Wregen
Chapter seven
My Magic
My gaze follows her ass, like it did yesterday when she left me. I never took that hole. That intrusion would have pulled her from even the deepest sleep. But I find my thoughts drawn there more and more since her visit.
She’ll beg me to fuck her ass, sooner than she realizes. All her holes are mine, even if she’s not ready to admit it. I’ll use her whether she likes it or not, but I can tell already. She’ll grow to love every single thing I’m going to do with that body.
Dragging my thoughts away, I focus on her reaction.
I knew she’d leave as soon as I told her, but I got what I needed first. She can feel the connection between us too.
Before I even mentioned it, her shoulders slumped and her eyes grew sharp.
Still, my ferocious skjaldmaer held my gaze as I confirmed what she already suspected.
This is a risk. I’ll have to figure out a way to protect her when we get to Helheim. But Wrath won’t wait until then to taste her again. To fuck her again.
Our trip home will be much longer than my journey here.
When I left Helheim, I simply dropped into the endless hole that carried me to Jormungandr’s waters.
That path goes only one way, though. To return, the serpent will carry us from here to the closest caves—as far as we can go without risking injury—and we’ll travel the rest of the way by foot.
I’ll need to break down her barriers along the way, giving Wrath what he craves before he wrests himself free of my control and takes it.
Even Hel’s hold on him won’t stop the frenzy I can already feel starting to build.
That would fuck up everything I’m trying to do with Finaan.
Thank Hel she came up with a solution to feed me. I needed that meal nearly as badly as I need her. It’ll give me strength to keep Wrath bound despite our distance from my mistress, and to start to explore my magic again. Already, I can feel it seeping through my veins, an old familiar friend.
I start slowly, stretching the muscles of my power, searching.
Svend will be here, and he won’t be happy to be separated from Hel’s dreadful realm.
I watched all the elves there, knew them, many better than they knew themselves.
He alone fully embraced Helheim. Something about it spoke to him.
The others will be loath to admit how much they miss that dark place.
If I know that weasel of an elf—and I do—he’ll be shouting it every chance he gets.
Got him. And he’s on his way. His desires wash over me, confirming what I suspected.
He’ll free me. It won’t even take magic to persuade him, although the next step of my plan will require a strong push.
Even as Svend grew to love Hel’s world, my mistress never could wring the humanity out of the bastard.
He’s weak, with a soft heart. I’ll need to convince him that dragging the rest of the elves with us is for their good too.
“What the fuck took you so long?” I snarl when he appears on the stairs, his eyes wide and mouth dropping open. “I’ve been here six days. Why did you not come to me when I arrived?” I let Wrath’s raging fury settle into my words, alive and vicious.
“Master,” the worthless elf intones as he rushes down the steps and drops to his knees, his gaze fixed on the feet that are still behind bars, no thanks to him. “I didn’t know,” he whimpers. “I learned of your presence a few hours ago but couldn’t get to you before she did.”
At that, he raises his head, daring to look at me.
His eyes spark, as if in anger at Finaan, feeding Wrath’s ire.
The beast writhes inside me, his need to punish this insolent elf—who dares to think ill of our mate—almost more than I can control.
With visions of my skjaldmaer’s ass still dominating my thoughts, I decide to abate my need for Finaan as I did when she left Hel’s realm: with someone else’s pain and a release that’s barely enough.
“You’ve been away from Helheim for too long,” I grunt. “You’ve forgotten the price of failure.”
He sucks in a deep breath, dark eyes growing wide as he realizes what I’m demanding.
We’ve done this before, many times, and his hesitation angers us even more.
But he doesn’t delay for long. He knows better.
Within a few seconds, he reaches trembling hands for the hem of his tunic, lifting it up and over his head.
I gust out a sigh, eager to give Wrath what he needs as the beast waits—not very patiently—for Finaan to accept us.
Reaching down, I shove my fist into my pants and grasp my shaft.
Fucker is still as soft as the baby chicks I played with as a child, before Wrath erupted into my life and started killing everything that brought me a hint of joy.
Even my Hel-damned cock is failing me today.
“The whip,” I mutter, my chin pointing toward the array of weapons on the far wall, ready to try and subdue me if I cause problems in my cell. “Give it to me.”
Svend’s chin shakes as he nods and turns, his back straight even as his shoulders slump.
The hunger inside me, an emptiness that can’t be sated with food, bubbles up. It leaches into my blood to trickle through every muscle, each joint, even the bones that provide their support. The resigned elf turns back to me—the largest whip in his hand—and I huff out a sigh.
This will give Wrath more than any meal. It won’t compare to taking Finaan, but it’ll have to do.
“Give me your back,” I bark, reaching forward to untie my pants with one hand, clinging to the weapon I’m about to wield with the other. As I fist my flabby cock, I loosen the leash I keep on Wrath, letting him share our body so he can take what he needs.
The heat of Svend’s fear wraps around me, surging a smidgen of blood into my shaft at last. Shoving the whip between the bars, I flick it at the little weasel—crimson drops flinging from the gash I rip across his skin—and twist the cock that really needs to get its shit together and join in the fun.
It should be hard as a rock. It’s been days since anyone offered their body to me, and months since that body leeched actual blood.
I’m tempted to call Svend toward us so I can run my tongue over his weeping sores.
Wrath’s pleasure might be enough to get my blood flowing.
But if I’m going to suffer the taste of elf blood, it won’t be this male’s. This’ll have to do.
I can enjoy the weasel’s pain, I tell myself, even if my dick doesn’t.
One after another, focusing on the elf in front of me and his sacrifice to my cravings, I give Svend six strikes.
The first few do nothing but remind me that I’m doing this only because I can’t yet have my mate.
It’s a sad substitute for the satisfaction, the sustenance of my mangled soul, that will come when she accepts our bond. But it has to be enough for now.
With the fourth fling of the whip, I settle into the rhythm of his suffering and start to breathe more easily.
The gulps and cries and gusts of air that accompany each flick of my wrist soothe me, drawing up memories of Hel’s training early in my service to her.
Well, the conclusion of that training, when I finally learned to appreciate the torture she offered me generously.
Flashbacks of my mistress laboring over my flesh—taking me to the brink of death again and again as she taught me to embrace my own pain—bounce through my mind.
Those lessons lasted more years than I care to count, until they finally started bringing me comfort, even pleasure, instead of trauma.
When my cock rose with her ministrations and cum dripped from me along with my blood, she declared me ready.
I had become a true servant of Helheim, ready to prepare others for the eternity they faced in her realm, as she had prepared me.
Dragging my mind back from that abyss, I shake my head and try to ignore the slag forming in my gut, a confusing mix of dread and lechery. It’s been centuries since I let myself get lost in thoughts like those. They serve no purpose in Helheim, and I won’t let them take root in my psyche again.
Instead, I give in to Wrath’s craving for this elf’s life force and taste the glob of blood and skin that lands on my lip.
Within a few seconds, I’m so far gone to my beast—I’ve surrendered so much of my skin to his appetites—I shudder with him when Svend’s flesh hits our taste buds, savoring the sacrifice he’s making for us.
But it’s not enough to send us over the edge.
Although my cock has finally joined the fun, the release I crave is elusive, veering close before it slips out of reach.
I fling the whip again, sending my thoughts to Helheim and the wraiths who filled the hole in my gut when the elves escaped.
They were my only salve when I had nothing left, their agony the only form of pleasure my liege would allow me in her accursed realm.
Their misery sated me then, and it will feed me here, too.
My cock, though, doesn’t agree. It craves Finaan—her gaze, if not her touch.
Frustration ripples through me. I haven’t even felt her skin again, and already the refuge I found in Helheim when she left has failed me.
She’s my mate, and with her scent still filling this dank place, nothing else will do.
So I shove myself more fully into our consciousness and draw up her image.
She’s lying naked beneath me, my knees straddling her hips.
One of my hands squeezes the cock that truly comes to life in her presence while the other fondles her breast, tugging at her nipple.
Finally, I’m closer to the release Wrath needs. To the release I need.
And then Svend squeals like a wraith who’s seeing Helheim for the first time. Fear echoes in his voice as he scrambles to the corner and crouches down, as if to hide. I look up and she’s right there, wide eyes staring at the cock that she alone can satisfy.