DK circles behind her. I can’t see, but I know he’s checking—wondering the same thing I am. If the King’s punishment left marks. If the bruises still bloom across her ass like storm clouds. If the skin there is still tender, still raw.
The blade traces the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. Notcutting. Just teasing. Threatening. But this ceremony isn’t about blood. It’s about rebirth. Her spine arches involuntarily, pushing her tits forward, her cunt clenching.
My urges claw up my spine, hot and needy. I want to replace the blade with my teeth. Want to bite down on that pierced nipple until she screams–spread her open and ruin her in my own specific way.
I swallow it back.
Now that she’s naked and ready, five Shadows break from the circle, each chosen before the ceremony began. Their bodies are still slick with sweat as their fingers dip into the bowl and come away dripping. They move toward her. Towardus.
The first presses his thumb to the side of her throat and drags the sticky fluid down to make the symbol.
“Ansuz,” DK intones, voice gravel. “For the breath stolen in flame. For the words she never spoke.”
Arianette’s pulse jumps beneath the rune. Her eyes–God, those eyes–lock on mine.
Not pleading. Not yet. Justwatching. Like she’s memorizing the moment.
The second traces a line down her sternum, between her breasts and over the pentagram.
“Uruz.” Strength. “For the body broken, the flesh that betrayed us.”
Her ribs shudder. The cum is shiny on her skin. Soon it’ll dry and crack like old paint. Her nipples tighten visibly. She doesn’t blink–only looks between me and DK–her Barons.
The third Shadow coats the inside of her left wrist, where the rope has bitten bloody.
“Tiwaz.” Justice. “For the balance she shattered.”
A tremor rolls through her bound arm. Her lips part—but no sound escapes.
Just breathe.I want to steal it from her. Make it mine.
Instead, I watch as the soft skin just above her navel is painted, and DK announces, “Berkano.” Rebirth. “For the womb that will carry our future, not her past.”
Her stomach caves, then arches. The rune glistens, obscene and sacred. Her thighs clench and I see it. The slick shine between them. She’s wet.Christ.
The fifth Shadow steps forward and his fingers rise, thick with the mingled offering, and he pauses, waiting for DK to announce the rune.
“Laguz,” DK announces. “Flow. Surrender. For the tide she can no longer fight.”
The Shadow bends, painting the rune with mechanical reverence: a single stroke down one thigh and then the other. The semen gleams, warm and viscous, sealing to her like a second skin. The Shadow straightens. From beneath his mask, I see his tongue dart out, then he hesitates. His fingers hover over her breast, tracing the swell, then he brushes the bar through her nipple. The metal glints. Her back bows, a quick inhale hissing through her teeth.
Fuck.
DK’s hand snaps out like a whip, seizing the Shadow’s wrist hard enough to grind bone.
“No,” he snarls, voice low, lethal. The Shadow stumbles back, mask askew. Damon doesn’t let go until the man drops to his knees.
Silence grips the circle. This ceremony may be about the entire fraternity, but Arianette, the Baroness? She’s ours.
Turning his back to the Shadow, still kneeling in submission, DK faces me. The stone knife is in his hand—blade forward. He holds my gaze.
“Noctis Crucem,” he whispers.
The weight of it hits my palm. Warm. Alive. The orbs pulse like a heartbeat. I step forward. The altar groans under her weight. Her body is a map of runes and ruin, cum drying in streaks across her skin. Her eyes–still on me–flare wide as I raise the knife.
Not to cut.
No, to seal.
