Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Violet
Lifted from the ground, I am tossed over Atlas’s shoulder.
Rafe and Lark’s protests are met with meaty smacks as fists connect with flesh. A low, pained grunt, and we are moving, being taken down a winding stone corridor deep into the mountain, where sconces burn in the walls, bringing pockets of fleeting illumination.
“Food and drink,” Atlas barks at someone that passes in the shadows. Footsteps patter, fast and urgent—human.
I am lowered to a sandy floor, warm under my feet. The air is thick with unfamiliar scents that creep under my skin and bring a tingle.
Released, Rafe and Lark crowd around me, their arms forming a shield—and one I cling to as I fight the pull of my imminent heat.
I blink the bleary edge from my vision, trying to work out where we are.
The blurred shapes of human servants form a line, laden with bundles of bedding and trays bearing pitchers, covered plates, and bowls.
Everything is stacked against one curved wall on a low ledge.
The scent of the food leaves me slightly nauseous.
“Tend her,” Atlas says. His voice, so close, makes me jump. I drag my eyes from the bounty of food and supplies. He is standing right before us. “Make sure she drinks and eats—if she can.”
He pivots before striding away.
“Sick bastard,” Lark snarls.
He turns me away, and my eyes alight on the low, fur-covered circular pit in the center of the room. Surrounding it is the soft, warm sand we stand on, and surrounding that are circular tiers of fur-covered stone benches.
“Where are we?” I mumble. “What is happening?”
I peer up at the high arched roof above, then down and around me. I swallow. Most of the griffin shifters take their human form; two are still griffins, and several are in between, with huge wings flapping wide or curled into their human backs. All are naked.
Five. Six. Seven. Others enter—more than I can count.
The heavy wooden door shuts with a thud.
They gather in clusters, talking low, passing drinks between them, settling down to watch, their attention firmly upon me.
Rafe curves his arm around my waist, guiding me down to the softness in the center. “Don’t look at them, Violet.” He turns to Lark. “Get her a drink. Let’s see if she will take a little.”
I can barely see, only feel, my senses narrowing on the male who holds me and the soft fur under my stumbling steps.
I sink to my knees, a goblet pressed to my lips, and I gulp greedily, cool water quenching my blazing thirst. As I finish the last drop, I knock the goblet away, sending it clattering against the stone.
Too much, too fast—and I cry out as savage contractions rip through my womb.
A hush falls over the room.
“It’s alright. We have got you,” Lark says, his voice strained. “It is just us. We have done this before. We know you remember. Do you trust us? Do you trust us to care for you?”
I do. Memories of past times are front and center in my mind. But maybe it is always like this—maybe I always remember only to forget. I cannot bear to forget them again. It makes me want to weep.
“Strip her,” Atlas commands. His voice is soft, yet it seems to fill the small chamber.
I glance across, finding him lounging on the fur-covered tier directly ahead.
A golden goblet in one hand, his vast gray wings spread out behind him and appearing almost black in this light.
To his right sits a younger man with tousled red hair and an intent, brooding expression.
To his left lounges an aristocratic man with ash-blond hair, his narrow lips curled into a smirk.
Instinctively, I know these two men are the russet and the brown griffins whom we met in the forest.
My eyes drop unwittingly to the huge cock nestled between Atlas’s spread thighs. There is no mistaking the deep ridges curling around it. It flexes against his belly, fully erect.
“Strip her now,” Atlas repeats, “or I shall do it. And I am in no condition to be gentle.”
“She needs somewhere quiet,” Rafe grits out.
Atlas raises the goblet to his lips and drinks slowly. His cock flexes again, and clear stickiness leaks from the tip and slides over the crown.
My throat is parched again. I cannot tear my gaze away. The scent hits me, reaches into me, rips open a gnawing hunger in my belly.
Atlas lowers the goblet. “Rest assured, thief, we shall not interfere with your tending and shall remain suitably quiet. No one shall disturb us. No one shall disturb you.”
Heaven help me, they intend to watch.
I’m too far gone to care and claw at the collar of my shirt, pulling at the fabric, desperate to be free of it. I can’t stand the feeling of material against my skin.
“Gods,” Lark says thickly. “We need to help her.”
Rafe growls, sharp and angry—I have never heard him growl like that before.
“Strip. Now!” Atlas’s command booms. It sends another traitorous cramp through me.
He is an alpha, of sorts. That is how this works, how they mate with omegas… His scent, his presence—his command—are already affecting me.
Rafe stiffens. His face is a savage mask of hopelessness and fury.
“We need to tend her,” Lark presses again. “We cannot take them. We cannot stop them from watching. She needs us, Rafe. Our princess needs us.”
Lark
My father was a shifter and met my mother while traveling on pack business far from his home. He died protecting us, before we made it back to his pack.
It is not as unusual as one might think for shifters to take human mates, but I also know packs do not readily accept outsiders.
Seeking to join my father's people would not have been easy—we would have been the lowest of the low, and pack life is brutal by nature, especially for an unmated human woman with a half-wolf whelp.
So we lived among humans. My mother missed the shifter she had met so briefly for the rest of her life, right up until the fever took her to the Goddess's side one winter.
I don't think about that side of me often.
My wolf is content to remain in the shadows of my mind.
Nor do I linger on my past. I made my peace with the dice that rolled and took up a position as a soldier for the estate that belonged to Violet's family.
There I found contentment and connection with the men I worked and fought beside.
But then I met Violet and her adventuring, and I found a different kind of belonging—a sense of home—with her and Rafe.
But this place, this debauchery that is unfolding, has my animal side prowling and snarling.
She belongs to us. She is ours.
Only we don’t stand a fucking chance. The bastards bested us with contemptuous ease.
We are nothing to them. That they allow us this much is part of some greater scheme.
I’ve no doubt they will eventually push us out or kill us.
Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get some menial role here as a servant, where we might at least see her.
Maybe that would be worse than nothing.
Maybe this moment here is all we shall have. One final time that she will remember.
One final time to love her before she is ripped away.
“I assume you have some clue as to how to tend her,” the big blond bastard sitting beside the leader drawls.