Page 37 of All Saints Day
The slight smear of color and gentle echoing sound on everyone’s voices lets me know the supplements are doing their work, Seb’s lips against the nape of my neck—Dennis’s hands snaking around the pinch of Q’s waist.
The mating bond shimmers between us, Dennis glancing against the magical connection—the inevitability of our union allowing him a glimpse inside.
Visions of the bonding on the yacht, dance through our collective mind’s eye—honeyed light pouring over our bodies as we join together.
In the den of the chalet, Dennis moans low and needy as his hands crawl over Quentin’s shoulders—down his chest to his rippling abs.
Just as quickly as the morning on the yacht bubbled to the surface of our collective day-dreaming, we emerge into another hazy memory of pleasure: Quentin riding Dennis in a fancy hotel room—a shadowy figure watching from just out of view.
I know better than to look too deeply into those shadows. None of us needs additional confirmation to know it was Francis Stone who’d lurked there.
The vision clears like smoke on the breeze, another heated tableau; we Saints and Louise in the cabin on Goosewing Lake—the exquisite sensations of being locked inside her with Quentin as Sébastien filled me up.
Through the bond, all these sensations wash over Dennis as if he were there. Back in reality—he grinds his eager erection against Q’s ass as the four of us writhe against one another.
In a turn of complete surrealism, we plunge into the memory of Dennis and Louise sharing her heat on a field assignment. Before, we only experienced Louise’s perspective down the bond—now we experience new facets of the memory through the lens of Dennis’ sensations.
Sébastien, Q, and I all moan as we feel Louise—pale like moonlight, hot and tight around Dennis’ alpha knot—as she rides him in the whispering high grass beneath the stars.
“Louise!” Dennis gasps—the first to sense it.
“Louie,” Quentin’s ragged breath tears from him with delighted surprise.
Though they’ve undoubtedly got her on strong suppressantsand other more dubious pharmaceuticals—the Windmill doesn’t know that Lucifer and her Saints share the bond of fated mates.
Sometimes, when we’re all sleeping or if Seb or I get high enough—we’re able to reach inside the bond, into a private world meant only for our circle of fated mates; to connect with each other soul-to-soul.
The last time we had been able to connect to Louise across the bond had been back before our first meetup with Dennis. I am overcome with joy as soon as Louise begins to shimmer through into our shared fantasy space.
I reach for her, pulling her into the golden mists—down into our woven ring of arms.
Chapter 13
Louise
Panic washes over me as the medical staff dressed in white lower my body onto the gurney, a needle in the crook of my arm spreading icy cold liquid into my veins as the world goes dark around me.
As I drift out of consciousness and into the dark space between sleep and dreams, I pray never to wake again.
I can’t go back to that room, to Rook, to the Windmill and their lies, their violence.
The thought of my fated mates, all that has sustained me through this, feels impossibly far away. Even though they will be heartbroken, I hope they will understand why I simply can’t carry on.
Like sinking into cold, dark water—I spiral down, further and further away from the hurt and the fear, but also from light, warmth, and love.
Just let me go. Let it end here, I beg—hugging my knees to my chest as I drift further into the frigid abyss.
Sea salt, rose, sweet oud, syrupy poppy—the scents weave and blend together, like a braided golden chain that drifts down through the dark waters; a glowing lifeline.
My fated mates? Here—in the very depths of my despair? At the very limits of my will? It couldn’t be possible, could it?
Fingers outstretched, I reach for the golden skin.
As soon as my grip closes around the lifeline, I am transported; warm wood paneling, large clear windows, the sharp green of coniferous forest giving way to the softer green of leafy canopies in the valley below; amethyst misty mountains in the distance.
I find my fated mates—my Saints, new and old—in a tangle of limbs, lips, and teeth.
They seem to surface for air—faces turned up to the ceiling as if I float above them like a cloud.
