25. Mercy
25
MERCY
I t only took Wolfgang two days to arrest the troupe of actors and plan their public demise. We haven’t had a public execution in over a decade, but Wolfgang was adamant about his choice, especially this early into our rule. I agreed without much resistance. Although, if it were me, I would have approached this headache much more privately. I don’t need irrelevant witnesses to exact my revenge.
Death is my audience.
The air crackles with jubilant energy. I can practically smell the anticipation of the crowd gathered in the town square in front of Mount Pravitia. They’re just as bloodthirsty as the rest of us. Even the children. Packed like sardines, half of the city wriggles shoulder to shoulder in the hope of sneaking a chance to witness the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it is.
Having public executions less than a month after the Feast of Fools has sent the masses into a frenzy. The macabre event was announced and broadcasted on a twenty-four-hour cycle all over Vainglory media leading up to today. Wolfgang, of course, kept the real reason secret. It’s not hard to make up probable cause in the city of Pravitia.
Wolfgang has barely acknowledged my presence since we came across the clandestine play. It’s grating, especially when attending meetings with the rest of our staff. His employee Dizzy has acted as a middleman between us and I’m just about ready to slit her throat just to steal a reaction out of Wolfgang.
In other matters, we’ve yet to find out how the information was leaked. It’s becoming clear that we have a rat amongst us. We might not have said it out loud, but I’m sure both Wolfgang and I are hoping that these executions will frighten whoever is behind this back into submission.
And if they don’t?
I’ll just have to seek them out and kill them myself.
It’s insufferably sunny this afternoon. It hasn’t rained in two days, as if the gods are finally warming up to us mortals again. A similar stage to the one erected for the Feast of Fools stands a few yards away from the stairs of Mount Pravitia, the troupe of actors lined up at the forefront on their knees, hands tied behind their backs.
All six of them are sobbing, beseeching for forgiveness, which only seems to make the crowd more frantic while the families of the condemned scream hysterically for them to be saved from the front row.
It’s a beautiful sight.
Of the ruling six, everyone came to show support except for Belladonna. She’s not one for group activities, especially when Aleksandr is attending.
I would have done the same if I didn’t have to preside over the executions with Wolfgang in a show of unity. I hide behind large black sunglasses as I stand with Gemini on the left side of the stage. Always the one for theatrics, he showed up wearing a black top hat, a small mourning veil covering half his face, and a silk scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
He’s as giddy as the crowd before us.
Constantine, who’s standing with Aleksandr to the right of the platform has managed to upstage Gemini, appearing to have come back from time-traveling to the late 1700s. Blonde hair curled high above her head, pink feathers and bows adorning her pouf while her dress is a cloud of taffeta, embroidered with pearls and lace.
Wolfgang, dressed in a red velvet suit jacket with black satin lapels, stands proudly in the middle of the stage. He prowls behind the six kneeling with a smug smile painted over the curves of his lips. Typically, as a servant of the god of torture, public executions are Constantine’s domain, not mine. My god is more subtle than hers. Death does not seek retribution, only dissolution.
But Wolfgang asked to be responsible for the death of at least one.
Death is all around us, I can practically see the chains tugging on their souls. But in such a large crowd, the six on stage are not the only deaths I can sense, there’s another soul my god will claim today, lodged somewhere in the thick of bodies.
There’s no fixed method for these executions. Wolfgang can kill however which way he wants, and curiosity pricks at the base of my nape as he strolls up to the table with an array of weapons, waiting to see which one he will choose.
There’s an underlying current of anticipation rumbling inside of me; I’ve never watched Wolfgang kill before. The air shifts, as if the whole city is taking a collective breath while we wait for his decision.
We all crane our necks while his fingers slowly curl around a wooden handle, finally brandishing an axe into the air. The crowd bursts into cheers at the promise of bloodshed, the true life force of Pravitia.
Snapping his fingers at the guards flanking the stage, Wolfgang orders them to bring the man who dared to impersonate him during the play to kneel over a small chopping block, stretching his neck against it. The sobbing continues, but no one important pays it any mind.
Especially Wolfgang, who has now taken off his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his black shirt. He’s leisurely swinging the axe in the air as he positions himself perpendicular to the soon-to-be corpse. He holds up his free hand, his gaze on the crowd, and the masses fall to a murmured hush.
The anticipation now prickles up my arms, my heartbeat quickening as I watch Wolfgang gently place the sharp blade against the man’s neck. He straightens his shoulder, placing both hands on the axe handle. He takes a slow breath. Then another. Finally, he raises the axe and brings it down with force, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt, the muscles of his forearms protruding with the effort. The squelching crunch of the blade slicing through muscle and bone merges with the crowd erupting in crazed cheer.
But the kill is not over, only half of the man’s neck has been severed. The force of the blow has sprayed blood upwards into Wolfgang’s face, and the image of him has a smoldering heat twinging low in my stomach. I lick my lips in anticipation, slowly taking off my sunglasses, needing to see him as clearly as I can, hypnotized by the sight of him like this.
Swiftly, he raises the axe again. The second blow detaches the final tendons keeping this man’s head on his body, successfully beheading the actor who impersonated Wolfgang.
Because there is only space for one Wolfgang on this wretched earth.
The head falls, rolling haphazardly toward our end of the stage, and the crowd roars even louder. Handing the axe to one of the guards, Wolfgang strolls up to the head and picks it up by the hair. Raising it to his shoulder, he grins widely, blood splatter dripping from his face as the crowd caterwauls for their ruler. I ignore the pinch of jealousy in my heart at the sight of him so comfortable basking in the crowd’s approval.
Keeping the head raised, he turns toward it. His darkened gaze snaps to mine before his lips touch its cheek for a chaste kiss.
A small gasp tumbles out of my mouth, my heart stuttering inside my chest as I watch in rapture as he softly presses his lips to the severed head, his eyes glued to mine.
It only lasts a few feverish seconds. Before I can gather my wits, Wolfgang has flung the head back on the ground and sauntered offstage toward Aleksandr and Constantine.
Ripping my gaze away from Wolfgang, I turn to Gemini who is staring at me, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“What was—” he starts to say but I cut him off.
“Give me your scarf,” I bark, practically ripping it off his neck.
Giggling, he swats me away but still hands it to me.
“Don’t follow me,” I order before storming off stage.
Putting my sunglasses back on, I wrap the scarf around my head, managing to conceal my identity somewhat, and slip into the crowd hoping the frenetic energy and the collective focus being on stage will allow me to fly under the radar.
My senses are muddled but heightened, and my breathing isn’t slowing down. I refuse to acknowledge the steady throb of my clit while I replay the burn of Wolfgang’s gaze on me. I usually avoid crowds but something about the anonymity of thousands comforts me right now. Slipping through bodies, I find a spot to stand and look back to the stage.
Wolfgang has disappeared and Constantine, with her ridiculous outfit, has taken his place. She prances on stage in front of the remaining five, taunting them with a finger as she deliberates who she will choose next.
Suddenly, two firm hands coil around my waist from behind me, a hard chest pushing into my back. Between the split seconds it takes for me to reach for my dagger, I notice two things: The Vainglory signet ring on his left pinky finger and the smell of Wolfgang’s cologne, smoky with a hint of vanilla.
My actions continue to dumbfound me as I abruptly stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. A quick survey of the people around us confirms my suspicion—even though I’m sure Wolfgang has done nothing to try to conceal his identity, the crowd is ignoring us. He must have persuaded them to look away.
I swallow hard but don’t look over my shoulder. Instead, I continue to watch Constantine, who has finally chosen her next victim, her trusty bedazzled morning star in hand, the spiked ball swinging idly in the air.
With one hand, Wolfgang tugs the scarf down from my head, his breath hot against my earlobe, a slew of pleasure-filled shivers prickling my neck. He presses his hips against me, his hard erection against my ass, both palms slowly burning a path up and down the front of my tight skirt.
“You know,” he says while his fingers dance over my hips to the back, finding the zipper. “I wish it was you kneeling on that stage.” His voice is coarse but full of heat as he slowly unzips my skirt. I can hardly bear the thought that I’m letting him touch me like this.
But the thought of stopping him is even harder to bear.
My heart slams in my chest. I can feel myself getting wet, my clit now an aching and demanding pulse. I don’t move, arms firmly crossed over my chest while I barely acknowledge his presence except for a subtle grind against his cock. His left hand splays wide just above my core, pinning me even harder against him while the other hand slithers under the now loosened waist of my skirt and over my thong.
His short beard tickles my sensitive skin, his mouth still so close to my ear. “I’ve imagined killing you countless times,” he groans, his cock digging into my ass. He wastes no time, his fingers slipping under the lace, letting out a throaty groan when he finds me drenched. I bite my lip, concealing the whimper lodged somewhere in my throat.
My eyes are still trained on Constantine. She’s already swung her weapon across the woman’s face and is now grabbing her by the hair, pulling the sobbing actress back up on her feet while her jaw hangs loose and bloody.
Wolfgang tuts, circling my clit with two fingers. “Don’t you have any shame, Crèvecoeur?” His hand travels further down, dragging his fingers through my soaking slit. “What’s making you so needy?” He thrusts two fingers into my pussy, the palm of his hand grinding against my clit and I bite down on another moan. “Couldn’t possibly be me, could it?”
Frustration bubbles up in my chest but it’s quickly chased away by unbridled lust. Unable to think clearly as his fingers deftly pump in and out as he continues to whisper his heated threats into my ear, his cock grinding against my ass as if chasing his own relief.
“You know,” he says, his tone laced with carnal need, “I thought nothing could ever come close to the idea of watching you die.”
Wrapping his hot mouth around my pearl earring, he tugs forcefully, and the pain mixed with the perverse need to come by Wolfgang’s touch sends shivers dancing down my spine.
My eyes are still fixed to the stage. The woman is now a mangled mess of shredded skin and muscle, she’s skittering on the ground attempting to get away from Constantine but she has nowhere to hide.
Wolfgang’s fingers slip back to my clit, wet with my arousal. His lips return to the shell of my ear. “But then I witnessed you watching me take a life.” His slow circles over my clit become harder and tighter, and I start to feel myself tip over the edge. My hips begin to follow his movements as my head falls backward onto his shoulder, palms flying to his thighs, my sharp nails digging into his trousers and the hard muscles underneath.
I can barely breathe, can barely swallow.
I’m chasing the smooth cadence of his words almost as much as his touch.
Constantine delivers the final blow to the woman’s head with a wide beatific smile and unceremoniously moves on to the next person with a small skip in her step.
“And then I experienced the intoxicating thrill of your rapt attention,” he growls into my ear. It’s my turn to grind myself against Wolfgang’s hard cock, and this time I’m unable to suppress the low moan that follows. My hand wraps around his wrist as my orgasm furiously builds and builds. “And now I wonder if anything will ever come close to that feeling ever again.” I can feel his battering pulse under my palm. “The thought makes me sick,” he spits.
My mouth falls open as the pleasure explodes in a burst of blinding bliss, and my knees almost buckle under the weight of my climax. Wolfgang fucks me with three fingers through it all, the palm on my stomach digging into me.
“My ruin.” His delighted hum feels almost perverse while his fingers are still deep inside of me. The tip of his nose trails up my neck. “Aren’t you glad I made you come this time?” he muses. He pitches his hips forward, reminding me how hard he still is. “Remember, Crèvecoeur?” His body tenses while his mouth remains next to my ear. “When you served your cunt up on a silver platter for me at Manor?”
I freeze, my mind still on fire, a small What? tumbling over my lips.
His chuckle is filled with darkness. “Pretty little crescent moon you have tattooed on your hip,” he taunts hoarsely before ripping his hand out of my skirt and shoving me away, leaving me breathless and keening.
By the time I’ve turned around, he’s disappeared into the crowd