfers. I’m sure Matriarch Oriana would grant them. She’s reasonable and would likely approve our requests if we explained why we want to change our assignments.”

  “Matriarch Oriana is more spoiled than reasonable.”

  Bharavi’s eyes darted in the direction of the door. “You need to watch what you say about the matriarch, and where.”

  Abelone rolled her eyes. “It’s just Misae in the front office. Your assistant can be trusted. Don’t break out in a sweat. I’ll close the door, if it’ll set your mind at ease.”

  “I’m closer to the door than you are.” Bhavari scooted her wheeled chair to the door. Just as she’d been when Abelone had entered Bhavari’s office, Misae sat at her desk, viewing something, probably medical files, on a computer screen. Bhavari pushed the door closed.

  “You look like a kid—rolling your chair back and forth. Get yourself situated and finish what you were saying.”

  “Fine.” Bhavari readjusted her desk chair, the rolling having triggered the height feature. “Matriarch Oriana isn’t a spoiled brat. She’s just young. I remember when we were her age.”

  Uncrossing her legs, Abelone sat up straighter, wishing she could squelch her worries as easily as she’d adjusted her position. “We were in our twenties once, true, but we never made decisions that risked our hard-won place in society. Matriarch Oriana thinks she can tame werewolves. She can’t. She thinks our laws are too rigid and unfair to them. They aren’t. She thinks her kindness will be appreciated and returned. She’s wrong.”

  “What if she’s right, Abelone? I mean, it would be nice if werewolves and witches could get along better than we do now or have in the past. Would that be so bad?”

  Sweet, conflicted Bharavi. Abelone loved the healer, but her vacillations had the unpleasant effect of a low-grade headache.

  “No, not bad, but highly unlikely. You’re the healer. You’ve treated them, researched them. They are as they are. If they weren’t so unstable, our lives would be different. I told you what my father did to my mother.”

  “I know, but—”

  “She begged him to stop. But he wouldn’t. I hid under my bed, listening to her plead with him. By the time law enforcement arrived, Mom was dead, and Dad was gone. Since Dad had turned into a muraco, Crimson Hunter Shams was called in to track him down. When she found him, he attacked her, leaving her little choice but to use deadly force.”

  Local law enforcement didn’t hunt, fight, or even guard imprisoned muracos. Those dangerous duties fell to the Hunter Division of the Crimson Guard, led by the Crimson Hunter and her second-in-command, the captain of the Hunter Division.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mom didn’t even fight back. She let him take her away from me without casting a single spell. I hated her for a long time, even while I mourned and missed her.”

  “Ah, sweetie. She loved you.” Bharavi moved from the chair behind her desk to the chair beside Abelone, a surgeon’s hands taking hold of a soldier’s. “She loved him too. Your mother didn’t want to die. Most people don’t. Could you use an offensive spell against me?”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “It is the same. You love me, so you wouldn’t want to hurt me, even if I was trying to harm you. Your mother loved her mate. She tried to reach the heart and mind that loved her in return.”

  “She was sentimental and stupid, and it got her killed.”

  She’d known, when her mother had ceased crying and screaming, that she wouldn’t be coming for her. Abelone had cried—more
terrified of being left alone than of being her father’s next victim. She’d had to be coaxed, by an officer with kind eyes and a gentle voice, to come from under her bed. That night, when she’d been carried down the stairs, blood on the walls and floors, she’d promised never to be a werewolf’s victim. As soon as she was old enough, Abelone joined the Crimson Guard. She wouldn’t permit anyone, not even a matriarch, to threaten the stability of a system intended to protect witches like her mother and little girls like Abelone had once been. It wasn’t perfect, but the system gave more than it took.

  Bharavi pressed a kiss to lips that felt too cold, her hands clutching Abelone’s. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not. What Matriarch Oriana has done is dangerous. I know her decisions originated from a good place. She wants to do right by witches and werewolves. But werewolves will interpret her actions as naivete at best, a weakness worth exploiting at worst.”

  “You’re plotting.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. What you haven’t done is acted on what I see percolating in your eyes.”

  Dropping her hands, Bharavi shifted to kneel in front of Abelone. So beautiful. She’d been attracted to her from the start, not because she was the prettiest girl she’d ever seen, but because Abelone’s introverted nature called to her own. They were a good match, their marriage still strong after fifteen years. Abelone’s father may have loved her mother, but his love hadn’t prevented him from clawing her chest open and devouring her heart.

  “I showed you the announcement. Matriarch Oriana will take Marrok of Wild Moor as her consort next month.”

  “They’re a cute couple. I’m happy for her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we all want to be loved and give love in return, sweetie. She’s trying to be a good leader.”

  “She’s misguided.”

  “Yes, she is. But we’ll survive her youthfulness.”

  “What if we don’t? What if she keeps giving werewolves more and more rights? What role will her consort play in the government?”