56 Birdie #2
“Give me a moment.” Dáinn looks out of sorts as he strips off his suit coat and tosses it on the closest chair. Now he’s in a dress shirt, like Jasper, minus the suspenders. His rounded shoulders fill out the shirt, the fabric taut as he flexes his arms, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.
Jasper rolls his eyes. “Really? You think sleeves are gonna get in the way of this?”
“Quiet,” the wraith rasps. “It’s all I can do not to drag you to the floor and feast.”
“That’s literally the point of this exercise.” Jasper spreads his arms wide. “I’m right here, wraith. You want my soul? Come and get it.”
Growling low, Dáinn lunges. He grabs Jasper by the shoulders, and their lips press together in a kiss. When Dáinn attacked me in the woods earlier, it never felt like a real kiss. From the first moment our mouths connected, I felt the lift of my soul as he drained me.
This looks different. It feels different.
Jasper and Dáinn are just . . . kissing.
Jasper is letting the wraith kiss him. Oh god, I think he likes it.
He groans into it, his hand fisting into Dáinn’s hair, messing up the low bun Baz magicked for him.
Their mouths part slightly as their tongues tease.
My men are kissing. My witch and my wraith.
And just like that, my core is molten. They look so beautiful together.
So powerful. Jasper is the one taking charge, not breaking their kiss as he strokes his hands down Dáinn’s muscled back, settling them at his narrow hips.
“Do it,” he growls against the wraith’s lips. “Dáinn, take it—”
“I can’t,” he pants. “I don’t want to hurt you again. Please, don’t make me hurt you—”
“Just fucking do it,” Jasper all but begs. He grinds against him, and I don’t have to imagine the feel of his hardness pressed against Dáinn’s thigh. The whimper that leaves the wraith sounds all too human. I’m squirming to join them, even as I’m just as eager to keep watching.
“This soul is yours,” Jasper whispers, coaxing the wraith to come out. “Remember how sweet I taste? Golden delicious apples. You know you want another bite.”
“Gods, help me—”
Jasper grips Dáinn’s chin. “Do I have to fucking say please? Only yours, Dáinn. Take me. Fucking claim me—”
The kiss changes as Dáinn changes. The shadows he keeps locked within his render pool out, darkening all his edges.
They spiral around Jasper’s legs locking them together.
Dáinn’s lips part, and now they’re no longer kissing.
He’s sucking in a deep breath of air. His render changes too, accommodating the magic of the wraith trapped within.
His jaw stretches impossibly wide, covering Jasper’s mouth and chin as he breathes in.
In moments, Jasper goes limp. His hands cling to the wraith as he slumps to the floor.
Dáinn follows him down, catching the witch in his arms, folding him in his lap.
I’m mesmerized, watching Dáinn devour a soul.
Then Jasper moans, but it’s no longer with want or hunger.
It’s not the sound of mounting passion. It’s the sound of pain. The sound of fear.
My wraith is eating my witch and Jasper wants him to stop.
Dáinn is hurting Jasper.
All at once, I’m lunging forward, my fingers digging into Dáinn’s angelic hair as I jerk him back. “STOP,” I snarl in his ear.
He chokes, whimpering with frustration. In a show of strength I didn’t know I possess, I fling the massive wraith aside.
He goes flying, crashing into the bar, scattering the stools.
My poor witch lies crumpled on the ground, white as a sheet.
He’s panting for breath, but still very much alive.
I drop to my knees at his side and tip up his chin, searching his face. “Jasper, are you okay?”
“M’okay.”
I smooth my hands over his shoulders and down his arms, feeling how they tremble. “Are you sure? I’m sorry, I froze there for a second. God, I’m so sorry—”
“Fine,” he says again. “Just knocked—my wind—” He squeezes my wrist, a little bloom of reassurance filling me at his touch. “Really, I’m good.”
Okay, at least that was a complete sentence.
Satisfied, I rise to my feet and round on the wraith.
Released from the haze of the feast, Dáinn is groaning, still a little delirious.
“Gods—Jasper—” He scrambles off his back, shoving bar stools out of the way as he rises up to his hands and knees, looking for the witch.
I step between them and hold out a hand. “Stop.”
To my delight, the wraith goes still. Eyes locked on me, he waits for my next command.
From his spot on the chaise, Baz glances between us. “Is this still part of it?”
“No,” I reply. “The feast is over. I have no control over Dáinn now except that which he gives me.”
“Ah,” the mage replies. “And . . . what’s the point of this part of the exercise—”
“Shut up,” I call over my shoulder. “Talk again, and I’ll have my wraith void you into a moon crater.” When the mage stays silent, I smile, taking a step closer to Dáinn. “Because you are my wraith, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he says on a breath.
“You would do anything for me. Fight any battle, cross any realm . . . through all of time.”
He closes his eyes tight, taking a deep breath. “Yes.”
Power and purpose course through me. There is no magic here. Dáinn is choosing to obey. He needs this. I can see it in his eyes, the unspoken pained plea. He wants me to take control. Glancing down, I take in the thick ridge he can’t hide in the front of his sexy, tailored pants.
What’s that saying? Hate and love are two sides of the same coin?
It appears my sweet wraith is something of a masochist.
His confession in the woods earlier made me mindful.
I think he hates being a wraith. He doesn’t want to eat us, but he can’t deny how good we taste, how necessary it is to feed.
So, he suffers. Loving the chase, craving the hunt, needing the feast .
. . and dying a little inside every time he claims a life.
He thinks he’s a monster. He said as much to Jasper.
He fears the monster is all we see too. Forcing himself to feed on us when all he wants to do is protect us?
Love us? Keep us safe? It’s a cruelty. Hurting us hurts him. I have to soothe this ache.
Holding my head high, I give him what he needs. I see him for the wounded creature he is, and I take control. Lifting a hand, I snap my fingers. “Come here, Dáinn.”
He crawls forward on his knees, not stopping until he can reach out with his hands, reeling me in by the hips. “Birdie, I’m sorry—”
I place a finger over his lips, trailing it along his jaw until I can gently brush my fingers through his curls, now loose and hanging around his shoulders. “You did so well for us,” I soothe. “You like doing as you’re told, don’t you?”
He squeezes my hips, burrowing his face against me. “Birdie, please . . .”
My poor wraith is so touch starved and lonely.
Ludmilla could never deserve him. Wretched witch, I’ll kill her myself.
I stroke my hands over his broad shoulders, determined to right two hundred years of wrong.
“A good wraith deserves to be cherished. Would you like that, angel? Do you want me to cherish you?”
Groaning, he wraps both arms around me and breathes me in, hands flexing tight. “Please.”
I use my grip in his hair to gently tip his head back. “You like sweet things, don’t you? And my witch’s soul tastes so good.”
“Yes.” He’s nodding. “Want more.”
“No.” I pull his head back, holding his gaze. “We can’t take more or else we’ll hurt him.”
He nods again, tears in his eyes.
“And you don’t want to hurt him, do you?”
“No.”
“Because you love our witch.”
His eyes shut again, his face a mask of pain. “Please, I can’t bear it.”
“I know.” Blinking back my own tears, I smooth my hands through his soft hair. “We have to be gentle with Jasper. He can’t stop you like I can. He can’t give you back to yourself. When the ache gets too great, you come to me. I’ll always offer you something sweet. That’s what you deserve, Dáinn.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t—”
“Well, I say you do,” I correct. “And you’re mine now, remember?
I take care of you. I mean to cherish you.
” Without giving him another second to doubt, I shimmy this sequined flapper dress up around my hips.
Of course, Baz didn’t magic me any panties.
Gripping Dáinn by the hair with one hand, I hold the dress up with the other and pull him in closer. “Is this what you want, angel?”
His groan turns feral. That rasping rattle is back as his hands squeeze me tight enough to bruise.
“Yesss.” The “s” is a low hiss that sends a shiver of excitement up my spine.
He presses his face to my pussy and breathes deep, his nose nuzzling against my soft curls.
Tipping his head back, he smiles up at me, his eyes black with need.
“Cotton candy rainbows and peaches with cream.”
My own smile is adoring. “It’s yours. Feast.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers part my pussy lips, then his tongue is there, teasing my clit, setting my body on fire.
He’s not gentle, and neither am I. This isn’t sex, it’s ritual.
This has to happen. Glancing to my right, I see the mage sitting on his chaise.
His silly snacks are gone. Now he’s watching us with rapt attention.
Good.
I want him to watch. He needs to know what this looks like.
Raw connection, primal ache. Giving because I can, because this is real.
And because Dáinn deserves every good thing.
God, he’s mine. I don’t care about his other bond.
I mean to break it, shatter it like glass. This wraith haunts only me now.