My mate murmurs my name in a soft, breathy voice. She is ready and willing. I am leaking my spill everywhere as my todger escapes its fabric prison, nudging between her legs like it has always known what to do.
When I reach her entrance, I want to hold for a moment, to enjoy every last second of being without to make being within all the sweeter. But my body has other ideas. My hips surge, and I slide inside her as she moans into the wall.
I grab at her hips and lift her higher so I can go deeper, deeper, deeper. Her body is perfection, slick over me, so easy to pleasure and to plunder. I thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw as she calls my name with every movement.
And the more she calls, the more I never want this to end. But then I was never in control. When it hits, I genuinely think I have turned inside out, my legs shaking, my Brag needing to be part of this, my sweet little mare mewling in my arms as I fill her with my seed.
“I rut for you, little mate,” I murmur in her still damp hair. “I will never let you go.”
HAZEL
Hunger eventually drives us out of the rough but comfortable quarters. Warden has a way of making my body sing with every touch, and no matter what we planned, it always ended up with him buried to the hilt in me as I gasped every breath as if it was my last.
I haven’t come as much in my entire life as he has made me come in an afternoon.
“Here they are,” Meg announces to a motley collection of witches and warlocks who are setting a long trestle table with platters.
To my surprise and embarrassment, there is a cheer which runs through the small crowd. Several of the warlocks walk up to Warden and thump him on the shoulders, grins all over their faces.
“It’s been a long time since we had a Brag in our shire,” one of the witches, a dainty redhead wearing a red and white spotted dress like an old-fashioned hanky says to me. “We will have a great bounty with our harvest this year.” She gives me an indulgent smile. “If we are really lucky, he’ll fill your belly before you leave and give us even greater luck.”
I might have been the landlady of one of the roughest, toughest taverns in the Night Lands. I might have seen things which would make even the hardiest Carry On fan run screaming for the hills, but I genuinely do not think I could blush any harder or want to sink into the floor any more.
“You are his first mate, are you not?” Another witch, this one is older, taller, with long dark hair hanging to her waist and a moss-green velvet dress. “He must have been a handful.” She raises her eyebrows. “Brags are well known for their…emissions.”
Oh god.
“And their enthusiasm,” the first witch interjects. “Although as we’ve been waiting for you since the morning meal, that much is clear.”
“I have some salve,” the green witch says. “I’ll bring it to you. If he has gone into rut...” She clasps her hands together as if in prayer. “Then you’ll need it.”
“And I have a tonic to help you keep your energy up,” spotted hanky witch says. “You’ll need it, if he’s in rut.” She gives me a really dirty wink.
“Um…thanks…” I take a step back, my stomach rumbling with the scent of the food but my appetite vanishing.
I’m used to being the centre of attention, but not like this. I place my hand on the hilt of my sword, seeking some comfort given Warden is in the midst of numerous warlocks who presumably are either sharing helpful male tips with him or are hanging on a blow by blow account of what we’ve been doing.
I do not get the comfort I want from it. The comfort which has always been there. Instead there is cold metal and a soft tingle.
“Is it not like it was.” Meg makes me jump out of my skin as she speaks directly into my ear from behind me.
“What?”
“Your weapon? Does it feel different?”
“I prefer not to use it unless I have to.”
“Because of the massacres?”
I nod and clench my teeth, desperately attempting to keep the sounds and smells from flooding back.
“They were not yours,” Meg says, placing down a series of wooden platters along the table. “They belonged to the weapon.”
“But I remember them.”
“And yet, until now, you remembered little else,” Meg says sagely. “Your connection with the Brag helped bring back most of who you are but not how you ended up where you were.”
“Or how I got this.” I touch the sword again. “And why I cannot let it go from my side. It’s not like I’m a witch or have any magic. If I did, presumably the portal would have taken me to the Underhill long ago.”
