Chapter 6
Hunter
It was only twenty-four hours ago that Graves slid the black book across the table like he was passing a loaded gun.
I didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. The command was already branded into the leather spine.
Noctis Crucem. A ritual older than the House, older than the King’s reign.
I told myself it was pointless—nothing could cauterize the wound Arianette carved into me and DK, into Ares. But the book stayed. A silent dare.
Now the forest is a lung, inhaling. Forty Shadows spent, their seed mixed in the silver urn, thick and sticky. The air tastes of salt and smoke and something feral. The ceremony has teeth. It’s breathing. And that wild thing I try to keep tucked inside is threatening to come free.
“Proceed,” DK says, voice strong from behind that mask. He was made for it, while mine always feels misplaced. Why? Well, I’ve been wearing a mask my entire life. Why wear two?
But there’s a difference. I know that. This mask makes me belong. It gives me a family. A brother. A sister. The very one tied to the cross, body cold and shivering.
Ours.
DK steps forward before the Shadows do, the stone knife already in his hand. He unsheathes the blade and the steel catches the torchlight, a cold glint that makes my stomach tighten. He doesn’t rush. He never does when it’s her.
He starts below the choker, at the collar of her thin shirt–threadbare cotton, clinging to her like a second skin–and presses the tip just beneath the hollow of her throat.
The fabric parts with a soft rip, the sound swallowed by the drumbeat in my ears.
He drags the blade downward, between her breasts, over the slight curve of her stomach.
The shirt falls open like petals, exposing her, before falling to the ground.
Her breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath—full, heavy, the dark areolas tight from cold and fear.
The piercings glint, swollen around the metal bars.
Damon pauses there, the flat of the blade brushing one nipple, making it peak harder.
She flinches the same way she did when I carved into her flesh the night of the hunt, the ridged skin of the pentagram glinting in the torchlight.
The urge to press deeper, to make it hurt, vibrated in my blood the same way I feel it now in my cock.
He hooks the blade under the waistband of her panties, white cotton, and slices downward.
The fabric splits, peeling away from her hips.
He takes his time, letting the cold steel graze the crease where thigh meets groin.
Her pussy is bare, still groomed smooth from the wedding.
The last time I saw her like this, she’d been bent over the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain edge as DK pounded into her.
She took him so good.
DK circles behind her. I can’t see, but I know he’s checking—wondering the same thing I am. If the King’s punishment left marks. If the bruises still bloom across her ass like storm clouds. If the skin there is still tender, still raw.
The blade traces the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. Not cutting. Just teasing. Threatening. But this ceremony isn’t about blood. It’s about rebirth. Her spine arches involuntarily, pushing her tits forward, her cunt clenching.
My urges claw up my spine, hot and needy. I want to replace the blade with my teeth. Want to bite down on that pierced nipple until she screams–spread her open and ruin her in my own specific way.
I swallow it back.
Now that she’s naked and ready, five Shadows break from the circle, each chosen before the ceremony began. Their bodies are still slick with sweat as their fingers dip into the bowl and come away dripping. They move toward her. Toward us.
The first presses his thumb to the side of her throat and drags the sticky fluid down to make the symbol.
“Ansuz,” DK intones, voice gravel. “For the breath stolen in flame. For the words she never spoke.”
Arianette’s pulse jumps beneath the rune. Her eyes–God, those eyes–lock on mine.
Not pleading. Not yet. Just watching. Like she’s memorizing the moment.
The second traces a line down her sternum, between her breasts and over the pentagram.
“Uruz.” Strength. “For the body broken, the flesh that betrayed us.”
Her ribs shudder. The cum is shiny on her skin. Soon it’ll dry and crack like old paint. Her nipples tighten visibly. She doesn’t blink–only looks between me and DK–her Barons.
The third Shadow coats the inside of her left wrist, where the rope has bitten bloody.
“Tiwaz.” Justice. “For the balance she shattered.”
A tremor rolls through her bound arm. Her lips part—but no sound escapes.
Just breathe. I want to steal it from her. Make it mine.
Instead, I watch as the soft skin just above her navel is painted, and DK announces, “Berkano.” Rebirth. “For the womb that will carry our future, not her past.”
Her stomach caves, then arches. The rune glistens, obscene and sacred. Her thighs clench and I see it. The slick shine between them. She’s wet. Christ.
The fifth Shadow steps forward and his fingers rise, thick with the mingled offering, and he pauses, waiting for DK to announce the rune.
“Laguz,” DK announces. “Flow. Surrender. For the tide she can no longer fight.”
The Shadow bends, painting the rune with mechanical reverence: a single stroke down one thigh and then the other.
The semen gleams, warm and viscous, sealing to her like a second skin.
The Shadow straightens. From beneath his mask, I see his tongue dart out, then he hesitates.
His fingers hover over her breast, tracing the swell, then he brushes the bar through her nipple.
The metal glints. Her back bows, a quick inhale hissing through her teeth.
Fuck.
DK’s hand snaps out like a whip, seizing the Shadow’s wrist hard enough to grind bone.
“No,” he snarls, voice low, lethal. The Shadow stumbles back, mask askew. Damon doesn’t let go until the man drops to his knees.
Silence grips the circle. This ceremony may be about the entire fraternity, but Arianette, the Baroness? She’s ours.
Turning his back to the Shadow, still kneeling in submission, DK faces me. The stone knife is in his hand—blade forward. He holds my gaze.
“Noctis Crucem,” he whispers.
The weight of it hits my palm. Warm. Alive. The orbs pulse like a heartbeat. I step forward. The altar groans under her weight. Her body is a map of runes and ruin, cum drying in streaks across her skin. Her eyes–still on me–flare wide as I raise the knife.
Not to cut.
No, to seal.
We’d spoken about this before we came out here. Our roles in the ritual. The Shadows, me, DK. I wanted to argue. To tell them it wasn’t smart, but I accepted this position. The King chose me. He must know what I’m capable of.
But does she?
I press the smallest orb to her entrance. She’s soaked–fuck, she’s soaked from the ceremony, and I smirk. “You liked that, Hex?Watching them touch each other? Feeling their sticky fingertips paint your body?”
She whimpers, scared of me? Of the ritual? The knife? I use that fear as a motivator and push in. The wet sound it makes sliding in her pussy is obscene. My cock throbs against my robe, a traitor. I clench my jaw so hard I taste blood.
It’s not me touching her.
The hilt. The ritual. The weapon.
I can control this. I can control myself.
“Ansuz,” I say, voice flat, and thrust.
Her head snaps back, throat exposed, a choked cry muffled by the night.
The rune at her throat–next to the collar our King locked around her–glows like it’s burning.
Her body jerks, hips bucking away from the intrusion.
Too soon. She’s only been broken in twice.
Her walls clamp down, resisting, then flutter in panic.
I freeze.
She’s hurting.
The thought detonates behind my eyes, a white-hot flare that sinks straight to my cock. I want to pull out, to stop–fuck that lie. The ritual is a chain, yes, but it’s cinched around my balls, dragging me deeper.
Her pain is my oxygen.
Every spasm around the stone, every shredded gasp that tears from her throat, is a tug at my balls. Her body fights the intrusion—too soon, too raw, walls clamping like a fist—and the resistance liquefies me. I feel it in my teeth, in the pulse hammering at my wrists.
Look at her.
Eyes glassy, lips parted around a soundless scream. The way her hips jerk away, then betray her and rock forward–needing the hurt as much as I need to inflict it.
I lean in, just enough to taste the salt of her sweat in the air.
“Take it,” I whisper, so low only the trees hear. “Open for me.”
Her eyes find mine again, and she shudders an exhale, pussy loosening.
I lick my bottom lip. “Good girl.”
“Uruz.”
Another thrust–deeper.
She whimpers, a sound that cracks something in my chest, something hot and dangerous. Her thighs tremble, knees knocking together as much as the ropes allow. The stone drags against her, too dry now, too rough. Her slick is there, but not enough. Not yet.
I can’t watch her suffer.
Not like this.
My free hand moves before I can stop it—breaking protocol—thumb finding her clit. I circle, firm and clinical. Just to ease the way. Not for her pleasure. Not for mine. Just to get through this.
Her breath hitches.
Her hips roll into my touch, involuntarily. The whimper turns into a gasp, then a moan—soft and broken, but real. Her walls loosen again, just enough. The stone glides now, slick with her again.
“Tiwaz.”
I twist the hilt.
She sobs, but it’s different now—pain and something darker weave together. Her toes curl into the dirt. Blood trickles from her wrists where the ropes saw deeper. Her eyes never leave mine. I’m sorry, they say. I deserve this.
“Berkano.”
I drive it to the hilt.
Her body seizes, back arching so hard the cross creaks. A gush of slick heat coats my hand. She’s coming—silent, violent—walls milking the stone like it’s alive. Her eyes lock on mine, wide and shattered, like I’m the only thing keeping her from flying apart.
I pull the knife free. It drips. Her chest heaves.
My robe is tented, cock aching so fiercely I can’t breathe. The ritual demands completion. Not just hers.
I shove the fabric aside with my free hand.
My cock springs free, flushed and leaking.
The Shadows’ chant swells–Noctis Crucem, Noctis Crucem–a drumbeat in my blood.
I grip myself hard, one stroke, two—thumb smearing the bead of precum mixed with the slick from her cunt–and I come with a guttural sound I don’t recognize.
Thick ropes splatter across her belly, mixing with the runes, the dried seed, and the fresh slick between her thighs.
Around us, the forest inhales.
I stagger back, robe hanging open. I lift the knife’s hilt to my mouth and slide it past my lips–tasting her, slick and salt and rebirth. My cum glistens across her skin like a brand.
Sealed.