Bad, Very Bad Shifters- The Complete Mega Bundle

by Daniella Wright

  “You clean up well,” he says shortly. He grabs a huge tuft of my red hair, yanking me painfully forward. “Prettier than I expected.” He stares into my icy green eyes. “Suppose a fire mage would be a red head. Hard to tell with the shit on you from earlier.”

  “Well, if you let me out of these chains, I can give you a demonstration of my powers,” I say mirthlessly, cold as a blizzard.

  The prince chuckles sardonically, his big hands digging harder into my hair. “You realize you're completely at my mercy, right?”

  Yes. I do. The killer of his brother. I can see the cogs churning in his mind, of all the things he wants to do to me.

  Some of my hair gives way to his strength, twanging from my scalp. “Your little attempts at resistance do nothing.”

  I don't bother to explain to him how the resolve is the only thing that keeps me from insanity. Instead, I leer. “You do share some similarities with your brother. You're probably just as messed up as he is.”

  “Silence!” He roars, and he slaps my cheek, leaving it stinging and sore. Yup. Any mention of his brother, and his thinly veiled hate comes bubbling to the top. “Oh, little mage, I look forward to all the things I plan to do to you.”

  “Do you actually know why I killed your brother?”

  “One more word, and you die.”

  “Good. Kill me. Do it.”

  His eyes flash at my audacity, my brazen courage, and of the fact I don't seem to be quailing at his attempts to intimidate me. I suspect he'll beat me, he'll hurt me, and for some reason, the thought that I'm making this prince so mad, that I'm foiling his efforts, turns me on.

  Interesting. I didn't expect that of my body. Perhaps it will make things easier to endure.

  Instead of following through with his threat to kill me, he instead wraps one hand around my collared throat, breathing hard and fast. He doesn't squeeze, but he uses the other hand to tear through my toga, leaving me completely naked, my body exposed to the air and his hateful gaze.

  “You evil little witch,” he hisses. “How dare you not have any remorse for what you did to my brother? You devastated my family. You made my mother weep, my father break down. You removed from the world a beloved prince.”

  One of his hands pinches my nipple hard, and I gasp at the pain. The sound seems to please him, and he does the same to my other nipple, keeping my neck pinned against the wall.

  “If you won't feel sorry, then I'll make you feel sorry.”

  He pushes his hip into me, and I feel spikes of lust. It's pretty obvious what he intends to do at this point, and I know for a fact that if I'm not aroused, it will hurt. A lot. So I'm grateful for this reaction, to have the ability to be turned on.

  I could also enrage him. I bring up my knee into his groin, making him grunt in pain. Still livid with fury, he removes his chokehold on my neck, and steps backwards. He pulls down his pants, and then grabs me by the wrists, forcing me onto the floor with his superior strength, and spreading my legs apart so I can no longer kick him. The sheer power that radiates from his grip makes my heart race, and a faint flush creep though my cheeks. How odd, to feel this blush travelling through my body, this odd craving licking through it, even as he crushes me to the carpet beneath.

  Maybe it's because I've gone without for so long, that I actually find this arousing. Even with the pain. Not that I'd admit it. Fully pinned against the floor, unable to resist him, he pushes his erection inside me with a growl, before hesitating. He stares at me in a mix of disgust and incredulity.

  “You're actually turned on.” He begins moving inside, thrusting roughly, without any finesse, his hands bruising my arms as he keeps me still. “You dirty whore. I can't believe this. Your body is actually begging for this.” The loathing continues to glint in his eyes as he slams into me fast and hard.

  Seeing a way to get at him, I tilt back my head and moan, arching my body against his. Even though I'm sopping wet already, turned on by the brutality, I know the one thing he'll hate the most is if I'm enjoying this.

  Sure enough, he stops and pulls out of me, and I open my eyes to look into his, which are clouded over in confusion and disgust. “You're more depraved than I thought.” When he hits me hard on the side of my rear, I moan again, enjoying the delicious, sharp pang of pain that follows.

  Utterly confused, he backs off, and I see his erection is thicker, larger. I spread my legs and smile salaciously at him, letting the darkness consume me, and all the shadowy desires bottled up inside. I am one with it, wearing it as an armor, to protect the pure, good parts of me from harm.

  “Turn around. I don't want to look at your face.”

  I give him a sneer. All men are the same, it seems. Even if it's not going the way they want, they still have the urge to satisfy themselves. Now on my knees, I feel him take my hair and drag my head backwards, before he burrows his erection into me again. His other hand claws into my back, leaving a trail of raw pain, and I scream in pleasure, and urge him to go faster. He growls, slamming into me until I feel his hot seed fill me up, and he withdraws. I hear him pull up his pants, and I decide to make it more of an exhibition, now rolling to lie on the floor and stroke myself.

  “No,” He says, his storm blue eyes heated. “I'll rip your hand off.”

  “You mutilate me in any way,” I say to him, “and I'll kill myself. I'm sure you'll be a lot happier with me dead.” The dark smile pops onto my face again, and I taste the power upon my lips, despite being chained up here, little more than a slave to his whims. “You're welcome to test me out on my threat.”

  He looks into my eyes, and sees the deadly seriousness there.

  He lets out a huff of anger and stalks out of the room, leaving me there to masturbate.

  As soon as he leaves, however, I drop my fingers from my nub, and breathe a tangible sigh of relief. This could have gone worse. My body might not have reacted as it did, and I might be in more pain. I feel the kind side of me gurgling in horror, and my darkness locks her up, trying to keep her safe. She needs to stay there, protected and hidden, uncorrupted by whatever evil others attempt to inflict.

  My darkness will protect the one part of me that hasn't fallen.

  I gather up the remains of my toga and wrap them around as best as able, though the room itself is relatively warm.

  I try not to panic about my fate, to give into the knowledge that this prince plans to keep me like this as his personal plaything, to take out his anger and hate on, to curse me for killing his brother. He must have paid an obscene amount to have me.

  My prospects for escape are low at the moment. Even if I make it outside, I have to wade through a mountain of guards and furious civilians who want to see my head on a pike. Then if I make it out of the kingdom, I still need to find a way to remove the collar from my neck, or I'll never be able to work my magic again. There's no seam that I can pick at. I know saws can't cut this metal. The only person who can unlock it are the people who have permission to it. That means the official of the prison. Or the prince himself, since he owns me now.

  I close my eyes with a sigh. I honestly don't know how long I can last, before even the darkness grows weary, and exposes the part of me that I love into the open. Before that gets trampled.

  The only way I can perceive of escaping, is to show this misguided prince the truth about his brother. But as long as he carries that grief, I doubt he'll ever listen to me.

  If he does, I'll likely need to revisit that place, and I'm not entirely sure I'm ready for it.

  I have enough troubles dealing with the nightmares.

  Chapter Three - Eldan

  My father has no idea what I've done. He thinks my brother's killer is being executed today in a quiet ceremony, and I can see the relief and lack of tension in his face, as he finally knows justice. My mother, with her beautiful jet black hair and wrinkled face depicting laugh lines, recently haggard with grief, has a new bounce in her step. It makes guilt flood through me, for the underhand thing I've committe
d.

  Even seeing her face conjured up in my minds sends that mix of anger and desire. I want her to suffer. To feel a sliver of the rage and grief that's inside me. Death's too good for her. Death's an easy outing. I pictured myself having her here, in a broken mess of tears and sobbing, begging me to not hurt her, begging me to spare her life, as I drew out the torture, and had her spread under me as I thrust.

  I never expected her to actually like it.

  I loved my brother. Yartusk was a role model to me. Sure we had issues growing up, but every brother has their problems. As a bear shifter, we tend to be more savage than most, but with a kingdom to run, we also learn respect towards our subjects. My father and mother instilled into us the sense of duty, and Yartusk acted as the perfect recipient of their lessons. He charmed, he smiled. The people loved him, and looked forward to the day he'd become king. I thought my brother would live forever. I never expected that I'd become first in line to the throne.

  I walk through the gardens, where the smell of gardenias and sandalwood permeates the atmosphere, and the heavy pine scent of our native evergreen.

  Bribing the prison official wasn't easy. However, now I have that witch in my grasp at last, the person I want to see suffer most in the world, I'm left floored.

  She's nothing like what I anticipated. When I thunder up to her in my bear form, she stares me dead on, winter in her eyes, fearless. When I slap her, she seems to relish the pain, and smirks at me in that condescending way, as if she doesn't care I'm a prince at all. She sees me as something beneath her. A dirty creature who she'd kill in the bat of an eyelid.

  When I try to do to her what is considered the worst thing for a woman, she moans, with her red hair splayed out, her chest heaving, as if she enjoys it. The evil in her is boundless. She's wet and flushed, and when I threaten to maim her, she simply tells me, with brash honesty, because I see no flicker of doubt in her green eyes, that she'll kill herself.

  She knows, of course, that I paid the money not to kill, but to make her suffer. Guess I didn't think that through. My idea would have worked on a weaker willed woman, or one unused to the notion of personal power. Grimly, I consider if it's because she's a mage. Mages have a strong introspective sense of their abilities and their minds, from the few I've encountered.

  I sit upon a bench, covering my temples with my palms. Shame floods me when I reflect upon her, from the tiny snatches of arousal I experienced, from the brief admiration of her soft skin, oval face and dark green eyes, like the seaweed on the beach, or the grass upon our plains.

  I shut out her voice when she asks me if I want to know why she killed him, because I know she'll spin me into her web of lies, with that low, sultry voice that sings to some obscure part of my brain.

  I don't like that my plan isn't working out the way I intended, though. The only thing I can do is maintain that front, and to keep her in the maid's chamber in my suite instead, because if my father comes in and notices I have my brother's killer chained to a wall, rather than a normal slave girl, he's not going to be pleased.

  I hesitate, when I see a thin faced, dark haired woman shuffle through the garden. I think I've seen her before. I stare longer, before I identify her as one of my brother's former slaves. I walk up and grab her roughly by the arm. A thrill of fear slivers through her eyes.

  “W-what can I do for you, your highness?”

  I examine her features in distaste. Attractive, I suppose, but more my brother's type. “Do you miss working for my brother? He was kind, wasn't he?”

  She gives a tremulous gulp, and her eyes fall down to look at the grass. “Yes, highness. Very kind.” I feel the trembles in her arm, and a flash of irritation surges inside. Why can't that woman, that Valerie, be like this? Afraid for her life?

  Normal?

  Her reaction makes me uncomfortable, feeding the doubts that chew at the back of my mind.

  “That's right,” I say to her, though it's more to persuade myself. “My brother would have been a good king. A strong leader. Yartusk always knew how to make a room laugh, to bring smiles onto everyone's faces.” My memories slide to the last major feast we shared together, where we toasted to our father's health and age, for he had turned an impressive seventy years of age. My handsome older brother, with his gleaming blue eyes, his princely smile. He had wrapped a friendly arm around my shoulder and told me that he was glad to have me as his sibling. That I was an inspiration to him.

  I'd been so swelled with pride and love.

  Then, two weeks later, they found him charred to a crisp on the outskirts of our great city, and a dead-eyed mage next to him, unresisting when they piled on her and dragged her away in chains. It prompted a flurry of amulet wearing through our kingdom, anti-fire charms, and the feeling as if the world had been scooped from under my feet. Our kingdom went into mourning.

  All because of her, with her lack of remorse.

  I release the slave after demanding her to bring me some food and drink, enough for two in two hours of time. She walks away at a faster pace, and I clench my fists.

  I know something isn't right about her reaction. I know she lied. I just don't think it has anything to do with the fire mage killing my brother. The doubts continue hissing, however.

  Gathering my cloak behind me, I venture back into the castle, heading straight up to my chambers.

  Outside my suite, I address the guards. “Have you already attended to the slave?”

  They nod. “Yes, highness. She's been allowed to the bathroom. We also, er, draped a blanket over her. She insisted she was cold.”

  They look nervous at this confession. I decide to let it slide. Typical, that she'll exploit them when she can. They're not to blame.

  “Thank you. Good work.”

  Both guards puff up prouder, the compliment warming them. It gives me an idea as well in how to deal with Valerie.

  Maybe if she doesn't care about pain, I could force her to like me instead – then break her heart afterwards.

  Yes. That could work.

  Inside my chamber, she's asleep, and doesn't react as I quietly close the door. I consider yelling to wake her up, before deciding to just creep along and examine her at close range instead. All along her skin, now that I can check it properly, without her spitting poison at me, is numerous burn marks and scars, blemishes on otherwise perfect, soft flesh. Her vibrant red hair trails over her shoulders, and I can see she has a few snarls from here. She's naked under her blanket, and I remove it to examine her body in full, and feel a small pang of regret.

  She's exactly my type. Aside from the whole murdering thing. But there's a deep streak of cruelty there in her mind. Someone used to pain, it seems. I raise a hand to touch her red curls. That's where I've been going wrong. If someone is used to pain, you can't scare them with it. As much as I want to physically maul her, I know it's not going to be the way into her weak, squishy spot. I can't make her suffer like she made my brother.

  Not unless I show her some warmth.

  But first... my fingers trail over that soft skin. She shivers, and I'm not sure if it's a reaction during her sleep, or if she's awake and pretending to sleep. I behave as if she's unconscious, and take my time exploring this body. It's thin and starved from her stint in jail, but otherwise in relatively good shape. I can fatten her up with some good food, get more to grab hold onto.

  It's a shame, really. She looks innocent like this, without that blank anger on her face. You'd never guess that the collar on her neck held back a homicidal type of magic. I don't know what nation she came from, since her skin is ghostly pale compared to the average skin tone we find around these parts. She's obviously come a long way. I wonder how many more bodies she must have left behind.

  Why she felt justified in killing the brother I loved.

  My hand dips to her core, and I seek out the delicate nub down there, using my finger to lightly probe around it. She lets out a little sigh as I do so, and her legs open wider, sending a shiver of arousal thro
ugh me.

  It really doesn't help that this stupid woman is so attractive. Already, I feel the stirrings of my erection, and it seems my fingers want to work by themselves and do this, to watch how her body reacts under my touch. I should be throwing her to the dogs, but I know as soon as she's exposed to the others in this castle, beyond the guards and servants I've bribed a ridiculous amount of money to keep this quiet, she'll be executed. Which will be inconvenient, to say the least.

  She moans slightly, and I feel her getting wet. Irritation and desire rush through me at the same time, creating a strange conflict of emotions. I don't want her to enjoy this. At the same time, the fact she is turns me on.

  This person I hate, here for my whims and pleasure, for me to do as I will. Who reacts to my touch so strongly. I stroke her faster there, and she grows slicker. Now her eyes crack open, and she gazes into my eyes with green hazed in lust, and a little bit of anger. I can smell the anger, and it turns me on more, until my erection strains against my pants. The animal part of me is intoxicated by this, to see both the lust and unbridled fury in her expression. She's just as unwilling as I, and equally lacking in control of the reactions of her body, perhaps.

  I grin impishly as her as I stroke her faster. She groans and arches her back, toes curling, the chains clanking around her, and I bite my lip. How easy it would be to turn this into a session of intense pain, to hear those moans turn to screams – even with her threat in place, the notion plays across my brain, until I decide that for now, this is more enjoyable.

  When her body begins to shudder, and I see her chest heaving up and down, I pull down my pants and plunge inside her, stopping short of the orgasm she was supposed to feel. Digging into her, I devour her body with my sight, primal lust consuming my brain as she twitches and shakes beneath me, gasping in pleasure. It spurs me on, and I reflect back onto the fact that when I first saw her, I was struck at how beautiful she was –

  No. I never found her beautiful. Not this murderer. I drive into her until I climax, sighing as the feeling spreads. I don't bother to help her orgasm, and I step backwards and draw up my pants again, content to leave her there unsatisfied, breathing fast. My heart pulses from the excitement, as I ignore whatever she says and head into the bathroom to wash myself down.