Page 93 of Wrath

I buried my face in his chest as he eased himself in even more. But it wasn’t enough.

“Lupe…”

“I know, baby. I know.” He grabbed a fistful of my hair and tilted my head back to claim my lips in a possessive kiss. His tongue tangled with my own, and I moaned. “Almost there. Just a little farther…”

Lupe thrust his hips forward.

He held himself over me for a long moment, allowing me to adjust to the intrusion, before he began to move. At first, his thrusts were shallow, his hips jerky with unencumbered lust.

But then I grabbed his hand, brought it to my throat, and applied the slightest bit of pressure, letting him know exactly what I wanted. What I needed.

Lupe growled, and any and all restraint vanquished in a blazing inferno of heat.

He fucked me ruthlessly, each slap of his hips echoing throughout the spacious tent, molten pleasure arcing through me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire fucking camp could hear us.

His grip tightened on my throat in tandem with his rapid thrusts, and those familiar dark spots danced across my vision once more, amplifying my pleasure. I felt weightless and grounded all at once—the contradicting sensations sending me hurling towards the edge.

My orgasm blasted through me in a wave so powerful, I swore I blacked out. Or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen.Either way, I felt myself floating, the tips of my fingers tingling, my lungs burning. Then I crashed back down to earth when Lupe roared his release, the hand on my throat tightening one final time before letting go.

He collapsed on top of me, his head in the crook of my neck, and I brushed a hand through his sweaty brown hair. I could feel his lashes fluttering against my skin and the curve of his lips as he smiled. He smelled like pine trees and home, and I never wanted to let him go.

“You’re going to come back to me, right?” I whispered, my eyelids beginning to droop, the magnetic pull of sleep impossible to ignore.

“Always,” Lupe vowed.

“Wake me up before you leave,” I murmured, but I was already drifting, drifting, drifting…

Then I was out.

THIRTY

BASH

Iran the tip of my finger over the sharp edge of the sword, relishing the prick of pain.

The second largest tent, surrounded by a contingent of guards, housed the camp’s armory. An assortment of weapons filled half a dozen shelves scattered throughout the tent. Knives, swords, daggers, bows, arrows, guns, and even something that resembled a bazooka—though Z had made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t allowed to play with it.

I glided my fingers across the blade once more, a frown touching my lips. I hadn’t been trained with weaponry like a lot of my brothers. Why would I, when I had magic?

But if the trials had taught me anything, it was that my magic was fickle and couldn’t be relied on.

Thus, here I was, attempting to decide what weapon to bring with me to battle. A gun? Maybe, though I didn’t know how to load and unload. I could, however, point and shoot. A dagger? Nah. I wasn’t the type of man to get up close and personal with my opponent.

My gaze kept drifting to the sword, lean and shiny and wickedly sharp.

Could I handle a sword?

Tentatively, I lunged forward, slicing through nothing but air, before pulling back. The weapon was light, and the copper handle fit in my hand like an extension of my arm. It would be weird to not rely on my magic, but?—

“What are you doing?”

I jumped about a foot in the air, almost dropping the sword and cutting my damn hand off in the process.

“Dammit, Dair,” I hissed, attempting to play it cool like I hadn’t almost made a kebab out of my body.

My mermaid brother smirked at me as he wheeled himself farther into the tent, his gaze flicking around rapidly as he took in the variety of weapons. I wondered if this was the first time he’d ever entered this particular tent. It certainly was mine.

Dair’s hands squeezed the wheels of his chair, his knuckles bleaching white.

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