They’re breathing in sync, a living pulse that ripples through theclearing. The sound is heavy and charged, threaded with reverence. Every exhale feels intentional, every murmur an invocation. They move close to one another, guided by instinct and ritual–touching, grounding, steadying each other’s hands and shoulders as if the act itself demands unity.
The Shadows, the ones that chased me through the forest, that assisted in the Barons hunting me–cornering me–they aren’t focused on me but on one another. Big hands push the heavy cloaks off broad, masculine shoulders, letting them drop to the ground. I watch, mesmerized as their long fingers trail down the hard lines of one another’s bodies, until they reach below–reaching for thick erections, fingers curling around stiff cocks.
I suck in a deep breath, belly twisting at the sight around me, at the forbiddeness of it all.
The Shadow closest to me, his mask made of ostrich bone, strokes his brother’s cock into a stiff erection using the skill of an expert, someone who is intimately familiar with the equipment. There’s no fear here. No tentative touch. He drags his fingers hard against the tip, and his partner bites his bottom lip, groaning, “Fuck, do that again.”
Next to them, three others make their own circle. Two focus on a guy with a tattoo circling his bicep, wavy lines surrounding the Baron’s star. The long, bone snout of his mask covers half his face, and antlers curl out of the top. The two take turns worshiping him, using their tongues and hands, licking skin, spreading fluid, bringing him to the edge, and then back down again.
I’m caught off guard by the lack of shame here, but it also feels right. It’s like the night after the Fury, only this time I’m tied up. This is only the prelude; whatever is coming to me won’t be as pure. I know that.
I watch as the Shadow’s fingers dip low, vanishing between his brother’s thighs. Whatever he does makes him grab onto the forearm next to him and grunt. I’m reminded that there’s more to this than flesh and desire. It’s what they’re offering, what this moment means. To give. To serve. To be bound by loyalty and by the same current that binds me now.
He stumbles forward, cock fisted between his big hand, and he stands over the urn. I don’t even notice the way my wrists burn from the ropes, or how cold the breeze is against my bare skin. I watch him lean back, antlers glinting in the firelight as he brings himself closer, hand moving furiously over his shaft, until he groans, thick semen spilling against the curved bowl.
Hunter’s voice threads through it all like a low drumbeat. “Together,” he says. “Together, so that no man stands apart.” His words vibrate through the air, turning the forest into a cathedral of sound.
Damon answers him, softer, “For the King. For the House. For rebirth.”
And then the chant begins again–forty voices layered in rhythm, their unity a strange kind of beauty. The air trembles around me. I feel the hum of them in my bones. Their devotion is a tangible thing, brushing against my skin, making the night itself feel alive. One by one, helped by their brothers, each man spills his seed into the urn. I should be horrified, but instead I feel something else: a warmth between my thighs, slick wetness building in that heat. My nipples ache, not from pain, not even attraction, but from being included in this rite. I shouldn’t want this, but I do. I want to be part of this–to be part of them, and it only intensifies as the ritual reaches its crest. The final Shadow grunts as he comes hard, grinning up at the night sky as he wrings out every drop. I look at Damon and Hunter, waiting for them to step forward, but their robes stay on, confirming they’re leading the ceremony, but not in it. Somewhere within that silence, something sacred shifts—like the forest exhales. Hunter speaks once more, voice low and final. “We take this offering, this communion between brothers, and give it to our sister for completion.”
Please,I pray, to the night, to the gods or demons fueling this ceremony.Let me take this offering. Let me cleanse my soul. Let me be reborn.
He lifts the urn and takes it to Damon, who reaches behind his back and pulls out a large blade, eliciting a tremor that shudders down my spine. Maybe I was wrong about the weapons. Our eyes meet. “It’s time, Doll Baby.”
It’s the first time he’s called me that since the fire.
He holds the knife by the blade, the metal sheathed in leather. The hilt is crafted of three orbs carved out of a milky, blueish-white stone. The orbs are stacked smallest to largest. It’s obvious it’s ceremonial, meant for something other than cutting flesh.
Silence ripples outward, and the Shadows circle around me, their cheeks flushed and bodies spent. I tremble against my bindings, the hardwood biting into my skin. No one hears how my heart pounds like a drum. The fear hasn’t left me–it never will–but beneath it, something else begins to stir. A strange, aching calm.
I whisper, half to myself, half for them, “I’m ready.”
Whatever happens next, I will endure it. I will be reborn.
6
Hunter
It was onlytwenty-four hours ago that Graves slid the black book across the table like he was passing a loaded gun. I didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. The command was already branded into the leather spine.Noctis Crucem.A ritual older than the House, older than the King’s reign. I told myself it was pointless—nothing could cauterize the wound Arianette carved into me and DK, into Ares. But the book stayed. A silent dare.
Now the forest is a lung, inhaling. Forty Shadows spent, their seed mixed in the silver urn, thick and sticky. The air tastes of salt and smoke and something feral. The ceremony has teeth. It’s breathing. And that wild thing I try to keep tucked inside is threatening to come free.
“Proceed,” DK says, voice strong from behind that mask. He was made for it, while mine always feels misplaced. Why? Well, I’ve been wearing a mask my entire life. Why wear two?
But there’s a difference. I know that. This mask makes me belong. It gives me a family. A brother. Asister.The very one tied to the cross, body cold and shivering.
Ours.
DK steps forward before the Shadows do, the stone knife already in his hand. He unsheathes the blade and the steel catches the torchlight, a cold glint that makes my stomach tighten. He doesn’t rush. He never does when it’s her.
He starts below the choker, at the collar of her thin shirt–threadbare cotton, clinging to her like a second skin–and presses the tip just beneath the hollow of her throat. The fabric parts with a softrip, the sound swallowed by the drumbeat in my ears. He drags the blade downward, between her breasts, over the slight curve of her stomach. The shirt falls open like petals, exposing her, before falling to the ground.
Her breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath—full, heavy, the dark areolas tight from cold and fear. The piercings glint, swollen around the metal bars. Damon pauses there, the flat of the blade brushing one nipple, making it peak harder. She flinches the same way she did when I carved into her flesh the night of the hunt, the ridged skin of the pentagram glinting in the torchlight. The urge to press deeper, to make it hurt, vibrated in my blood the same way I feel it now in my cock.
He hooks the blade under the waistband of her panties, white cotton, and slices downward. The fabric splits, peeling away from her hips. He takes his time, letting the cold steel graze the crease where thigh meets groin. Her pussy is bare, still groomed smooth from the wedding. The last time I saw her like this, she’d been bent over the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain edge as DK pounded into her.
She took him so good.
