Chapter 30 Luther
LUTHER
Thane Rorvik
Nyx is going to tutor me in Politics. And I’m going to help her with wielding.
Roth Kovacs
When?
Thane Rorvik
After she’s done auditing the air affinity class.
Killian Hastings
I call next.
Thane Rorvik
You don’t need tutoring.
Killian Hastings
But we do have Chem labs. Two birds, one stone.
Roth Kovacs
Both of you go. Watch her.
I have to mute the group chat for the rest of the day, because I can’t stand to see them simp for this girl.
Thane’s fixating on her. Killian won’t stop running his fucking mouth.
And Roth refuses to shut it down. I swear to fuck, she’s going to get us all killed.
Just because our families have been quiet since Saturnalia doesn’t mean we won’t eventually pay for spending the break at Thane’s estate.
Not only that, but with the Governor’s Gala in a couple months, they’ll descend on Dreadhurst and we won’t have any way to escape.
If they get even a whiff of any weakness or distraction because of her, we’re all fucked.
The only thing that shakes the sense of dread that follows me over the next day is the raging lust from yet another evening sparring with Nyx.
No matter how hard I try to scrub her scent off my skin, it’s imprinted on my brain, just like the memory of her curves makes my palms itch.
Steady food and exercise have transformed her from thin and fragile into someone who I could—fuck.
Who I could break apart and put back together piece by piece.
My cock throbs as I shower, just like it has every night after we’ve sparred for the past seven fucking months.
And I stroke it, just like I have every night for the past seven fucking months.
Not even the shame and guilt of stalking her through the trees at the Ostara bonfire the other night, watching as she kept her distance from everyone else tempers my craving.
She didn’t drink. She didn’t dance. She didn’t do anything.
Just… watched everyone else. She should have been out there with the other witches.
But she’s a smart woman. She learns from her mistakes, like thinking she’d be safe at Samhain.
Like wearing that stunning fucking dress.
By the time I’m done washing my hair, my dick’s at half-mast because I’ve fucking Pavlov’d myself by jacking off with leftover conditioner every night.
I start stroking from root to tip until I’m fully hard and massage my balls with my other hand.
As I concentrate on the tip, twisting my fist and swiping my thumb over the tip, a trail of precum leaks with every stroke and I’m once again grateful the running water conceals my increasingly heavy breaths.
I imagine everything I’d do to her. Everything.
Throwing her down on the bed so she’s on her hands and knees, ass in the air.
Pulling up that black dress, seeing her naked ass and dripping pussy begging for my tongue.
I’d spread her open and fucking feast, edging her over and over until she’s limp and sobbing and desperate to be filled.
Then I’d turn her ass cherry red and hilt myself into her body with one stroke, mounting her like a goddamned animal.
She’d cry out and writhe beneath me, setting off every primal instinct to rut into her, to brand her insides so she’ll never forget me.
I’d bring one hand to the front of her throat and the other to her clit so she couldn’t get away, wringing orgasm after orgasm from her trembling, shaking body and tasting the tears running down her cheek.
Burying every inch of myself as deeply as I can.
The thought of her stretched around me, flooding her with cum until it drips around the tight seal of her swollen pussy around my cock is what finally tips me over the edge.
My cum runs down shower wall as I keep stroking, trying stay in the fantasy of how I’d pull the dress off her limp body and running my hands over her sweaty skin.
Massaging her breasts, trailing my palm down her stomach and pressing on her pelvis to feel my hard cock still inside of her, right where it belongs.
I’d cover us with the blanket and wrap my arms around her, falling asleep to the slow rise and fall of her chest.
The ache in my chest as the fantasy fades takes my breath away, because I’ll never fucking have that.
Killian’s had her, even if he doesn’t remember it.
Thane’s had her.
If Roth decides he wants her, he’ll have her.
They’re the Heirs.
And I’m not.
The next three weeks are a waking nightmare.
I see her twice a week, but I hear about her every.
fucking. day. With Killian and Thane having class with her, and Roth reserving them a private study room in the library, I don’t go a single day without hearing her name.
They’ve ignored my warnings about the Legacies noticing their attention wavering.
Nyx is the only one who seems to agree with me about not getting any more involved if Killian’s complaints about her continuing to rebuff him are true. Which pisses me off even further.
I try convincing Carrick that she doesn’t need me as her sparring partner anymore, but he ignores me too. Apparently, the number of injuries among students in his class has plummeted since I’ve been training with Nyx. Not that he cares she’s been bearing the brunt of my strength.
Imagine that.
But it also means I can’t get away from her—not during the day, and not at night when my dreams are filled with fantasies of fighting and fucking.
Not even when I let my demon rise and retreat to the back of my mind.
One night, I catch her scent on the wind and track it to the Training Center, only to see her and Mondragon sparring through a clerestory window just below the roof.
I sat on that ledge, invisible, and watched as she got her ass handed to her over and over, but she never stayed down.
Not that night, or any night since over the last couple weeks.
Now when we spar, she’s not the only one walking away with bruises.
I’m icing my knee at dinner yet again when Killian finally pushes me too far.
“I knew you’d fall for her eventually, bro,” he taunts with a smirk after he catches me limping.
“Will you fucking shut up?” I seethe, throwing my fork down so it clatters on my plate.
“What the hell’s—” he starts.
“I am so fucking sick of hearing about her every goddamned day. If you three want to have a fucking circle jerk, do it on your own fucking time and leave me out of it. Fucking Christ.”
Roth crooks his eyebrow at me. “Luther—”
“No, dude,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to say shit to me. You’re the one who’s always ten steps ahead of everyone else—how are you so fucking blind to how this is going to blow up in your faces?”
Thane opens his mouth to argue, but I’m done.
“She saw you overdose. She knows you’re failing your classes.
” I look at Killian next. “She fucked you, and you haven’t touched anyone else since.
” Finally, I turn to Roth. “She could ruin them if she talks to the wrong people. You think the Legacies haven’t already noticed something’s up?
Lyra will do anything to sink her claws into Killian.
Cynthia too, if she thinks it’ll give her a leg up.
And if Calanthe even begins to suspect you’re reneging on the betrothal?
She’ll either kill Nyx herself or go crying to Laurent, who’ll go crying to Renard.
What’ll that cost you, Roth? Will he beat you like the last time you disobeyed him?
Or worse, give you to Rebecca, and we won’t be able to save you. ”
I turn on Killian, whose arms are crossed.
“How about you? What do you think Preston will do to Claire when he gets word you’re not keeping the Legacies in line and wrapped around your dick because of some powerless nobody?
Or you, Thane—” I say, turning to him. “If Soren hears you’re choosing her instead of breeding more little Leviathans with a perfect pedigree, you think he’ll let her live?
Especially after he propositioned you to fuck his own wife?
” I drop my fork onto my plate and stand up, looking all three of them in the eye.
“She doesn’t even have her powers yet. When she does, she’ll either be a player or a pawn.
Everything she’s learned will be used to break you if it means the difference in surviving this fucking place.
She’s already got the fucking moratus dragon making a claim on her.
The Necromancer’s in her back pocket. Not to mention the Hektreia coven possibly backing or even inducting her if she stays friends with them.
But no, go ahead Kill, make another fucking joke and see how long you last.”
I stand up suddenly and throw my plate into the sink where it shatters, but ignore it and walk to my room, slamming my door so hard the hinges nearly give out.
I steer clear of them the next day.
The day after that, they steer clear of me, too.
I’m at the end of my rope by the time I step onto the muddy field between the Training Center and the Temple, dreading yet another evening of cock-teasing torture disguised as sparring.
It doesn’t help that Carrick got a bug up his ass about toughening up his students in preparation for the Crypteia despite the drizzling rain and cold mud.
Like most of the other students, Nyx is clearly unprepared for being outdoors today.
Some of them, like Calanthe and her fellow Lust demons, are clearly unbothered by the weather saturating their skin-tight clothes as they run the dirt track during warm-ups.
Even though I try to stay at the back of the pack, I can’t stop looking at Nyx.
How her yoga pants and t-shirt mold to every fucking curve.