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After the shower, Mercy found a first aid kit and forced me—with quite an effective glare—to let her stitch me up. I’m convinced she took pleasure in repeatedly digging a needle into my skin.
“Rest it is then,” I say, pulling the covers back and climbing into bed. Mercy stands awkwardly on the other side of the bed, her face painted with a faint layer of vulnerability. “What are we—” she begins to say but I cut her off, uninterested in having any type of discussion about any of it. Not now. “Pretend,” I plead. The word lingers between us as I extend my hand, wordlessly inviting her to bed.
I pull her into me before she has time to shrink away. Her head falls to rest on my chest while my arm wraps tight around her waist. I fall asleep with Mercy in my arms, knowing full well that by morning this will all be over.
There’s no need to keep up the charade of our united front behind closed doors, but my first instinct is still to stand beside Wolfgang so the image of us together solidifies as a known accepted truth. However, I hide my surprise when Wolfgang pulls a chair out for me, and I wordlessly sit as I give him a small nod as a thank you. I wait for him to settle next to me before speaking.
Knowing this will only end with Wolfgang launching himself across the table to tackle Gemini to the floor, my hand lands on his thigh. The effect of my touch is instantaneous, his body visibly
My clit throbs, and I bite my inner cheek in retaliation for my body’s reaction to simply observing Wolfgang. The sharp cut of his jaw. The perfect curves of his lips. The lean muscles of his forearm. The snaking veins over the top of his hands. The memory of his naked body under the hot spray of water.
can’t quite tell what compels me to do it; maybe I need some kind of reaction from Wolfgang, or maybe it has something to do with the confusing ache I now carry in the pit of my stomach. Whatever it is, the outcome is the same: I press my sharp nail hard into his flesh, effectively reopening the cut. His hand flies to my neck, and I suddenly feel enlivened. I almost smile. “Impish little scourge,” he growls, his arrogant grin revealing his two gold teeth, eyes wild and zealous.
“If it’s a grapple you crave, my ruin.” His tongue smooths over his teeth. It’s simultaneously menacing and enticing. “Then a grapple I can give you.”
“So predictable, Crèvecoeur,” he drawls as he unsheathes my weapon. “Never without her special little dagger.” “With the number of times you bring it up, Vainglory,” I spit back, a taunting tug lifting the corner of my mouth. “I’m starting to think you’ve developed an obsession.” He hums in agreement, his thumb slowly dragging his blood over my lips. “I certainly have.”
Dragging his palm roughly down my dress, he gropes my breast over my dress, and groans deeply, his focus slicing back to between my legs. Then with one large palm, he pins me to the table. I feel the cold, hard edge before I realize what it is: The dagger’s handle sliding between my slit, my wet arousal making it glide effortlessly up and down. There’s an arrogant kind of victory to his expression when he slowly pushes the tip of the handle into my entrance, my back arching with the sensation.
“You even taste like obsession,” he muses,
“What a delight,” he says, his lip tugging into a harsh grin. “To have your own dagger turn you into my whore.”
His tongue is hot and probing, sucking on my open cut before growling into my skin, his lips trailing over my hips, his short beard leaving a pleasurable prick in its wake. Grabbing my leg, he throws it over his shoulder, widening my thighs apart. With both hands, he rips up more of my fishnets and then spreads my pussy wide with his fingers. He hums greedily before slipping two fingers inside.
He strokes his cock in his large palm with graceful desperation, his neck straining, teeth gnashing, and cheek stained with my blood. “If I can’t have you,” he says, his jaw clenching and unclenching, “then let me mark you in all the ways I know how.” Slamming his hand on the table beside me, his moan turns into a long groan as he comes all over my pussy, the hot ropes of his cum coating my skin.
Wolfgang barely takes a breath to recover, his fingers sliding back into where they belong, dragging his cum into my cunt as he begins to fuck me with it.
I can feel the itch of dry blood on my cheek but don’t bother trying to wipe it off. What does it matter? Let them see what it looks like to crave a Vainglory.
“Do you not surmise this was the purpose all along?” My breathing turns shallow, her implication slowly washing over me. “Did you really presume,” Gemini starts again, leaning his elbows on the table between us, “that the gods chose for you two to co-rule platonically?”
“Sunt superis sua iura,” he says slowly, deliberately pronouncing every syllable. The gods have their own laws.
My heart is in my throat. “I claim to hate you, Mercy.” My sigh is heavy with memories of our last few weeks spent together. I take a step toward her, my fingers grazing the hem of her short black skirt. Her gaze is just as intense as mine. I lean close to her ear. “And yet,” I whisper before biting her earlobe. Her breath hitches as her body relaxes against me, shoulders falling. “The sound of your throaty moans haunts my every waking moment.”
“You shall rule together.” Mercy barks out a shocked laugh and takes a few steps back as if physically pushed. My heartbeat spikes as I carefully digest her words and what she’s implying. “You don’t mean …” I trail off, my mind splintering. “I’ve known of your union long before your births. Be wise to remember that the gods make no mistakes.”
“Where do you think your thirst for absolute dominion comes from, child?” she says harshly. “Have you forgotten whose image you have been created from?” Mercy snaps her mouth shut, seemingly taken aback. Her eyes slice to mine, her gaze cloudy with horror-stricken confusion. I fight the need to pull her into my embrace.
“You and your eventual progenies will be responsible for a smooth passage into this epoch.”
Most of us have a specific day of the week reserved for such a thing. Mine is Sunday. Only two deviate from this custom. Aleksandr’s tithing is a bacchanal that lasts the entire week. And Mercy? Well. Death’s call isn’t tethered to something as rudimentary as a calendar. Behind closed eyelids, I listen to the last of the Vainglory followers wax poetic at my altar. And what better altar for the servant of the god of idolatry than his naked, radiant body?
The sound of heels pierces the silence. A cadence I now know all too well. My skin prickles with awareness before I even open my eyes. There’s a foreign giddiness bubbling through my veins, and I can almost feel the invisible string grow lax between us as she approaches me. Mercy stands at the opposite end of the bathhouse, near the stone steps leading into the water. The warm lighting of the candles atop the chandeliers illuminates her face, smooth like marble, devoid of any real emotion.
“Have you come all this way to tithe to me, Crèvecoeur?”
Finally, she breaks eye contact as she begins to take one small step after the next. She circles the edge of the bath until she’s standing directly behind me. Slowly, I drop my head backward, resting it on the stones under me, my gaze finding hers. Lifting her heel, she presses the length of her sole over my shoulder and collarbone. From my angle, I watch her legs widen, revealing the thong under her dress. “Maybe I should be the one to drown you this time.” Her words smolder like red coals over my heated skin, and I groan as her heel digs into my flesh.
