The wound had closed, the bloody stain across his taut flesh the only proof that for a moment, I had bested him.
I took that small victory in stride.
Grinning, Silas finally removed the blade from my flesh, and I shuddered when he licked it clean, tongue flickering over the tip, sweeping my blood away. He then tucked the weapon into his boot, far from my reaching fingers this time. Juniper-green raked across my body, catching on the small nick he had left on my neck, before the warlock snatched my chin and ducked down so impossibly close that my lips hummed at the proximity.
“Come away with me, goddess…” His mouth brushed mine with each tormenting word, and I fought to break free, cursing at him in the ancient tongue of the fae. Harsh, deep laughter spilled out of him, washed over me, filled the grove and beyond. Disgust churned my belly, disgust for the way my body responded to him—to his mocking chuckles and his rough liberties. There was an eagerness in me that I couldn’t accept, an interest in his darkness that would one day well and truly damn me.
Healed and smug, with the sweet metallic tang of my blood on his taste buds, the warlock peeled me from his dark web with frustrating ease. I went without resistance, cowed for now, my mind working through other possible escape routes. The threat of more spilled blood quieted me, chilled me to the bone, and as I hung over his shoulder this time, tense and alert, I made no move to acquire another weapon. His magic dominated mine.
All of him dominated all of me. We both knew it. But I would fight until the last moment. We both knew that too.
Silas carried me through my woods quickly. We went west toward his village, toward the hum of black magic and devil worshippers. He needn’t tell me where we were headed; I knew Harper’s Grove intimately. When the forest floor turned to stone, when it dipped down, when rocky walls sprung up around us—I knew.
Gripping the back of his jacket, I lifted myself just enough to peer over his shoulder, a wall of muscle and raw strength that dug into my belly. Ahead stood the wedding arch, constructed of rough vine and dead, dried wildflowers. Fireflies shimmered around it, a mockery of romance and whimsy, but their soft, warm light did nothing to quell the panic spiking inside me. Breath hitching, I reached for the rocks on either side of the thin crevice, raking my nails along the grey stone. Two broke. Silas said nothing, nor did he slow.
He did, however, adjust me across his shoulder, rearranging my rigid figure for his own comfort. The fireflies scattered when we approached the arch, abandoning me as we passed beneath it and into the clearing on the other side.
It was a clearing that had been used for centuries, sullied by dark magic after Silas’s community settled to the west. Generations upon generations had trampled the grasses to nothing, tainted the earth with their filth. I needn’t glance back to know what awaited me: a perfect circle, smooth stone at our feet, a sprawling quartz altar in the center. All year long, it collected dust and cobwebs. Little creatures made nests in the overhang. Once, I’d caught a tabby cat sunning himself there, sprawled across a surface used for blood and sacrifice and ritual.
Tonight, I would take his place. Tonight…
I clenched my eyes shut, blocking out the awaiting coven. Dark magic users, witches and lesser warlocks, humans who had sold themselves to the fallen angel, the king of demons—they came alive at the arrival of their high priest and his bounty. Cloaked in stormy grey robes, hoods drawn up, faces hidden beneath grotesque masks, to be carried among them was what I imagined the streets in the great shadow cities of Hell would look like.
But this was so much worse. For they were flesh and blood beneath those cloaks, compassionate and loving creatures behind those masks.
Yet they greeted me with slow, deep hisses, a terrifying chorus to serenade my downfall. When I dared glance around, I caught the ignition of unholy blue flames across dozens of torches around the clearing. Distant drums started up, paired with the ominous rumble of thunder to the north. The crowd’s hissing intensified, excitement in the air, their giddy energy so thick that it made my stomach turn. My heart quickened. My mind desperately clawed for an out, but there was none. Not here.
Resistance was my only weapon now.
And I would cling to it like my life depended on it.
From the way Silas had drawn blood tonight, cut me, possibly even scarred me with silver, perhaps my life would depend on it this time.
The crowd parted to make way for us, then came together again in our wake, a sea of gloomy grey and hellish faces. Wanton gazes twitched across my features, my slumped figure, dancing within the thin slits of their masks. They kept their distance, his flock, as Silas carried me to the center of the clearing, to the altar made clean and ready for the night. Around it stood five of his most loyal, his most trusted, their cloaks bloodred, their masks passive and black. The hissing stopped when Silas did. The drums softened. The hellfire crackled and spit atop the torches. More distant thunder rumbled, the air dense before the oncoming storm.
Without warning, the warlock dropped me. He tossed me off his shoulder, grinning at my indignant squeal, but caught me before I hit the ground and dragged me to him. His hand, large and hot and firm, snapped around my throat, and he yanked me flush against him. Back to chest, my head lolled against his shoulder, throat in his grasp—exposed, vulnerable. Could he feel my pounding pulse? My caught breath? The slight quiver plaguing me from head to toe?
His cock answered, stiff and adamant against my backside.
Silas adored the hunt.
He relished my fear.
His hold tightened when I swallowed hard, my own useless hands hanging in loose, shaking fists at my side.
“The bride of spring,” Silas boomed, his deep rumble carrying throughout the clearing, that gruff growl touching all those in attendance—myself included, damn him. “The queen of summer… Stolen.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd, not even slightly muffled by the demonic masks. My nipples pebbled, my toes curled against the stony ground, and fear nibbled at my inner thighs. Silas exhaled a soft breath against my temple, and I could all but feel his grin.
“Taken,” he continued, the proclamation met with crude snickers this time, the insinuation bold and insistent against my ass. The warlock stretched me back further, that horrible, delicious mouth of his brushing the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Seduced…”
No. No, no, no. I fought back with a shout, a sweet, clear war cry that echoed far above the roaring crowd. My elbow found his ribs as my other hand went for the fleshy cuff around my throat—to no avail. He barely twitched at the impact, his grip relentless, unyielding, trapping me in place as the drums resumed. I kicked my feet out and back, adrenaline pumping, a wildcat caught in a snare and twisting for freedom.
Silas responded by gripping the front of my dress and tearing it straight down the middle. My gasp elicited a cruel chuckle, the kind that skittered across my skin and pooled between my legs. Where there were once embers, a fire sparked, scorching my core with pleasurable little flares. But I had no time to dwell on that, not with my pearled nipples out for all the world to see, honeysuckle-pink fabric ripped from my collarbone down to my waist.
The crowd savored my humiliation—my excitement, maybe—which left my cheeks pink and my chest heaving. Red cloaks rushed in, surrounding us, boxing me in on all sides. Silas nudged me forward, my body suddenly cold, bereft, without him. I stumbled, an embarrassing display for a fairy, and wrapped my arms around myself as his most faithful descended. Four pairs of hands found me, fought me, struggled to move me. Their high priest had been blessed with long life and supernatural strength from their dark overlord, but his followers were just men.