Chapter Eight Lucius

"I mean, seriously, why is Cleo even here? It's not enough the backstabbing bitch just schemed to get me dethroned and humiliated at my own birthday bash—on live TV?"

Zara's indignant voice floats through the open door of our shared bedroom as I prowl down the darkened stretch of the upstairs hall.

There's currently no electrified light in the drafty corridor of our ancient domus , a habitation whose foundations date to the Roman era. Regrettably, the antiquated wiring is fragile and temperamental across the island grid (all the more so since Zara arrived at Icarus, hurling lightning like a vengeful Zeus).

Thus, I'm carrying a lit candle while I conduct my nightly prowl to confirm that all our doors and windows are locked and warded against the unknown night.

As I test the latch on the tall window that spills a pale wash of moonlight down the hall, Zara's fretful words seep through the bedroom door she's left ajar for me.

"Even, like, academically, what's up with the bitch's timing? Cleo already graduated from the Sorbonne in Paris or some shit. She's older than us. Not to mention it's literally finals week."

Despite the seriousness of our current situation, with words like revolution and sedition still ringing in my ears, the prickly annoyance in my queen's voice makes my wolf bristle and pace.

We've witnessed ample evidence that Zara's superheats, which are supposed to sync with the moon, have become far less predictable since she returned from the hidden Fae realm of Avalon. Still, she's diligently maintained her regimen of prophylactic shots at the Academy clinic. As long as I've known her, she's been fixated on avoiding conception.

In fact, when it comes to those shots, she's fanatical in her zeal.

Now I wonder if perhaps, given these unseasonal heats she's having, she might be due for a booster.

Presented with this discouraging prospect, my wolf whines with disappointment. In the witching world, pureblooded wolf shifters are all but extinct. My beast craves a litter of shifter pups. He craves them desperately.

I too am desperate.

I long to see Zara soft and ripe and swelling with my pups.

But this subject is so incendiary in our domus that I remind my wolf, once again, to be patient.

Swiftly I pad past the open door of the darkened bedroom Dez shares with Racetrack. Those two are still downstairs, brewing a fresh pot of coffee and murmuring over Dez's deck of Tarot cards, ever since we bid farewell to our guests.

None of us under this roof have spoken our fears aloud. But since Racetrack isn't allowed to sleep anyway (doctor's orders), the two girls have taken up sentry duty.

Our queen is in danger.

As I home in on Zara's bedroom, my steps quicken.

"I can perhaps explain the academic timing." I slip into the firelit refuge where we all sleep—our queen and her harem—piled together like puppies in Zara's big medieval bed. "As a matter of arcane custom, any witch or warlock is permitted to sit for final examinations to demonstrate their magical aptitude, whether or not they've attended classes at this Academy. Cleopatra Aquarius is likely hoping to demonstrate the potency of her magical bona fides , as it were, to rule the witching world."

In the startled silence that ensues, I gently close our bedroom door and shoot the bolt, then murmur an incantation—just a scrap of common magic, but I'm quite apt at this sort of thing—to ward our den while we sleep.

"Oh, wow." Looking rumpled and adorable in his Academy sweats, Neo sits up in bed. Clearly, he's been poring over a textbook and determinedly cramming for finals (even at this hour).

"What's that, then?" Ronin glances toward the bed from the window seat where he's sitting cross-legged, barefoot and shirtless, hunched over the scrying mirror in his lap. "No offense, love, but that Honors Alchemy telephone book you're poring over doesn't look all that riveting."

"Oh, Ronin. You know it's my favorite subject. But that's not what I'm talking about." Our bookworm sighs, nudges his glasses up his studious nose, and looks endearingly earnest. "Cleo's going for First Girl on the Dean's List."

From her antique vanity, Zara twists around and stares. She's perched on her stool before the glittering threat of the witching world crown that rests before her, while Vasili coaxes a brush through the vivid mane of teal curls that tumbles to her waist.

Momentarily, I'm caught by a glimpse of Vasili's reflection in the glass. As our mate hovers over her, his pretty, sharp, so often spiteful features are soft with a brooding tenderness.

That unguarded flash of love, which he typically hides and hoards and broods over like a dragon with his gold, makes my heart skip and my breath hitch.

Ah, these mates of mine.

They wring my heart like a dishcloth.

Then Zara's turquoise eyes, wide and anxious as the American icon Betty Boop's, lock with mine.

"First Girl," she says flatly. "That's Mallory's spot. She's had it since midterms."

I swallow a sigh of my own and pinch out my candle, then pad across the room to join her.

"That place could be yours, my dear," I say gently, "if only you'd apply yourself to your studies. The academic merit system is really quite straightforward. The highest scoring students in end-of-term examinations are awarded the honor of serving as First Boy and Girl—or whatever their gender may be, of course—for the coming term. The other high scorers comprise the Dean's List."

Our mating bond prickles with the spike of her irritable impatience. My suspicions about Zara's erratic hormonal status are deepening.

Surely—most inconveniently—our queen's next superheat is looming.

During the grueling and occasionally lethal ordeal of final examinations at this Academy, a superheat is one distraction Zara and our mates could stand to forego .

Predictably, Maxim springs to his mate's defense.

"It is not Zara's fault she was kidnapped by that Unseelie tyrant Zephyr. Or that she missed many classes while she was breaking the Avalon curse." Maxim scowls. "Saving the witching world is more important to our sovereign than having her name blazoned on the Dean's List."

"Blazoned, hmm?" Vasili murmurs with a wicked smirk. "Someone in this harem's been boning up on his English."

Ronin snickers over his scrying mirror.

We're all well aware that our dragon shifter is an indifferent student at best. And that the most recent obsession Maxim has been boning is Vasili.

Tonight, however, our resident dragon is focused elsewhere. He's restless and prowling near the crackling fire, possessive and broody, never straying far from Zara's side. If Maxim were currently in his shifted form, his tail would be lashing.

Obviously, he too is sensing our queen's looming heat.

Maxim has stripped out of his shirt and shoes, leaving him clad in nothing but the ripped jeans that cling to his wiry hips. I swallow hard at the sight of his lean sinewy torso, his sleek skin golden with Black Sea suntan, the twisting flex of his tight abs. The cruel silver barbells piercing his ruddy nipples gleam in the firelight.

He's sensitive there. Exquisitely sensitive. I know precisely how sensitive he is from watching him with our mates…

But I mustn't ogle my student.

Truly, I mustn't.

If Maxim desired my attention in that way, he would surely have invited my advances months ago. When it comes to his libido, an alpha shifter is rarely shy.

All too clearly, Maxim does not view me—his headmaster, his teacher, his responsible co-alpha, his stodgy elder by more than a decade—in a sexual way.

He submits to us, my wolf growls inside my skin. He could be ours. You are foolish not to claim him.

"Apparently," I say firmly, banishing my amorous wolf and his libido to my mental pantry and closing the door between us, "Cleopatra Aquarius does not share your priorities, my dear. Being awarded the First Girl ribbon and having her name, well, blazoned at the head of the Dean's List is a respectable academic credential. If Cleopatra manages to capture it, that win will bolster her claim to your crown."

Zara's eyes narrow and her stubborn chin acquires a mutinous tilt. "I never even finished high school. You know, on account of running away from my shitty dad? Plus I missed a whole semester of my freshman year here. I'm just saying—there's a reason I'm behind."

"My dear, no one is criticizing your choices or your aptitude. Least of all myself." Gently I bend to kiss her, and Vasili gives way. I pause to acknowledge his accommodation with a respectful nod.

This is the careful navigation of multiple alphas who share a polycule.

Ours is an arrangement—three alpha males and an alpha queen in the same harem—that occurs so rarely it's generally considered to be impossible.

Still, somehow, we make it work.

Between Zara's teal brows, a worried pucker lingers. But, to my pleasure, she leans into my kiss. Her hot lush mouth parts under mine. I cup her delicate jaw, skin soft as velvet under my rough palm, and nudge her lips apart to taste her. My mate's naughty tongue flicks out to meet mine in a sweet swirl that tastes like peppermint cocoa.

The heady vanilla rose of her mating scent hits my acute shifter senses like a mallet wrapped in velvet.

My wolf lunges to his feet with a growl.

Our queen is scenting… quite heavily.

Vasili growls and slithers closer. His hand closes behind Zara's head to nudge her deeper into my kiss. He tugs loose the tidy ponytail at my nape. My thick curls—long overdue for a trim, but my mates won't hear of it—tumble down around my face.

My groin floods with a rush of tingling heat.

"I've been thinking," Zara whispers against my lips. "What if I stopped taking the shots?"

The entire domus seems to suck in its breath.

My queen's words affect me like a hand closing around my shaft. Behind my houndstooth trousers, my member thickens and swells in a sudden surge of need.

Somehow I've fallen to my knees on the cool mosaic floor. I surface from the seductive suck of her kiss to find my hands clutching the soft swell of her hips, my fangs shooting from my palate to fill my mouth, and the creamy spice of her mating scent filling my head.

Desperate for more, I bury my head in her lap.

Her supple thighs, encased in the synthetic fabric of her yoga pants, soften and part. I pull in a long inhale and nuzzle my fangs into her warm crotch. Her breath hitches in a soft gasp.

God help us. My wolf has seized control.

My sharpened senses pick up the sudden rustle of leather from the window seat where Ronin leans forward to watch.

"Bloody hell, love," he says softly into the spellbound stillness. "Reckon you've got our attention. Especially theirs. Your alphas."

Fighting for control, I push Zara's thighs wider and breathe in her sweet musk. Under the insistent press of my mouth, the crotch of her yoga pants turns hot and damp.

"Lucius," she moans. One hand clutches my tumbled curls. Her other hand finds Vasili's and pulls him closer.

"Zara," Maxim rasps, thick and husky. His dragon lurks in his voice. "Did… did you mean it?"

He's looming over all of us, wound too tight to touch, so tight with need he's vibrating.

Vasili too is looming, trapping Zara's hand to inhale the intoxicating sweetness of her inner wrist, dragging his sharp little fangs over her fragile skin in a way that makes her whole body shiver. Under lowered lids, his icy gaze simmers with sinful heat.

Merciful Christ.

All three of her alphas are riveted.

Vasili's been more than vocal about his utter contempt for Maxim's breeding kink (but not mine, perhaps because I've largely kept mine to myself). Vasili's been more than clear about his complete disinterest in siring offspring of any kind.

Yet, tonight, shifter biology has seized even our snake in its unbreakable grip.

"I'm not saying I've decided," Zara warns all of us, edged in the low resonance of her lightning voice. "I just feel like we can't ignore it anymore. Our orgy last winter left half the girls on this island pregnant. Including Mal. What if we could do that for the whole witching world? "

My wolf snarls and nuzzles hard into her sweet pussy. My God, she smells like sex. I'm ravenous to taste the tang of her dripping against my tongue. I want to tear her pants off with my teeth, bury my face in her luscious quim, tongue her until she screams with pleasure.

Then, by Christ, I want to fuck her.

"Be very careful, darling," Vasili murmurs into her palm, between sharp nips that make her gasp and twitch. "God knows, I'm not craving diaper duty and a playpen full of colicky brats in onesies like these two. But even I can tell you're playing with powerful pheromones."

Zara arches under me, thighs spread open around me, her curvy little body undulating, hips rocking slightly into my mouth.

"I'm not playing," she gasps. "I wouldn't be that cruel. I know how you guys… feel. I'm just saying… the witching world needs that."

My fangs are too distended for speech. I rub my face into her thighs to scent her and drag my claws—which have also sprouted, sharp and curving, from my fingers—down the sides of her flimsy pants to shred them.

"That?" Vasili's tone cuts sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. "Be a bit more specific, little queen, do . What precisely are you referring to?"

She moans out the word. "Babies."

From the bed, Neo's soft gasp fills the sudden silence.

I freeze, panting with a driving need I can barely suppress. Under my claws, Zara's ruined yoga pants lie in shreds around her succulent thighs. Beneath, she's barely wearing the most provocative scrap of panties in lime-green lace that cling to her hips.

I'm a heartbeat away from shredding those too.

"My sovereign," Maxim grates in a voice like gravel. Clearly he too is clinging to control by a thread. "Are you saying…?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just exploring the idea." She sounds breathless, because of course she senses the effect her words are having. "A baby is, like, this whole major thing. We should want one for its own sake. I'm just thinking… it's always been part of the plan, uh, eventually. That's part of what it means to be queen, right?"

My palms clutch her silky thighs. With a guttural growl, I rub my face into her cunt. Her ruined garment still protects her from my depravity.

But not for long .

"Lucius," she gasps. "Oh, God. Here's what I'm thinking. What if we… picked up the pace? Tightened our timeline? What if we just… kinda… let loose? Without the guardrails?"

Max voices a dragonish snarl and pounces.

He swoops to claim her mouth in a kiss that screams dominance. His sinewy arms enclose her torso. The leather-and-brimstone bite of his mating scent floods the air.

She arches into his kiss with a soft cry. Her hand clenches around my head. Her eager quim presses into my desperate face.

The sharp snick of a switchblade and the flash of steel in the firelight are the only flicker of warning I receive before one of Vasili's hidden knives slices through her tee shirt in a single stroke.

The shredded cotton falls away to reveal her tight tummy and tiny waist and another swath of lime-green lace. This is that demure little garment she calls a bralette. The lingerie frames her sweet curves and clings to the lush swell of her breasts. The tight buds of her nipples, so cruelly pierced with her silver rings, jut against the lace.

Vasili hisses like a snake and closes in behind her. His narrow ringed hands wrap around her breasts. He dives to nip her soft shoulder with his wicked fangs.

She presses into Maxim's kiss and winds an arm around Vasili's neck in welcome.

I nuzzle her hot slit through her thin fabric until she moans and bucks under my mouth.

Now we're surrounding her.

Claiming her.

All three of her shifter alphas.

Like the predatory pack of monsters we are.

I break free from tormenting her long enough to flex my claws, tear through the remnants of Zara's pants, then rip the ruined garment aside. Hot and throbbing with need, I bury my face in the drenched gusset of her panties. The plump lips of her pussy press against the lace. Through the flimsy fabric, I tongue the swollen pearl of her clit. She writhes under me with a savage snarl.

She too is shifter.

But my earthbound wolf will never meet her in a mating flight.

My beast claws at my skin—he wants out , and now, wants to be inside her while she's still human. When I deny him, he tilts his muzzle to the moon in a hungry howl.

Dear God, I can barely keep him from rising.

"Fuck me," Ronin mutters from the window in a voice that's thick with lust. The heavy heat of his arousal pulses through our mating bond.

"Wow," Neo whispers, reverent with awe. "Babe, that's incredibly hot."

I slice that sweet boy a heated glance and find him kneeling on the bed to watch. His wide eyes are riveted on Zara—his fated mate. Textbook abandoned, soft lips parted, spectacles sliding down his nose.

Ronin tosses his mirror aside and prowls across the floor with menacing purpose. He grips Neo's square jaw in a hard hand and claims him with a ravenous kiss.

My wolf growls and lunges against my skin.

My bestial mating scent floods from every pore. This olfactory hit intensifies the head-spinning cocktail of potent pheromones the others are pumping out.

In this polycule, they both bend for me. Ronin and Neo. Neo is shy and Ronin is savage, but they both bend so beautifully—for me and all our alphas. My beast is wild to claim them.

But only after we've claimed Zara.

Shot or no shot.

Tonight I intend to pump my queen so full of my potent shifter seed she'll be dripping with my spend for days.

If not weeks.

"Better hold tight for a wild night, love," Ronin mutters against our bookworm's breathless mouth. "Zara's just pitched the whole bloody lot of them into a mating rut."