27. Wolfgang
27
WOLFGANG
I find Aleksandr sitting in the dark, facing a large aquarium, the bluish lights from the tank flickering over his face. He is staring sightlessly at his pet axolotls. Curious-looking salamanders with gills circling their wide heads like a crown—they always appear to be smiling.
Mercy would hate them .
The thought jumps from the shadows like a fanged nightmare. It makes me stumble a step as if the thought itself has morphed into a bunched carpet under my feet. Luckily Aleksandr seems lost in thought, he usually stares at his axolotls when he needs to think. He’s sprawled on his couch in the sunken living room, his burgundy tracksuit a stark contrast against the white leather.
The fact that I’d think of Mercy’s likes and dislikes over something so anodyne as Aleksandr’s aquatic pets makes me grind my teeth as I step down into the conversation pit.
“Something on your mind?” I ask.
I subtly try to sound like I’m not the one who’s plagued with unwanted thoughts.
Of that pest no less.
And of how unbelievable it felt to have her eyes fixed on me while I fucked my fist. I can’t deny she was the reason I was so hard and desperate in the first place. I’ve been stroking my cock raw since the executions two days ago. And every time I come, her name permanently tattooed on my lips, I promise it will be the last.
It never is.
My reality has slowly begun to sink in …
I’m doomed to be forever riddled with this cancerous lust for Mercy.
Aleksandr’s hazel eyes slide to mine as I unbutton my suit jacket before sitting on the couch facing him.
“Not particularly,” he says, answering my question with a quirk of his mustache. His head rests against his thumb and finger, the low beat of music filling the space between us. Falling silent, he studies me and a cold shiver trickles down my spine. I’ve never been able to hide much from my best friend. And his gaze seems to convey that very fact. “I could ask the same of you,” he finally states.
Within one single breath, I consider sweeping everything under the same metaphorical rug I tripped over earlier and reply with a generic response about the woes of being a new ruler.
Instead, I reply with a question that has been weighing on me for a lot longer than I care to admit. “Have you ever wondered about the consequences resulting from breaking a divine law? The one which forbids two heirs to marry? Or—” I clear my throat, feeling like I’m crawling out of my skin. “Consummate?”
Aleksandr’s gaze turns wistful, his eyes flitting back to the aquarium. “Yes.”
We don’t have many divine laws, and even a lawless bunch like us would never dare to break them. The consequences would be too dire.
The most infrangible is the vow to never kill a servant of the gods, which would result in damnatio memoriae . Then there’s the vow to never mix our bloodlines and to only marry outside of the ruling families.
We’ve always assumed that the latter included any kind of sexual relationship between us. But the punishment for breaking this law has always been unclear, and I’ve never had any desire to look into it until now.
But ever since the night at Manor with Mercy, I’ve been brazenly toying with the boundaries of this gods-given law, half expecting to be struck dead at any moment.
And yet …
“What do you think would happen?” I gently probe.
Aleksandr’s gaze returns to mine, eyebrows narrowing. A small smile appears on his lips. “Why the sudden interest, Wolfie?”
I don’t bother answering at first, holding his teasing stare instead, my expression flat while my heartbeat doubles in rate behind my bespoke suit. Then I relent and give him a small crumb.
“Crèvecoeur and I have been … playing with fire,” I say slowly, chewing on my words.
He sits a little straighter, a large palm smoothing over his mustache before he speaks again. “I thought you two were feuding behind closed doors?” he says drolly.
I huff out a breath. “I never said otherwise.”
I expect him to press me further—or continue to mock me at the very least—instead, his eyes burn with unanswered questions of his own.
His chuckle slowly dies before turning thoughtful. “We’ve never had co-rulers before.”
My gaze drifts to the three axolotls lazily swimming in the water, then back to Aleksandr. “What are you implying?”
“Have you not wondered how Mercy walked away unscathed from her little coup at the Lottery?” Irritation flashes across his expression as if angered on my behalf and something inside me quiets somewhat. “Maybe the gods have a larger plan for you two …” Then he adds almost hopefully, “For us.”
I tap my index on my thigh while I ponder on what he just said. “Or maybe they’ve grown bored of us, and they’re merely toying with their servants for entertainment,” I reply flippantly followed by a long sigh.
Aleksandr’s phone dings beside him. Picking it up, his eyes begin to glimmer. “It’s Tinny,” he mutters while he reads her text. “Says she’s at Vore with Mercy and Belladonna to celebrate Crèvecoeur’s belated birthday.” His grin turns mischievous when he raises his gaze upwards to meet mine. “In the mood for a little fire?” he asks far too casually.
I pretend the dip I just experienced in my stomach has nothing to do with Mercy’s name. My mind sticks to the mention of her birthday, and I try to wrangle the thought before it sears my brain like a hot iron, but I’m too slow. Why didn’t she tell me it was her birthday?
“Surprised Belladonna would ever step foot in one of your clubs,” I say, avoiding the obvious.
He shrugs before standing up. “It seems like not just our gods are acting out of character lately.” He gives me a small flick of the head while pocketing his phone. “Let’s go.”
Vore is just as busy as always, the scantily clad acrobats faithful to their posts high up on their cushioned swings. I follow Aleksandr through the parting crowd, slightly miffed that he didn’t bother changing out of his tracksuit.
I spot Constantine first, a beacon of pink and sparkles even in this dark lighting, dancing by herself amidst the circle of booths and tables in one of the VIP sections. I don’t bother fighting the burning urge to locate Mercy in the sea of people. I find her sitting a few seats over, chatting with Belladonna.
As Aleksandr and I walk up to the bouncer guarding the area, my throat grows dry at the sight of the skin-tight leather pants she has on, her dagger on display over the leather. Unusual for her but just as striking as her typical dress or skirt, her tits spilling out of her black lace bustier, red painted toes in five-inch stilettos.
Gods help me.
I ignore the crowd in the VIP section, most of them witless and power-hungry upper-class drones hoping to one day marry into the ruling families anyway. My eyes stay on Mercy, her gaze now tracking my movements, flawless face stoic as I sit at an empty table near her. I meticulously endeavor to keep some distance, our seats connecting into one long booth with a vacant table between us.
When a bourbon on ice appears on the table moments later, I break eye contact with Mercy and wrap my hand around the sweating glass just for something to hold, my body thrumming with heightened tension. And if the truth wasn’t so maddening to swallow, I’d admit that the tension was sexual in nature.
I survey the area while I take a slow sip of my drink, the smoky alcohol warming my chest as I swallow it down. Aleksandr has joined Constantine as she continues to dance, now practically using him as a stripper pole. I notice Dizzy, her body half in the shadows on the opposite side of the crowd, kissing a blonde on the neck, her hand up her dress.
The patrons seem particularly uninhibited tonight. Although, I wouldn’t expect anything less at a club like Vore. The establishment is an extension of the god of excess. Aleksandr finds pleasure in witnessing the perverse and gluttonous needs of others. He instigates it, seeks it, and revels in it. His power is an ironic one. He himself can never be satisfied, whether it be from food or drink, and try as he might, he will never experience the freeing release of inebriation. He is but a humble spectator to the hedonism of his adored god.
When my attention returns to Mercy, a man now sits in Belladonna’s seat. I can’t see his face, only that he must be whispering something into her ear by the way he’s leaning into her. A stunning rage fizzles under my skin as I watch his hand trail up her arm, his fingers caressing over the scar from when I pushed her into the pit.
When I hurt her.
Me .
My body locks in a tight fury when my eyes snap to the Vainglory sigil on his signet ring.
I react from somewhere beyond my rational mind. Standing up, I fling the table out of my way, glass shattering to the floor.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mercy looking up in surprise as I stalk over to where she sits. I don’t glance her way, too busy reaching for an empty wine glass and smashing it against the table, breaking the stem off. I feel the sting of broken glass in my palm but don’t linger on it.
The next series of events happen in a flurry of movements but I cherish every second. I’ve never been one to shy away from murder, but this one feels a lot more personal than most, and heat scorches up my spine knowing Mercy will be witnessing it all.
His eyes widen when I grab his collar with a snarl, dragging him off of Mercy and out of his seat. Gripping the broken wine stem in my fist, blood from my cut now dribbling down my fingers, I shoot my arm backward to gain some momentum. His arms fly up to protect his face.
And inside the small liminal moment before I bring my arm back down, my crazed gaze flicks to Mercy. Her mouth is open in slight shock, but I don’t miss her pinkening cheeks and rising chest. I shoot her a dark grin and then plunge the broken stem deep into the man’s unprotected neck. Pulling it forcibly out again, I make sure the spray of blood doesn’t reach Mercy. And I ram the stem back into his neck.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, I let the body drop to the floor.
I shrug my shoulders as if shaking off a crick in my neck and pull out my pocket square, wiping the excess of blood from my cut palm. I fix my suit jacket and sit down.
Mercy tries to stand, but I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her backward onto my lap, letting out a few small tsks near her ear. The fragrance of burnt almonds and cherries is just as heady as always.
“He was one of yours,” Mercy says through gritted teeth, staring straight ahead and refusing to look at me.
Her legs straddle my left thigh and I hook my arm around her waist, pulling her back tighter against my chest. “All the more reason to kill him,” I answer heatedly.
“This isn’t what a united front entails,” she growls, her nails digging into my thigh through my trousers.
I reach for her pack of clove cigarettes on the table, lighting one up with her Zippo next to it. “Look around, Crèvecoeur,” I say with a bored wave of the hand, the corpse at our feet now being carried out without any brouhaha. “No one cares.”
I take a long drag, my left arm still firmly hooked around Mercy’s waist. I slowly blow out the smoke while Mercy twists her torso toward me and turns her head to the side, my gaze locking with hers. Her green eyes smolder and with it my cock strains against my trousers.
I bring the cigarette up to her lips, my fingers still stained red, and to my shock she lets her plump lips fall open for me, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. My fingers burn with the heat of her skin and my gaze is fixed on her mouth as she slowly wraps her lips around the filter and takes a deep drag. As her lungs fill with smoke, her back melts against my chest and I wonder if having to suffer the wrath of our gods would be less painful than seeing her like this and not being able to do anything about it.
“Now tell me,” I whisper into her ear as she tilts her chin upward, blowing out the white smoke. “You knew that the useless heap of muscles and bones was about to die, didn’t you?”
Upon hearing my question, she tries to rip herself away from me. But it’s futile. I laugh darkly as she struggles against my lap. My breath feathers over her neck, and I don’t miss her skin pebbling as my thumb idly rubs circles on her waist.
She straightens her back, head now facing forward, but answers my question. “Yes, I could sense death around him.”
I’m suddenly made aware of a subtle rock of her hips against my thigh.
I hum deep and low as I place the cigarette in the ashtray. When I lean back toward Mercy, I graze my fingers over her inner thigh before I settle us back into the seat. I savor the hitch in her breath and the subtle grind of her hips. I can practically feel the heat of her cunt through her leather pants. The feeling is a blissful kind of torture.
I trail my hand up the valley of her breasts and then her neck, cradling my palm and fingers just below her chin. “Why act so surprised then?” I rasp before sucking her earlobe into my mouth.
A hushed gasp tumbles out of her lips while she pushes her ass into my cock, her hands gripping the booth on either side of my leg. I let out a low groan, her cunt beginning to grind harder into my thigh.
“I didn’t know it would be by your hand,” she answers dismissively, but she can’t hide the tremor of lust in her voice.
Her hips begin to rhythmically rock back and forth, and my balls are so tight they ache. I let go of her chin and grab her waist, helping her pitch her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh.
“I don’t need you to explain to me in words how watching me kill him made you feel,” I hiss into her skin while my own skin burns and burns and burns. “Considering how you’re currently fucking my lap, you sick little fuck.”
Mercy laughs.
She laughs …
It’s small, barely noticeable, but the noise leaves me momentarily stunned.
“And what about you?” she says a little breathlessly. She slides her hips forward and reaches back to palm my hard cock. It throbs painfully in response. I bite down on a growl as my lips blaze up her bare throat. “Desperate wolf, wanting the one thing he can’t have.”
Again, she tries to wriggle out of my grasp, but I’m stronger and fueled by the irritating sound of her last words. “Let me go,” she bites out, her burning gaze clashing with mine.
Her chest heaves, and my fingers dance over the curves of the top of her breasts before saying, “What makes you think I want anything to do with a feral creature like you?” My hand moves down her stomach, over my linked arm, and grazes over the seam of her leather pants. She doesn’t say a word, but her lips part when I put pressure over her clit. It’s a slow taunting circling motion, her eyes burning as I do so. I then splay my entire palm over her cunt, pulling her hard against me. “The very thought of you is a plague I’d rather not catch ,” I spit, finally unhooking my arm from around her waist and pushing her off my lap.
She falls onto the booth, but I avoid the glare she’s most likely directing my way and stand up. I ignore my erection, straightening my cuffs before exiting the area, suddenly needing fresh air before I do something I’ll regret until my last rightful breath.