Page 54 of Sacrifice

“Best part of any wedding,” Nero chimes in, a wicked gleam in his brown eyes. He’s ready for this, hungry for it in a way that both scares and draws me in.

We’re at the Bellanova’s doors now, the opulence of it mocking my sudden bout of nerves. I swallow hard, pushing down the flutter in my chest. I’m pack. This is pack.

And when Aisling looks back at me with those stormy eyes, full of stars and sin, I know I’ll follow her into the fire or the feast—whichever this night turns out to be.

Outside the pack suite, our group forms a knot of anticipation and suppressed desire. Gunnar and Nero are almost one shadow, their lips meeting in brief, heated exchanges as they flank Aisling. Oberon’s fingers dance over the lock panel, his movements sure and swift. I catch the sound of Luka’s breath, hushed against Aisling’s neck, and I watch her eyes flutter closed for a split second, savoring the touch. It’s hard to know where each one of them begins and I end…but I’m just…here.

I linger on the fringes, my pulse hammering in my throat like it’s trying to escape. That’s when Aisling’s gaze finds mine, grey eyes locking onto me with an intensity that knots my insides. She’s a siren, beckoning me closer without saying a word.

“Maybe I should just…” I start, the words trailing off as I take a step back, ready to bolt. The thought of escape is sweet relief, but then she reaches out to me, her hand slicing through the space between us like a lifeline I didn’t know I was desperate for.

“Rook,” she says, her voice a command wrapped in velvet. Her fingers wrap around my wrist, and it’s like an electric current arcs between us. Her scent envelops me—sugar and heat—and it’s intoxicating, anchoring me to this moment, to her.

“Stay,” she tells me, and it’s not a request. “I want my pack with me tonight. All of you.”

Her words echo in my head, ricocheting off the walls of my skull. My throat feels tight, but I nod because what else can I do? As much as the fear claws at me, so does the need—the need to be part of this, part of her, part of them. I’m caught in her gravitational pull, and there’s no fighting it.

“Okay,” I hear myself say, a whisper of acquiescence that seals my fate. I’m hers tonight, whatever that might mean.

Whatever we might become.

Aisling’s grip is firm yet gentle as she pulls me through the threshold. The room is alive with a kind of raw energy that seems to pulse against my skin. Luka is there, his shirt already discarded, muscles shifting under his skin as he moves with predatory grace toward Aisling. He drops to his knees before her like some worshipper at an altar, his lips tracing a path up her thigh as his hands lead the way by hitching up her skirt, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of something dark and primal ignite within me. The glistening jewels on her dress catch the light, and she looks like…fuck, she looks like a goddess.

My eyes shift, catching Nero in the act of peeling Gunnar’s shirt off, his fingers deft as they expose Gunnar’s broad, inked chest. Gunnar’s lips are locked with Aisling’s, and it’s clear he’s drinking in her presence, lost in the taste of her. Nero’s hands roam over Gunnar’s torso, possessive, knowing, as if each touch reaffirms their bond. I didn’t even know they were like that…and it occurs to me that the pack has secrets I’ve barely even scratched the surface of.

A sudden warmth at my elbow startles me—it’s Oberon, standing close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. My breath hitches, not out of desire, but from the sheer intensity of the moment. He starts to undo the buttons on my shirt, his movements unhurried.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “This is how it should be—natural, unforced. You’re meant to be here, Rook.”

I swallow hard, my gaze flicking back to Aisling. There’s an undeniable truth in Oberon’s words that resonates deep in my bones. It’s like stepping off a ledge into the unknown, trusting that the fall won’t shatter me.

“Okay,” I manage to say, my voice a rough whisper that betrays the storm of emotions brewing inside me. “Okay.”

Aisling reaches for me from where she’s surrounded by her alphas—then her hand finds mine, her touch light but insistent. I glance at her, the grey in her eyes like storm clouds promising a tempest. As if she can read the hesitation still clinging to me, she draws my hand up and gently places one of my fingers between her lips.

I’m caught, suspended in a moment that’s both surreal and achingly real. The wet warmth of her mouth sends a jolt through me, rooting me to the spot. I suck in a breath, tasting the tang of desire heavy in the air as she lets my finger slip free, her gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that demands surrender.

“Trust us,” she whispers, her voice a silken thread weaving around my senses.

Oberon is grinning like he knows a secret, his stride confident as he strides over to the drink cart. He grabs a bottle of champagne, the golden liquid a promise of hedonism. His smile doesn’t fade as he deftly twists off the cork; it pops, the sound sharp and sudden in the charged silence.

Aisling’s laughter bubbles up, musical and mischievous. She whirls toward me, her movements fluid, and crashes her lips against mine. It’s a kiss that speaks of ownership and wild joy, and I’m drowning in it, my hands finding purchase on her hips.

Gunnar’s hands are deft as they pull her dress down just enough to reveal her tits, releasing her breasts to the hungry gazes surrounding her. Without thought, I lean down and claim one rosy peak with my lips, my tongue swirling around the hardened nipple. A shiver ripples through Aisling, and I feel a twisted sense of pride at being able to elicit such a response.

Luka mirrors my actions on her other side, his mouth closing over her flesh. Gunnar’s lips trace the column of her neck from behind, his touch reverent. Nero, ever the pleasure-seeker, fills the space behind Gunnar. His hand slinks around, lifting Aisling’s skirt, and I hear her gasp at the contact.

“Feel it, Rook?” Nero murmurs, his voice a dark melody. “This is living.”

And I do feel it—the raw, untamed energy of the pack, the magnetic pull of shared desire. Aisling’s laugh fades into a moan, and the world narrows down to this room, this moment, where nothing exists but us, the pack, bound by lust and something deeper—a feral need that claws at my insides, demanding release.

Aisling stands there, her wedding dress twisted around her figure in a way that screams debauchery. I watch with a hammering heart as Oberon takes his turn with the champagne bottle, tipping it back, his adam’s apple bobbing. He catches my gaze, grinning like the devil himself, and hands me the bottle. The bubbles tingle as they flow down my throat, a prelude to what’s coming.

“Let’s not keep the bride waiting,” Nero’s voice is a low drawl from somewhere behind me.

We shuffle towards the bedroom, a tangle of anticipation and lust. Gunnar’s large, rough hands guide Aisling, pressing against the small of her back, bending her forward with an ease that speaks of familiarity and raw power. Her hands brace on the bed, looking fucking delicious in that wedding dress, the sparkling skirt hitched around her hips…

Gunnar thrusts inside her, no hesitation.

---