Now it’s Beaufort’s turn to growl. “I am going to fuck her properly.” And as if to prove his point, he slides from me and then slams back in, so powerfully, I jerk forward, Dray’s cock hitting the back of my throat.
“Fuck,” Dray groans.
After that, I lose all reason. The sounds we’re making are sloppy, wet, and wild. The feeling is overwhelming. I know they feel it too. Both men have lost control. They fuck me furiously and when I come a second time, it sends both of them over the edge together.
I peer up at Dray, watching his face dissolve into pleasure as he pumps his load down my throat, Beaufort making sounds behind me that tell me he’s also enjoying his own piece of paradise.
And then all three of us are collapsing to the soft-carpeted floor, sweaty, sticky, happy.
“Okay?” Beaufort asks me, holding me in his arms, as Dray litters my body with kisses.
“Yeah,” I say dreamily. “You?”
“Never better,” he tells me, looking more like his usual self. He smiles at me. “Like I could face anything.”
Which is just as well because sooner or later we’re going to have to face his mother.
Chapter Seventeen
Thorne
I’ve never understood the appeal of shopping. I try my best to avoid the places at all costs. In fact, I’ve probably stepped inside more shops in the last couple of hours than I have my entire lifetime.
Briony’s exuberant friend is in his element, acting like I’ve brought him to paradise itself. He coos, he ahhs, he skips around, he strokes material, and swoons over outfits. He has deep conversations with every salesperson he meets and interrogates them for information about cuts and designs and other things I do not understand.
The one thing he does balk at are the prices. They actually make his eyes water but after I’ve assured him numerous times that Beaufort Lincoln is one of the richest men in the realm, he overcomes his hesitation and falls into a spending frenzy.
We must be a strange pair to behold. Me tall, well-built, my hair shorn short, my clothes dark and plain. Fly skinny with a mane of curly hair and clothes so colorful they could give you a migraine. I catch people staring at us. They all know who I amand I’m used to people staring at me in Onyx Quarter. Here, they all know the story of my past and they all know how powerful my shadow magic can be. Most people keep a wide berth.
Today, though, it’s different. They peer at me with curiosity, their gazes flicking to examine Fly as well. Despite his best effort to look sophisticated and glamorous, it’s clear he’s not from here. He doesn’t talk in quite the right way, and even I can see his clothes are crafted from cheaper material.
I didn’t use to care about those things or even notice them. I was too lost in my own head.
It leaves me wondering how Briony will fit in when she comes to Onyx. I don’t care what others may think of her or of us but I do care how she feels. Will she feel at home? Will it be too alien?
I try to think of the other shadow weavers I’ve met who started in a different quarter and were assigned Onyx. Did they fit in? Or did they stand out like sore thumbs?
But now I come to think of it, I can’t recall a single person I’ve met who originated in one of the other Quarters. Which is strange.
Soon I’m laden up like a pack horse with bags and boxes and am becoming increasingly twitchy about the time.
Finally, I put my foot down.
“It’s time to leave,” I tell Briony’s friend who is poring over a collection of necklaces and bracelets a salesperson has laid out over the top of the counter.
“But Briony has no jewelry.”
“You bought her three necklaces and a pair of earrings in the last shop. We’re going to be late.”
Fly sighs dramatically. “I suppose we’ll just have to make do.”
As we walk back along the streets towards the palace, Fly’s gaze darts about everywhere, taking in every little detail.
“How does it compare to Iron?” I ask him.
Apart from the lands beyond our border and the academy, I’ve never left Onyx Quarter. I have very little idea what the other Quarters are like, except that Slate is the shittiest of them all.
“Iron is a lot more …” he searches for the right word, “perfunctory. There’s no art, no decoration, no color. It’s all plain.” He side eyes me. “You’d probably love it.”
