Chapter 10 That Panty Intuition
TEN
THAT PANTY INTUITION
The voices I hear when I step into what Avian calls the Formal Torture Room, are more mellow than I had expected from a place called the Formal Torture Room. Screaming? I suppose I expected a little screaming. Maybe some crying. A bit of begging added for dramatic flair.
But no, they really missed the mark when they originally titled this space.
“I’m not telling you what to do, Rome. I’m just suggesting, maybe from here on out, you don’t kiss the Prince’s property,” Zilo explains in a growling, therapeutic way.
When Avian and I enter quietly from the hall, the two of them are seated rather casually in black chairs that appear to have dried blood staining them.
An array of fancy cutting knives lies between them on a metallic tray like a bit of forgotten decor.
They’re unused, shining and clean. Ropes, chains, barbed wire and a weird collection of broom handles line the smooth walls.
The floors are damp and the heavy oder of stagnant water is tinged with a dirty copper smell.
“I appreciate that suggestion, my friend,” Roman taunts with a wide smile stretched wolfishly across his perfect white teeth so hard that he looks manic, “but have you thought about maybe not grinding your cock against the Prince’s property as well?”
A big fist slams down on the table between them, rattling the tempting knives briefly before Zilo catches his temper.
The tips of his fingers flex, turning white as if he’s considering the weapons before him for only a moment.
He eyes them for several passing seconds.
He leans back instead while pushing away his long black hair, and that’s when I notice he’s wearing thinly wired black frames.
Glasses. He’s actually wearing glasses. And talking like a therapist…
What fucking realm of hell have I fallen into this morning?
“I did not grind my cock into her—it was—it was a misunderstanding,” he says on a calming but shaking exhale.
Avian arches a brow at me, but I ignore the little knowing bastard’s look and continue to watch quietly from the door. How does he sense me so well? Intuition or magic?
“So, I won’t kiss her, and you won’t…accidently misunderstand where your cock belongs?” Roman tilts his head to the side and waits smugly for his friend’s response.
Goddess, they’re insufferable to one another.
“Exactly.” Zilo nods over and over again. So much so that it’s a hypnotic repetition, like he’s trying to cast a spell to make the words real.
I can practically hear the carousel of chanting from his little mind minions now:
I won’t use my cock for good deeds. I won’t use my cock for good deeds. I won’t use my cock for good deeds.
I can’t take it anymore.
They’re exhausting.
“All settled then?” I ask in the most announcing voice I possess.
Zilo jolts in his chair while Roman simply passes his gaze my way. They both stare hard at me for so long that it’s difficult not to shift beneath their warm attention. I keep my arms folded with a stance of carelessness I don’t quiet feel.
“I thought you were entertaining the Prince this morning,” Zilo asks with more anger than I’ve heard in his tone since I walked into this so called Formal Torture Room.
“No…” I hang on the confusion of his question, and it only seems to further crease his smooth bronze skin with a look of panic.
“Fuck.”
Fuck?
Fuck indeed.
I stand surrounded by the three concerned looking men in the dark hallway. It’s empty and makes me feel small in the hanging grandeur of it all.
They’re concerned partly because I’m out here, and partly because someone a bit more vocal is in there. With the Prince.
Her moans are a drowning thing. More performance than pleasure. Higher and higher, her screams echo. Unsteadily they fall until she seems to remember her role she’s playing, and then they pitch all over again.
“Oh, just come already. It’s sex not a theater production,” I complain.
Zilo nudges me to quiet down as the four of us lurk outside the Prince’s chambers. “Shh,” he hisses.
I roll my eyes.
“As if anyone could hear us right now. The wolves in my realm are probably picking up on Moaning Martha in there.” My arms fold hard.
“Are you jealous?” Romey asks, leaning against the wall at my side as he folds his arms and really studies me. I feel his gaze grazing my side profile but I don’t give into the urge to peer up at him and his warm closeness.
“Uh, I guess I’m supposed to be. Yeah. So jealous right now.”
I can’t take the pulling demand and I look up at him, my cheek nearly brushing his bare chest when I do.
His smirk that’s normally so cruel is almost infectious.
It pulls at my own lips simply from seeing him smile.
He so rarely really smiles. He smirks and cackles all day but so seldomly ever seems happy.
His gaze slips lower from my eyes to my lips. His warmth fully envelopes me, sinking in ever so slowly before settling low into my belly.
Why am I leaning into him?
“You should be jealous,” Zilo snaps, ripping the meager happiness right out from under us. “You’re losing, Cersia.”
Losing. Wow. Okay. I hadn’t realized a one-night stand was the prize here.
“She should be about in the mornings,” Avian advises. “Available.”
What does that even mean? Be about what in the mornings. Be about what? Available for what?
“Yeah, and she should wear more perfume. It’s about the pheromones,” Roman adds with a glint in his pale green eyes that tells me he’s being a total cock guzzler right now.
“That’s a good idea,” Zilo says while pushing his glasses up to really think this puzzle out. “Maybe tighter pants. Tight pants are always good on a mate. Shows the bearing hips.”
Bearing hips?
Gross.
The three of them nod dickishly in unison.
“No underwear too,” Roman adds to my list with another exaggerated I’m-A-Fucking-Tool nod.
When his gaze catches mine again, he winks and I my fist flexes instinctively until my nails are biting into my palm. It’s like his pretty perfectly aligned nose has forgotten the last time it met my fist.
How quickly they forget.
“Panties or no panties. How can you tell the difference?” Avian asks.
“It’s a panty intuition. You wouldn’t get it,” Roman says without hesitation and without breaking that fuck-you eye contact with me.
Panty. Intuition.
Give me a fucking break.
I glare at his obnoxiously pretty face. Him and his besties are a happy little triad of stupidity. And I’m just the voyeuristic idiot watching as they thoroughly fuck me into another bad idea.
“Maybe I should forgo the clothes entirely,” I suggest with a shrug.
“That might help, really.” Roman’s eat-shit smile is so taunting it’s infuriatingly.
It’s a nice reminder that I still hate him.
Intensely.
“Ya know, I’ll figure out how to get the petty attention of a Prince myself. I don’t need your puppy clicker training on how to make a man notice me. Thanks.” I’m walking away while they’re mumbling between dramatic sex noises about how women are oblivious to what men really want.
Like it’s hard.