“It won’t be the same,” he confirms, but shadows grow around him. “But we will bring you hell nonetheless. I will make you remember this, feel this as strongly as the first time.”
With a nod, I touch his chest, lightly, not daring to tread more. He doesn’t flinch or look down. “Could you promise me one thing?”
“Go on.”
“Don’t open the scar,” I plead softly, referring to his arrow mark. “I’d really like not to be bedridden when we move to our new home. I want to help. Even if I need a couple of days’ rest after, I want to be a part of everything.”
After a tense pause, Raphael says, “As my Queen requests.”
Now, I buckle. But my High God carries me to the center of the room, pulls Vincent’s sweater off me, unhooks my bra, and locks the cuffs around my wrists. Not tight because I’m still healing from the dislocation. I can stand on my solid feet. No tiptoes.
And then, one by one, they shed their clothes.
Oh, unholy hot damn gods! Heat throbs in my pussy, and I almost orgasm from the sight alone. How can these men, these kings, be…mine?
Vincent, with his bulk and tattoos. And his ever-tortured expression and protective, bone-breaking shield.
Jude, with his chiseled muscles and burnished deep bronze skin, always so polished. Swoon worthy. And strong, healing hands.
Seth, with those lumberjack muscles that can match Vincent’s, but a dreamy and mischievous smile.
Rory and his carved-from-the-wild muscles. Rugged with a ruddy chest. And his signature unhinged smirk that stokes the heat in me.
And Raphael. The most devastating. A predator, carved from marble, sculpted in exquisite cruelty—broad shoulders, leanwaist, and muscles that ripple with a vow of violence. He is god-forged, all power and blood. And he burns with the hunger of a creature who always takes what is his.
“Rory.” Raphael addresses him first.
While hugging his elbows, Rory turns to the alpha.
“Five Cat O’Nine Tails.”
Rory’s eyes gleam like a cat eager to eat the canary. “With pleasure.”
He fetches the instruments from a cabinet in the corner of the dungeon, then hands them to the others, one by one. What stuns me most is when Raphael strikes the first blow—on himself. A sharp hit to his chest that leaves a red stripe. The others follow him.
My chest pinches, an ache growing in my heart as they flagellate themselves, whipping themselves bloody. I’m about to open my mouth to ask them to stop. Enough scars until?—
—Raphael swings the flail, bringing it down on my chest. I hiss from the sharp sting. Warm, wet spatters paint my upper body. And now, I understand why they went first.
They don’t take turns. The whips land again and again, painting me until I’m covered in their blood. Raphael has applied enough pressure to give me welts, pain endorphins, and then…he finally breaks skin.
The others don’t.
Like they know just how far to go.
Each lash strikes deeper, piercing me to the core. Pain and heat swell into need, into hunger. My thighs clench.
My arousal twists in my stomach, a hot, writhing thing. It’s not just the endorphins that make me wet—it’s the sacrifice. These gods bleeding for me. Because of me. Because I am theirs. And they are sharing their blood with me.
As long as the arrow scar is untouched…
There’s a reverence in every blow. And as Raphael circles behind me, breath hot against my ear, I realize, this is more than an initiation. More than punishment.
It’s worship.
And I’ve never felt more desired.
“Jude,” Raphael orders once the whippings have stopped. “It’s time. Get the item.”
