Fox’s eyes shone, and his chest rapidly rose and fell, as Sleipnir liberated Fox’s legs from his pants.
“Didn’t you speak yesterday about the desire to gift your virginities? Lie down.” Bask’s head was twisted to watch us, as his hand sped up on his prick, and his back arched.
My pulse fluttered in my neck, as I lay amongst the satin pillows. Softness cocooned me below, whilst Sleipnir and Fox’s hardness cocooned me above. I turned my head to meet Bask’s gaze: this was for him. My magic lit the room, and tangled like roots through each of the Immortals, drawing us together.
I was part of the academy, and they were part of me.
“Kiss her,” Bask murmured.
Fox’s lips were sweet raspberries and love. They were every year that I’d yearned, and every tear that I’d cried. They were life beyond death. My second chance.
I bit hard on his bottom lip and suckled, feasting on his sweet blood. He gasped, panting.
My mage…mine, mine, mine…
Fox’s curls swept my cheeks, but I didn’t look away from the darkness of Bask’s gaze. Sleipnir caressed his finger across my nub until it peaked, before he licked.
What was spiraling inside me like a whirlwind? Was it another moment of destruction? The chaos moment?
“Trust me, cherry pie.” Sleipnir slipped his hands between Fox’s spread legs, stroking his prick to throbbing hardness. Then he lay behind Fox, kissing between his shoulder blades, as he guided Fox’s prick between my thighs. I winced but then pulled Fox closer, urging him not to stop.
Fox clasped my hands. His smile was radiant, as he thrust. Sleipnir grasped Fox’s hips, rubbing his own prick between Fox’s thighs in a glorious rhythm that swelled like a sea inside me.
“I love you,” Bask whispered. “Just like this.”
The room became as light as a magenta sun with my magic. The rays burst through my lovers at the moment that the crest of the wave hit, and I screamed; my lovers and I came together in ecstasy.
Love, pleasure, and life. At last, I’d tasted what I’d craved for so long, but it was only a glimpse that could be burned to nothing if I lost today. What would I need to unleash to protect my family, and how wicked would I become?
I’d already learned how fragile family could be. I wouldn’t allow it be stolen once more by death.
Chapter Twenty
MAGENTA
I knelt on my knees in the Bird Turret in a circle with both Immortals and Princes, before the class in Strategy. Sleipnir had told me that this class was an attempt to brainwash us Rebels into assassins (although I had no idea how a mind could be cleaned with soap). I shivered, as I glanced around at the room high above the bailey, which I’d been shut away in as much as Fox had been locked in his attic. Yet I hadn’t been punished as a mage, rather adored as the Blessedly Charmed who was too precious to risk in the world.
Merlin’s balls to that.
Now, the room had been hollowed out. Nothing remained apart from the magical mural that’d been painted across the walls at dad’s request. Byron had brought the outside into the Bird Turret, surrounding me with the nature, which my magic craved.
I twisted, ghosting my hand across the mural of Hecate’s tree, which was alive again here at least; its branches rose to the roof. Lilies of the valley and foxgloves grew at its base and suffocated the room in their intoxicating aroma. Frogs hopped along the baseboards. I shuddered at the pulsing magic.
It fizzed through me, calling to me. Hecate was inside my heart, and I was inside hers. I pressed my nails hard into my palms to resist her.
I won’t return to you. I’m alive now…
Fox laughed as hundreds of robins swooped overhead like a bloody cloud, and I bit my lip hard to stop myself praying to Hecate to save him today.
My goodness, old habits truly were hard to shake.
I snatched back my hand in case I was tempted to pray to the goddess, and smiled at Fox’s joy. The robins had always been my favorite as a child too. Painted in the indigo roof, even though they’d been forever trapped, they’d sung their silvery songs to me. But now they were silent.
Could magic murals grieve or perhaps, after all these years, they’d become a little crazy like me?
Behind every crazy witch is someone even crazier who made her that way. That was Number 34 in the Principal’s Motto Book.
I could hate the mottoes, even if some of them were right.
Yet even if I and the robins were a teensy-weensy bit crazy, we could also be restored to our former life through love. I was certain that mother had a motto about it but I’d rather watch the way that Fox dived to his feet and ran around the circle like he was playing ring-a-ring o’roses, pretending to duck, as the robins chased him.
“Help, the birds are after me,” he laughed. “My prey has turned against me. I blame global warming.”
The robins twirled and dived, enjoying the game as much as he was. Lysander rolled his eyes, but Bask giggled, shifting closer to Lysander who sprawled back on his elbows.
I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of the artificial flowers. I remembered when there’d been no laughter in the Bird Turret, apart from Byron’s and my own. Yet this room had been filled with other beautiful things: a brightly painted rocking horse, china dolls, and samplers embroidered with the RA crest. Witching heavens, I’d hated embroidering those.
I’d adored sitting on the window seat amongst my ranks of dolls, however, pretending to read Jane Eyre, as I’d sneaked glances at the Rebels below. Well, sneaked glances at one Rebel in particular: a young mage with a tumble of burnished red hair and intense emerald eyes. After all, I’d never seen a mage before (and they were meant to be as wicked as I was Blessed).
It’d made me shiver.
What did he do that was so naughty?
Byron had told me that not eating my broccoli was naughty. Perhaps, the mage had refused to eat up his greens…? I’d frowned at the bruise that’d swelled his eye and cheek. Bryon had often tried to hide bruising just like that. When Bryon would mutter that he’d been bad and had deserved it, I’d never believed it. Father had been the kindest…most fun…and least wicked person that I’d known. Of course, I’d barely known anyone, but compared to mother who’d punished Byron simply because she’d been displeased with my work, he’d been my hero.
I’d studied the mage in the courtyard, who’d cradled his purpled cheek. He’d been dressed as a whipping boy and hung back from the other Rebels, who’d ignored him.
Was he also my hero, rather than wicked?
I’d thrown aside my book, crawling closer to the glass and pressing my hand against it.
All of a sudden, in a spray of golden glitter, the mage transformed into a red squirrel. I gasped, clapping my hands in delight.
Why had nobody told me that mages were also shifters?
Bubbling cauldrons, he was cute.
My fingers had clenched to snuggle him and pet his fluffy tail. He’d chattered, dancing around the hollering Rebels, who’d recoiled from him like he was a tiger, rather than snatched him up and cuddled him like he was begging for.
When Henrietta prowled from the shadows with dangerous intent, my eyes had widened. I’d known that look and it’d always ended in tears…Byron’s.