Chapter 29
Now what?
Amo
My cock is sticky, bordering on crusty with how it’s drying.
That was so hot.
Aside from the sex, though, I have to say that this adventure has been entirely anticlimactic.
I was expecting some kind of fight at least. An argument. Something to blame all of Moros’s grumpiness and Wilson’s self-exile on.
And as I lean heavily on Wilson, his hand attached to my waist keeping me upright, the rest of the elders start filing in, I realize I might just find it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wilson growls beneath his breath and the hairs on the back of my neck raise.
Aw, shit, here we go.
“What is it?” I ask, following his gaze as Moros stiffens against me, to an older man with grey hair at his temples and a properness to him that makes me want to gag. Not a hair seems out of place, his robes perfectly flat down his chest without a single wrinkle.
But his face … though I think I’ve seen him around the weekend bonfires … fuck he looks familiar.
The whole room seems to go quieter in his presence.
Even Kyrt, who has since fixed himself and wiped the sweat from his brow, stiffens.
“Evening, sire,” the little shit mumbles, his eyes rolling the second the newcomer takes a seat on the couch. In the same spot Kyrt was huddled up with Derek in.
The old guy ignores him, and even though I don’t know Kyrt and he seems like the type to earn it, that pisses me off.
How disrespectful.
Apparently, Moros thinks so, too, because he’s inching closer to the man and flexing his fists at his sides, a wave of something unpleasant emanating from him.
“To what could I possibly owe this … pleasure…” The elder’s deep, dark, and knowing gaze lands on my man and narrows in an all too familiar fashion. “Moros?”
Does everyone really know his name like that?
Moros lunges before I can get an attitude about it, his fingers finding the elder’s throat and squeezing.
“Oh, shit!” I jump onto his back, pulling and yanking. “Moros! Stop.” It does me no good to yell but I am as he presses the elder into the cushions with a growl.
The elder’s eyes bug and his nails dig into my Moros’s wrist, and still he doesn’t stop pushing him lower. Squeezing the breath from him. Making his eyes pop wide.
“You … monster,” the elder eeks out past his crushed throat and smashes into Moros’s arm. His face is growing redder, a vein popping up on his forehead.
“You’re the monster,” Moros snarls.
“Mor—”
A band around my ribs steals my breath, and my feet hit the ground before I can catch my legs, and I end up tumbling to the pile of fluff in the middle of the room with a screech. I know it was Wilson by his familiar feel, but that doesn’t stop the rage that bubbles up.
If Moros thinks this guy is a monster, then so do I.
“Let him go,” Wilson grinds out when I wing around, pushing to my feet among the pile.
“It his fault! Him!” Moros yells in his arms, flailing against his hold as he squeezes the elder tighter.
Seeing him like this … the worry marring Wilson brow … it’s making me queasy.
And yet not a single other person attempts to intervene. In fact, they’ve all backed away and stare at the scene unfolding with wide wary eyes.
All of them except Kyrt.
He’s watching it like this is a play in town center on a Friday night and the story is about to get good.
“W-Wilson,” I murmur and step closer, touching his arm.
He flinches.
My stomach tenses up and I hold his arm tighter.
They’ve both gone into this … silent rage that’s worrying me and it’s all because of this stranger? Something had to have happened, right?
Otherwise, I don’t understand why my sweet Wilson would struggle so hard to break Moros free. And why Moros would flip a switch. He’s always been quite hotheaded and snarky, but this is different.
And I can’t help but think that it’s deserved.
Though as much as I wish for Wilson to let him go, for this thing between them to be over, I can’t let them take Moros from us.
“C’mon, asshole,” I tell Moros softly and reach beneath Wilson to grab him. “Let him go.”
It feels like it takes forever for him to listen, though I know that he heard me. I can feel it in the way his arm softens just the tiniest bit.
Finally, he relents and releases the man with a shove deeper into the cushions beneath him.
The resulting gasp of air feels like it steals all the rest of it from the room only a moment before the elder’s croaking demands. None of them make sense, but all of them make me sweat as Wilson backs us up, his arms banded around a seething Moros.
The pressure of being gawked at registers next, and I swivel around to see sets of eyes aimed right at us.
Oh, shit.
Kyrt steps up first, sight dropping to Moros’s pumping chest that’s wrapped back up on Wilson’s arms, then to the crumpled elder yelling from the cushions.
“He always did make the orgies awkward,” Kyrt whispers to us as he crowds in close, putting himself between us and them. Relief barely has a chance to flood me before those stupid eyes and blinding grin swing back up to my Moros. “Take him to detention, please.”
No.
Nonononono!