Rebel Academy: Crave: A Paranormal Academy Romance Series (Wickedly Charmed Book 1)

by Rosemary A Johns

  “Never do that again, you hear me?” Ambrose tried for stern, but as soon as Ty wrapped his arms and legs around him like a limpet and wept into his shoulder, his expression softened. “What would your da do without his daft wee man, right? You gave me a scare. You must…” He took a deep breath; his hands shook. “Be careful.”

  “S-sorry,” Ty forced out between sobs.

  “No need for that. You’ve had a scare too.” Ambrose raised his gaze to Magenta. “Thank you. A Seelie fae always honors their debts, and I’ll never be able to repay you for saving something so precious to me.”

  Was this the same Ambrose who whipped dragons, threw me into snowbanks, and was a typical fae prince?

  Loki had told me that it was having kids that’d brought out the best in him. I’d thought he’d said that to make my brothers and me feel better about the fact that he’d been burdened with us. But seeing the softer side to Ambrose with his son made me wonder if dad had been telling the truth.

  Could guys get broody because seeing Magenta carrying Ty and now Ambrose getting in the cuddles was kind of making me regret that Magenta couldn’t have kids with me. And that wasn’t something that I’d ever wanted before.

  “Allow me.” Willoughby gracefully stood, stepping towards Ty.

  Ambrose took a step backward, twisting to shield his still crying son from Willoughby.

  Did Ambrose know something about Willoughby and how dangerous he was that I didn’t?

  Willoughby froze, unable to hide the hurt. Then his expression became shuttered. He swallowed, before offering, “It’s only an elven lullaby to help him sleep.”

  Grudgingly, Ambrose turned back, allowing Willoughby to step closer and place his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “Is that your father and you?” Willoughby asked with the same hint of mild curiosity that he usually showed, pointing at the drawing that Ty had managed to keep holding, despite the tumble from the window.

  “A-ye,” Ty whispered. “I’m the o-one in g-green. You can t-tell it’s da because he has m-metal on his wings.” I winced at the same time as Ambrose. It was screwed-up that a kid had to witness his dad’s punishments. I bet that Ambrose had tried to hide them, as much as my dad had tried to hide when he was in trouble. The problem was that we’d still known when Loki had cried. “C-can you take it off? It h-hurts him.”

  Willoughby’s gaze slipped to Ambrose’s. “I’m a mighty elf prince; I can help your father stop hurting. You rest now and forget the fear. Would you like that?”

  Ty nodded.

  In wonder, I watched as Willoughby placed his hand on Ambrose’s wing, as well as pressed harder on Ty’s back. When Willoughby started to sing, it was so hauntingly beautiful that the hairs on the back of my neck rose, my toes curled, and my eyes fluttered shut. I was caught in a flow of winter waters, drawn into their depths. Honestly, I hadn’t truly understood the Other World that the elves had been ripped from, until Willoughby had offered up his song out of kindness.

  Why had he?

  When it ended, it felt like being kicked out of Valhalla.

  My eyes snapped open, and as I glanced around, everyone wore the same dazed expressions as me. Ty was cradled, sleeping in Ambrose’s arms.

  When Ambrose smiled with genuine happiness, it shocked me how truly hot he could be. “How long will…whatever you did…stop my wings hurting?”

  Willoughby’s face clouded. “Only an hour or so, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s more respite than I’ve had.” Ambrose wrapped his wings around Ty. “Right, this lesson is ended. I have a certain wee lad to get to bed.”

  Lysander watched Ambrose with his son like he couldn’t understand the tender way that he was holding him. “You intend to reward the child for his misbehavior? How can you teach us, when you’ve no conception of how to discipline your own son?” Ambrose’s smile faded. “If you fail to teach us our lesson, there shall be consequences.”

  Ambrose straightened his shoulders. “Aye, right. Your concern is touching. Your daft arses will learn that there are always consequences, no matter what you decide. But right now, my son is what matters.” He glanced at Magenta. “You saved Ty, which means that you win the Punish and Reward Game.” Then he glowered at Lysander. “Punish his arse for me. As he’s so interested in discipline, a beating sounds good.”

  As Lysander gaped in outrage, Ambrose marched into the stable block, carrying his sleeping kid.

  In the silence, the Princes glanced at us Immortals, waiting for the ax to fall. Bask bounced to my side, smiling.

  “If it pleases you,” Bask wrapped his arms around himself in anticipation as he whispered, “I’ve been thinking all day of the perfect punishment. It’s a punishment to Prince Lysander, but it’ll reward Midnight. Tonight, in the Rebel Café, Lysander has to serve him.”

  “I don’t like taking part in this game at all,” Magenta sighed, “but if we must, then that appears the best compromise.”

  “Come on, get on with it,” Lysander spat. “Lay hands like the brutes you are on my royal person.”

  Bask snickered.

  “Hey, there aren’t enough chocolates in your private larder to bribe me into touching your person.” I lifted my brow. “The punishment is for Prince Lysander. Tonight, you have to serve your whipping boy.”

  He blinked. “How?”

  I grinned wickedly. “That depends on the café and your whipping boy, but since you’ve had this whole master and servant thing going on, I have a feeling that you’re in for a long night of humiliation, slave.”

  Always hit them where it hurts, and for Prince Lysander, that was right in his pride.

  Lysander’s cheeks pinked, before his eyes darkened with a deadly rage. “Have your fun. But tomorrow, I’ll be certain to win the Game, and you’ll regret making me suffer. Roles can be reversed for a single night, but the whipping boys shall be whipping boys still and princes shall always be princes. I’ll be certain that yours remembers that as much as mine.”

  My eyes narrowed at Lysander’s threat to Fox. Didn’t he get that we could seriously hurt him with the Game, but instead, were trying to teach him to treat his own whipping boy with some respect?

  Even though Magenta had manged to make a friend of one fae prince, another had become a deadlier enemy. Lysander looked set to wreck us, before we could wreck him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rebel Academy, Monday September 2nd

  Bask

  I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the suede sofa in the Rebel Café. The rest of the Immortals and Princes sprawled in a circle, eying each other warily. You could bring rival bad boys (and girls) to water, but you couldn’t make us magic it into cocktails and drink. If Ezekiel had wanted tonight to be a team bonding session, I didn’t think that he’d imagined it to go like this.

  Snowflake patterns swirled across the walls, until I was dizzy. I tossed my blazer and tie to the side; my skin itched and crawled with need. I was burning up. My hair was limp, and my arse was barely pettable.

  Shoot me now.

  I perked up when Serenity dropped from the ceiling an even more deliciously snuggly pile of pillows than my West Wing stash. I narrowed my eyes at Fox, who gazed at the pillows with as much longing as me.

  “Sorry,” Magenta pulled Fox against her, stroking a curl behind his ear, “but they’re for my crow familiars to nest in. They’re ghosts, you know, but they need pampering too.”

  “Finally, someone who understands about my importance in the healing that is relaxation,” Serenity gushed like she was about to come from being appreciated alone. “Familiars suffer stress too.”

  “Why the snowflakes?” Magenta gestured at the walls. “Wouldn’t a tropical island be a rather pleasant break for us?”

  “Scientists have proved that repeated patterns like snowflakes reduce distress. Aren’t you soothed already? Come on, what’s with the tension in here? How about a group wank?”

  “A group…what?” Magenta demanded.
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  “Laugh,” Serenity answered with pretend innocence. “It’s perfect therapy. How about I start…? Hahahaha…”

  I winced as Serenity’s shrill laugh echoed throughout the café.

  “Wow, I’m all relaxed now,” Fox gritted out, before twisting in Magenta’s arms. “Okay, that’s a lie, I’m sitting in this freaky circle with the Princes and the female version of Hal. Do you know what’d help…?”

  He glanced significantly at the fluffy pillows.

  I drew in my breath. Fox was trying to steal my snuggle patch. Yep, I was claiming it.

  Magenta cocked her head like she was listening. “Flair says: How about his beak biting into your cock like a worm? You’re never getting our nest, you foxy fuck.”

  Rude.

  When Fox paled, I snickered. Although, what would the invisible crow do to my dick…? I covered my crotch. Rule 11 of the Incubi Night Code stated: Guard your dick and balls like they’re truly as precious as the royal jewels.

  Magenta even managed to resist the power of Fox’s puppy dog eyes. She had some talent. I’d have at least shared…one…of my pillows by now. Away with you, I could be generous.

  I glanced across the circle at Sleipnir who sprawled in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves; his cotton candy pink hair fell in gentle spikes. He wore his tie around his neck like a bandanna again. Note to self: when not dying for lack of touch, take more clothing risks. Sea serpent tattoos coiled up and down his arms like they were dancing to his gentle strumming, as he played Depeche Mode’s “Master and Servant”. Serenity even supplied the whip and chain sound effects for the song.

  I grinned, but Lysander grimaced, flinching at each whip effect. Sleipnir had a wicked sense of humor. Watching Lysander next to me was almost amusing enough to forget the buzzing wrongness that edged through me, the fear of the Duchess’ return, and the weirdness of sharing a night out with the Princes.

  A double weirdness because when Midnight had ordered Lysander to kneel with surprising firmness (payback was a bitch), and told Serenity that Lysander was there to serve for the evening, she’d magicked him into a French maid’s frilly black uniform.

  I’d told Sleipnir that my role play list was anything but a waste of time: Willoughby in a maid’s outfit had been fantasy role-play Number 49, but Lysander in one had been Number 48.

  There were few things that I treasured: Nile, holding my brothers after their births, and Magenta’s first kiss. Now added to those was Lysander’s yelp and expression of mortified horror when he’d realized that he’d been dressed in nothing but a maid’s outfit, which had barely covered his arse.

  Sweet (scorching hot) memories…

  To be fair, Lysander had pouted but hadn’t moaned as much as I’d been expecting. Perhaps, he secretly enjoyed a taste of taking orders for once, rather than giving them. Midnight was kind with his power, like I’d known that he would be, and it was only in play. The thing of it was, that it wasn’t play for Midnight…he was a true slave to the Princes.

  I smiled softly, as I studied Fox who was cuddled in Magenta’s arms, kissing down her neck. It didn’t matter that I was his Patron; he’d never be my slave.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t owed a twinge of envy that it wasn’t me kissing Magenta’s long neck.

  Lysander spooned chocolate dessert on a golden spoon into Midnight’s mouth, as Midnight lay on his back with a blissed-out expression. I sighed. Why couldn’t I just snatch Midnight and make him my whipping boy as well?

  Yep, it’d be kidnap. Why was that wrong again?

  I shivered, as a wave of pain swept through me. I clawed my nails into my palms to stop myself scratching my shoulders. I’d even take Lysander’s touch right now. Buzzing jangled my nerves. My eyes screwed shut.

  Too much, too much, too much…

  Cool hands gripped my hips, sliding me onto a narrow lap that was all hard muscle. My eyes snapped open. When soft hair swept my cheek, and the scent of herbal green tea, like a wintry breeze across wild grasses, shivered through me, I knew that it was Willoughby’s lap.

  I squirmed but even as I tried to pull away because my sexy wee self was sitting on an elf’s lap in front of everybody (at least there was no hard dick poking against me as there would’ve been, if I’d wiggled around like this on top of Sleipnir), I pressed more firmly against Willoughby and moaned. Could I help it if my cute body knew what it needed more than my brain, and if Willoughby found me pettable, even at my least pettable level for years?

  Witness the mesmerizing power of an incubus’ arse.

  Willoughby only tightened his arms in silence, calmly running his fingers up and down my arms, before turning my hands over and tracing patterns across my gloved palm. I ached to go skin to skin with him. His touch was nothing like the rough massage that I’d been dreading from the Princes. I arched, panting at the excruciating but perfect touch. I could’ve kissed him that he hadn’t made me ask for this. The Duchess had loved how I’d begged. How had Willoughby known that to speak would’ve been too much for me?

  Willoughby’s lips brushed my ear, as if he’d sensed my darkening thoughts. Then he hummed like a tinkling waterfall…promising to show me Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.”

  I had the sudden image of Lysander playing Disney songs to the regal elf, as they cuddled.

  Away with you, it could happen.

  I giggled, and Willoughby danced his fingers down my chest. Everywhere he touched hummed in joy along with him, rather than pain. When I caught Willoughby’s hand between mine, tracing his palm back in turn (because never let it be said that an incubus of the Night lineage was selfish with pleasure), he broke off his humming, smothering a groan.

  I preened. This incubus still had it.

  Serenity’s voice crooned, “That’s a fine sight. Massage his earlobes. It’s a pressure point. Science can’t be wrong, hmm? Perhaps, the witch can massage your earlobes next, godling…”

  Sleipnir stopped playing with a twang of wrong notes. “No one’s getting near my ears. Just call me the God of Relaxation.” He sprawled on his side, pillowing his head on Magenta’s lap, as Fox carded his fingers through his hair. “See?”

  In the silence, I was certain that Serenity was pouting.

  Willoughby’s low chuckle tickled my ear, and his fingers massaged my earlobes. Wow, he’d discovered a secret line straight to my dick that tented my pants like an eager puppy.

  Yep, that was the massaging goodness. Come to the stressed-out incubus…

  “If you desire to keep massaging them…” I sighed.

  Willoughby chuckled again.

  Lysander slammed down the bowl, and the spoon clattered with a spray of chocolate dessert onto the floor. I frowned. Ma always taught me to lick every trace of pudding clean, which hadn’t appeared sinister at the time. Now I’d discovered more about my role as a bonded, licking didn’t feel so innocent.

  “Are you satisfied, master?” Lysander arched his brow.

  Midnight stretched out his wings with a smile. “You always satisfy me, my prince.” His voice had a soft Welsh lilt; it was gentle, teasing, and didn’t tremor with its usual fear.

  I wished that us Immortals had been able to reward Midnight with more than one night of freedom.

  Lysander blinked like he’d expected a slap, rather than the tender response. But then, Midnight’s gorgeous ass wasn’t the same as his bastard one. “Well, be that as it may, my noble personage most certainly am not.”

  Lysander smoothed down the front of his apron to ensure his modesty. I smirked; I’d bet my slinky cuteness that he was hard under there. His pale thighs already peeked out of the silky fabric. It’d be a fine thing if the apron rode a wee bit higher… Objectification was allowed if it was of a fae prince who made his own whipping boy crawl around naked. That had to be in the rule book. Probably in small writing. Seriously, look it up.

  Magenta studied Lysander. “If it’s any consolation, you make as fair a maid as a man.”

  Lysander reddened, st
arting to rise, but Midnight laid his hand lightly on his knee.

  “Don’t start and make trouble.” Wow, who’d known that Midnight could sound so commanding?

  Willoughby paused in his massaging. I squirmed around to encourage him to start again, but he’d frozen, watching the role reversal between the whipping boy and prince.

  Lysander stared at Midnight and then he swallowed. “One cares not about the insult. What shall not stand is that we drew in the Rebel Cup today, which means that only three days remains to settle who wins overall. We all know how high the stakes are.” His gaze flicked to Fox, whose hold had tightened around Magenta, before settling once more on Midnight. Then he stroked his fingers, just once, along Midnight’s wingtip. “I would’ve thought you more than most, master.”

  “By my fangs, I never asked you to call me master,” Midnight murmured. Lysander flushed. “Look you, the Rebel Cup is rigged by the House of Crows. You can battle all you like, but one side has to lose.”

  “I shan’t let it be us,” Lysander hissed.

  “And I shan’t allow the Immortals to lose either.” Magenta clasped her arms around Fox; her eyes flashed.

  “Then we’re at an impasse.” Lysander knelt straighter, as something malevolent glimmered in his eyes. “So, let’s act like the royalty and immortals that we are and take back the control. Every Friday, one Wing of the academy has to complete a mission. It’s why we train, after all. Why don’t we settle who that is between us now like gentlemen…and women, of course?”

  Not another mission.

  I growled, wrenching away from Willoughby and wrapping my arms around myself.

  Missions: I hated them. Simply because each of our supernatural societies had decided to imprison us, we’d become expendable. Damelza sent either the Princes or the Immortals on missions that the patrons of the school paid for (and they weren’t to bring presents to kids in orphanages).