Page 42 of Siren's Kiss & Feral Beasts
My cock pulses again, thick and demanding, and I wrap my fist around it. A snark rips from my throat at the contact, notpleasure but fury. I want her hands on me, not my own, but my body betrays me. Needing. Aching. Need to sharp to ignore.
I stroke hard, each pump merciless like a punishment. My breaths are fast and teeth bared as I imagine her pinned beneath me, her mouth open, body trembling as I ride her hard and without pause.
I’m back to that night in the jungle, her body pinned beneath mine while those hooded, violet eyes watched me with desire. How she tightened her legs around my waist, her sharp nails broke my skin, and that heavenly cunt gripped me like a vice.
Tight. Pink. Heat.
“Son of a bitch.” I come with a savage growl, my release spilling hot and thick in four sharp spurts. They land against the house wall, then slide down before disappearing into the grass below. My forehead slams against the arm holding me up, chest heaving, my breath nothing more than ragged bursts.
But even emptied, I still ache.
Nothing will truly satiate me but my mate. The pain in my still swollen knot is proof of that.
Forcing myself upright, I wash and rinse my body. I’m on autopilot, movements mechanical as I head back inside naked and dress myself in all black clothing.
I’m heading to an execution, and the blood in my veins has cooled to ice for now.
I’m coming for you.
The cells are quiet as I walk in a few minutes later. Torren and Veris are already there, my sword glinting from where I’d left it yesterday, hanging from a mount.
A reminder to the trio, a message visible from the cells they were moved into last night. From the very back to the front, just feet from the only door in or out. We’re not that far from the sea, either. And if you strain just enough, you can hear the waves crashing against the rock formation on this side of the island.
Freedom is so close. A torture and tease.
Five pairs of eyes follow me, but I don’t pay them any attention. Not yet. Instead, I take in Torren and the varying shades of yellow bruises along his arm. He’s standing taller than yesterday, his face blank, but rage pours out of him. His encounter with the mermen general still bothers him, and I see the thirst for vengeance reflected back at me.
Is the wound closed?I ask through our link, needing to make sure he’s fit to help me if needed. Not that I expect him to; rogues have never scared me. Not one, or ten, or fifty. They’re weaker, smaller, and aren’t properly trained—fail to meet me in hand-to-hand combat.
His response comes in the form of a short nod, patting the area to show he’s okay. Veris doesn’t say anything, but he does push forward a small rolling cart. One that I raise a brow to.
It’s gold and ornate with a thick glass shelf on top and completely out of place for the royal pack’s dungeons.My mate said we could borrow it, but we’d better not break it. It’s her tea cart.
A snort escapes me, and three pairs of eyes widen; they don’t know what to do with the laughing alpha wolf standing between their holding cells. To the left, a dead man is breathing—his body slumped against the back wall. Every rise and fall of his chest is a wasted gift from borrowed time.
His minutes are numbered, and my fingertips itch where my claws are hidden. I can almost feel the drip of his blood on them, the rich metallic scent filling the room and my wolf with the satisfaction of killing a useless, disgraced wolf.
To the right, there’s a mated pair. Smaller in size, clearly omegas, and scared. They’ve showered, have clean clothes on, and appear less gaunt than yesterday. The faint traces of their meals linger in the stale air, meat and bread, and I smile at them. Not menacing, but to show I mean them no harm, unless…
Cooperation is the literal key to their survival.
Together, they huddle against the right wall beneath a blanket. Not for warmth as the cells aren’t cold, but for comfort. Their scents, though, tickle my nose. The male and female are both drenched in fear and dread—the tiniest bit of hope—the weight of their emotions slamming into me.
Raw and impossible to ignore. I see every tremor and feel every unspoken plea.
I’ve had time to think since yesterday. To plan. To reconcile what I know with what reality shows.
And both begin and end with one person: Nerissa Del Mare. My pretty little siren.
If her plan had been to sentence rogues to their deaths, so be it. If she wanted me distracted, she accomplished just that. That much is clear, and so I’ll treat them as such.
These two will not die—yet. The opportunity will be presented, but it’s up to them to decide their own path.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice carrying through the silence. The three don’t answer; they only stare. Two with resignation, and one with defiance. The latter of which knows he’s going to die by my hand, just not how—slow and painful, or fast and merciless.
My lips curl. “I said, ‘Good morning.”
The words crack against the stone and metal bars, echoing like the crack of a whip. Four heads bow at once—my beta, gamma, and the pair—while my insolent guest fights the urge. It’s painful and stupid, the strain on his face causing the veins in his temples to pop and his eyes to become bloodshot. His entire body shakes, forcing him lower, and I give him a gentle push by unleashing my full command on him.
