35. Mercy
35
MERCY
I t’s only back in the ruler’s quarters that I gather exactly how much time has passed since yesterday’s attack. There were no clocks underground as if witnessing time’s passage meant nothing if we had nowhere to go.
Wolfgang and I separated as soon as we made our way back up to the living quarters. It was a confusing kind of relief, one doused with a heavy dose of yearning.
Never quite felt such a thing.
The sun hangs low in the Pravitia skyline, the orange glow glimmering against the buildings and windows. It’s been over twenty-four hours since the bombing occurred and the remnants of its wreckage have been almost all cleared away.
I can hear the noises of the clean-up crew through the open French doors of the balcony even from way up here. I usually keep them closed, especially with all the heavy rain we’ve had lately. But I’m craving the fresh air like a prisoner craving freedom.
All three of my dogs are crowding me as I stand listless next to the open doors. Lost in thought. Lost in feeling. éclair bumps my hand, and I scratch her head mindlessly.
I should shower.
Flashes of me on my knees, Wolfgang looking down at me with insatiable hunger has me physically jolting in place.
Maybe not a shower.
I should change into something from my own closet at the very least.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my errant, useless thoughts.
“Miss?” I hear Jeremial say.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Vainglory needs you in the drawing room.”
I let out a small impatient groan. What now ?
I stalk to the bedchamber door and open it. “Did he say what for?” I bite out, not even certain who or what I’m irritated with—just that I am.
“You have a visitor from the Agonis House.”
I glance at him questioningly. “You mean Constantine?”
He shakes his head, his back against the hallway wall, hands clasped tight in front of him. “No miss, Albert.”
“Her lackey?” I respond rhetorically as I begin to walk through the enfilade, leaving him behind. “Why would he want to see us both,” I add under my breath.
Entering the drawing room, I find Wolfgang sitting on one of the velvet divans, a tumbler full of amber liquid held loosely in his grip. He’s changed into black trousers and a dark mauve shirt, the collar left unbuttoned. Albert stands near the door. Waiting.
“What is it?” I say as a form of greeting, and both men’s gazes snap to mine.
Albert stands up straighter, his large physique taking up most of the doorframe.
“I have a message from Miss Agonis,” he says with an unusually deep voice.
My gaze bounces to Wolfgang and finds the same questioning confusion.
“Why didn’t she just call us herself?” Wolfgang asks.
“I am to escort you,” Albert answers solemnly.
“To where?” I snap, impatience bubbling under my skin.
“The ritual needs to be finalized tonight.” He shrugs. “The moon must be in the same sign.”
Wolfgang lets out a long annoyed breath, his hand dragging through his short beard, and I have half a mind to storm out to protest Constantine’s facetious demand. I cross my arms in protest but don’t move from where I’m standing because there’s a small voice beseeching me not to defy the gods when all I’ve been doing in the past month is exactly that.
I share a wordless exchange with Wolfgang, something behind his eyes tells me a similar thought is rattling through his mind.
“We can do it here,” I say while not breaking eye contact.
Albert interjects. “Miss Agonis demands the ritual be performed in her sanguinary cellar.”
Still glaring at Wolfgang, my heart beating widely, I rasp, “ Fine. ”
Nearly two hours later, we arrive at the very limits of Constantine’s property. I had the men wait while I took a long shower and changed into a black sheath dress and fishnets. There’s a chill in the air, and I hug my mink coat closer to my body; Wolfgang does the same with the wool collars of his overcoat.
There’s barely a sliver of moon in the night sky while we approach the nondescript door hidden inside a small copse of trees. I’m surprised it’s not painted bright pink for how Constantine likes to go about things. Pulling a skeleton key out from his pocket, Albert unlocks the door and waves us inside.
Wolfgang nods, signaling me to go first, and I pass him, the scent of vanilla and bourbon tickling my nose as he follows me inside.
The creak of door hinges has me looking over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I bark when I find Albert closing the door with him still outside.
He stops in his tracks, his expression unperturbed. “Just following Miss Agonis’ orders.” He points his thumb behind him. “I’m to wait here.”
“Will Miss Agonis be joining us?” Wolfgang asks, his voice dripping with condescension.
Albert shakes his head. “You will find everything you’ll need down those steps.” And with that, he closes the door leaving us once again—trapped and alone.
I can taste the tension between us like sugared poison on my tongue.
Wolfgang clears his throat. “Well then,” he says, walking around me to get to the stairs. “Let’s get this over with.”
There’s a chill coating every word he speaks, and my logical self can’t fault him for it. What happened in the underground quarters was foolish and downright dangerous. However, the pinch in my heart is anything but logical.
I muffle a small sigh and start down the stairs, my stilettos counting the dozen or so steps until I reach the bottom. The long corridor is dark and damp, the earthy smell reminding me of the flambeau-lit underground tunnel leading to Pandaemonium.
A large steel door greets us at the very end. Wolfgang glances at me from over his shoulder, a curious look etched on his face before pulling on the thick metal latch. The room inside resembles a cavernous cellar, the space dimly lit with cold artificial lighting. Countless rows of shelves built to accommodate the uneven walls house thousands upon thousands of small labeled vials stacked together like sardines in a tin can. Different shapes and sizes for the different centuries, some with yellowing labels half-peeled and some with the labels missing entirely. I don’t need to peer any closer to know they all contain blood.
A large wooden table sits in the middle of the room, and atop it is the same paraphernalia used at the inauguration: A velvet cushion, a ceremonial dagger, and two empty vials. We approach it without exchanging a single word. I idly wonder if the dagger is the same one as yesterday, somehow retrieved and salvaged from the wreckage.
The silence shifts. Like death’s call, it whispers in my ears about the immaterial and the unseen. Wolfgang’s eyes lift up, his gaze simmering with everything we have refused to speak aloud, and I watch him as he slowly slides his coat off his svelte shoulders.
I mirror his action, goosebumps breaking out all over my arms as the frigid air hits my skin. We both unceremoniously let our coats drop to our feet, our eyes still tensely locked together. The small lift of his lip is enticing as he rolls up his left sleeve with deliberate movements, revealing the day-old cut on his wrist.
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.
I lick my lips and break eye contact, feeling like I’m sinking into quicksand.
My attention travels to his hand reaching for the dagger instead, and my heart skips a beat in response to the anticipation washing over me. Picking it up by the blade, Wolfgang holds the dagger toward me, coaxing me to take it.
“After you,” Wolfgang says slowly, a hint of sensuality in his tone. The timbre of his voice sends chills through my body.
I curl my fingers around the handle as I approach him, my other hand searing under the touch of his wrist. I hold his gaze, my thumb smoothing over the broken skin while his throat works around a hard swallow.
I 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.
“Apologies,” I say lazily with mock innocence, “did that hurt?”
His fingers tighten around my throat, and I am engulfed once again by the flame of wretched desire. “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.”
The uncertainty of what I do want has me drowning in a vat of muddled words. I take the dagger to his wrist instead. He curses when the blade slices into his skin anew, and I use his momentary distraction to free myself from his grasp. Taking a few steps back, I try as best I can to gulp down air that doesn’t carry the heady scent that is distinctly his.
Wolfgang stays motionless for a long tense beat, his gaze blazing with unspoken desire, his chest swelling with ragged breaths while blood slowly drips down his hand and fingers.
He pounces on an exhale, lunging at me, arms raised. My reaction lags, almost as if my subconscious held me on a leash knowing full well I have no intention of running from Wolfgang.
His bloody hand splays wide over my chin and cheek as he swings me around, walking me backward into the wooden table. My pulse races, exhilaration burning up my chest and cheeks. My reflexes finally catch up to me, and I press the dagger’s blade to his throat, but Wolfgang is unfazed. Even I know my threat is half-hearted. Swiping the cushion and vials off the table, he pins my back to the hard surface.
The sound of glass breaking barely pierces my awareness. Not when Wolfgang forcibly hikes my dress up over my hips, his eyes spiteful but drenched in pulverizing hunger. His leering tut, paired with his fingers roving over my dagger’s harness has my breath hitching with a burning ache. His touch is demanding, rough, and impatient, ripping through some of the holes in my fishnets.
“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.”
The implications of his reply pound behind my ribcage, my own maddening obsession seeking solace in his words. It claims this moment for itself. Silently, almost daringly, I let my arm drop down beside me, the ceremonial dagger clanging to the floor. Wolfgang’s glare flits to the ground, then quickly back up to me.
In a flurry of rapid moments, he lets go of my face and bites down on the blade of my dagger between his teeth before ripping my fishnets open at the hips with both hands. His hand swiftly wraps around my neck before I even have time to think of lifting myself up. Besides, my rational mind has never been the driving force behind this crazed waltz Wolfgang and I have fallen victim to. I’m naked under the fishnets, and my pussy throbs in erratic anticipation. I slowly lick my lips, and Wolfgang’s blood pulses on my tongue as if I’m tasting his very heartbeat.
Taking the dagger out of his mouth, his expression turns slightly thoughtful as he drags the blade over the small tattoo in the space between my hip and thigh. His dark gaze pins me even harder to the table.
“I once asked you if this blade had ever tasted the life force of a cold-blooded Crèvecoeur,” he muses.
He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, the dagger slicing into my skin as a small gasp falls out of my mouth. He chuckles darkly, his eyes turning manic and obsessive as he presses his thumb into the fresh cut with his free hand, the pain making my hips buck upward.
I’ve always enjoyed blurring the lines between pleasure and pain, but feeling Wolfgang circle the cut with his thumb, spreading my blood over my unmarked skin is unrivaled. The lines aren’t blurred, they are simply nonexistent, and without those useless boundaries, I’m ushered into mind-bending arousal.
A low mewl rises out from my throat when Wolfgang moves downward to my clit, his thumb still stained red with my blood. He circles it lazily, his gaze fixed on my open legs, and his breath turns ragged as he slides his thumb downward, the blood mixing with my wanton arousal.
I find myself blindly grasping at the edges of the table, mouth agape and eyes burrowing into his blown-out pupils. 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.
I’m rooted in place as I watch him pull the dagger out from between my legs and bring it to his mouth, his eyes a sea of black waves while he flattens his tongue over the handle and gives it a long, slow lick. My pussy squeezes around nothing but air at the sight, a flood of desire dragging me under the surf.
“You even taste like obsession,” he muses, his voice full of grit. His eyes turn wistful for only a second before hardening and turning the handle over to me, tapping it to my lips. “Open.”
My mind is much too ablaze with passion to deny him, my body just as eager. My mouth drops open, my gaze fixed on his as he slowly slides it in, my lips wrapping around the hard pommel. His eyes dip to my mouth, watching in rapt attention as the dagger glides in and out. In and out. His hips pitch into the table with the movement, his hard cock digging into my leg.
Finally, he pulls the handle out and drags it over the fresh cut, my fingers gripping the table harder at the delicious sting before sinking it deep into my pussy with one thrust of the hand. My long moan echoes around the cold cellar, my stomach straining against his palm.
His dark chuckle vibrates all over my heated skin as he fucks me, slowly, deliberately. “What a delight ,” he says, his lip tugging into a harsh grin. “To have your own dagger turn you into my whore.”
His words should incense me, instead, my pussy pulses, squeezing around the ridged handle. I try to reach his collar, but he evades me, sliding the dagger out and throwing it to the ground before crouching down to the floor. 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.
My back arches, Wolfgang’s name sinful and heavy on my tongue as his hot breath dances over my clit before his lips wrap around it.
I feel crazed.
I never want it to stop.
Never want us to stop.
I claw at his hair, pulling, tugging, digging his face harder into me while he continues to pump into me, his fingers drenched and squelching with my heady arousal.
My climax builds and builds like a powerful current until I have nowhere to go but to freefall.
Wolfgang chooses that exact moment to pull away and stand up. My whines have never sounded more desperate, and I am too far gone to care.
Hastily, he unbuttons his trousers, his blacked-out gaze burrowing a hole into me, and pushes them down his legs. 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.
My clit throbs with aching arousal, the vision of him looking so undone just as enticing as his release dripping down my wet slit. 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.
Grabbing my dress into a fist, he forcibly tugs me up to him, his lips crashing into mine while his thumb toys with my swollen clit. I can taste my blood on his tongue and can hardly fight the need to bite down so I too can revel in the taste of him.
The sound of my arousal mixed with his fills the room, our anguished moans rising up and up and up until my climax crashes into me like a fatal collision. Wolfgang fucks me through it, his kiss turning me into ashes.
It must be only seconds, but eventually we both settle back into our bodies, and with it, reality returns. Wolfgang pulls away first and avoids my gaze, the sudden disunion stinging alongside my fresh cut as we both fix ourselves as best we can. 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.