2. Aedan

Why did I need her like she was my last breath?

It couldn’t just be because I was desperate for a fuck.

I liked fucking, sure. Males, females, and everything in between—fucking here, there, and everywhere was life-giving.

But this felt like… more.

I wasn’t desperate, per se. We’d faced longer stints in captivity before, down on our luck and due for a glorious comeback, in way shittier places with way shittier company.

This was different.

She was perfect, our magpie, and I hadn’t even seen her face yet.

Lust pumped through me, my cock a monster, just a throbbing ivory shaft jutting toward her like a sniffer hound caught on the scent. Cato pounced first, and I followed right at his heels, eyes only for her, the idiots on the other side of the one-way mirror a thing of the past. Close enough to grab her arm and wrench her to me, to plant my violent flag on her full lips and make her squeal, our fearless leader got first dibs—always. Skin the color of fallen ash, Cato owned her by birthright, by the royalty in his damned soul, evidenced forever by the shadowy crown that circled his head like a thorny halo, a big fuck you to those white-winged bastards upstairs.

Strange, to be stuck between two forms.

As demons, we preened like bloody peacocks on Earth, easily transitioning from monster to man, beast to god, lovely and alluring for mortals far and wide. Even some supernatural folks fell for our tricks, smitten with chiseled pecs and cut abs and broad shoulders that rippled while we pounded them into a headboard.

In the pit, we let the leviathan in our blood shine through, monsters of the apocalypse standing heads and shoulders above the rabble. Geralt hooded and cloaked in darkness, a masked assassin even demons feared, his claws haunting, his voice deep as Tartarus and twice as deadly. Cato with a literal skull for a face, empty eye sockets and a round white dome, his crown even more pronounced in that form, the spikes lethal and the message clear. He lacked a mouth as a monster—a visible one, anyway, the lower half of his face pure shadow in the cowl of his regal cloak, leaving his prey to imagine what might eventually devour them alive.

I was the beastliest, with a protruding canine-esque skull, my antlers gnarled and twisted, laced with the dead flayed flesh of my victims. Body like a centaur, brute strength and raw animal instinct, I was our trio’s mad dog—one look at me usually had the lesser demons running and the weaker hellions begging.

Stupid fucking gold cuffs with their enchantments and sigils, trapping us between two forms, monsters and men, the shapeshifting demon in our marrow caged. When had humans gotten so crafty? When did the topside supernatural community care if we fucked shit up on our visits? Seriously—just absurd, the way this world was turning.

Shedeserved to see us for the first time in all our brutal glory—

Cato held out his arm, blocking me from her, and while I snarled and gnashed my teeth, I obeyed, holding back from the shrinking violet at the locked door. Geralt, meanwhile, paced back and forth, his rhythm consistent but growing faster, the air hot with his desperation.

Kind of hilarious, actually, for our most even-tempered brother to lose his shit thirty seconds after scenting her.

Never gonna let you live this down.

But then suddenly he was right up my ass, growling, his breath dusting my antlers and his massive erection stabbing into my hip. Scowling, I twisted back with a flash of hellfire in my red eyes, wordlessly demanding he give me some fucking space, but he was too focused on her to give a damn about my personal bubble.

So, I slapped his cock.

Made it bounce.

Geralt reeled back and snapped his teeth.

I blew him a kiss, because, seriously—respect. Like I needed to be jabbed with that massive thing so early in the game.

The gentle movement of ash grey in the corner of my eye forced me back around, watching, enthralled, as Cato peeled the cotton bindings away, first from her eyes, then up to the top of her head, unwinding fast. Hair thick and black as a midnight storm flopped unceremoniously down her back, straight and coarse, and eyes like emeralds flecked with gold bright as some pretentious god’s ichor darted around the room. Pair all that with her heart-shaped face, her full mouth painted with blood, the slash of red down her chin, the womanly curves still hidden beneath the rest of her wrapping—

Sublime.

Perfection.

And if anyone but us ever touched her again, I’d rip out their fucking spine and wear it as a necktie.

After blinking little wisps out of her eyes with thick, full lashes, she looked from Cato to me, then Geralt. Cato, me, Geralt, her eyes widening with every loop, until finally she dropped the ball of red yarn clutched in both hands and staggered back into the door, a whimper snagging in her throat, the elegant column just begging for my bite.

“I-I made a mistake!” the magpie shrieked, wheeling around and pounding her fists on the door. “Let me out! I don’t want— Please, I made a mistake!”

Voice luxurious and rich, she possessed the gravitas worthy of a leviathan’s mate—that voice would radiate across the apocalypse, darling—but her fear sang to the demon in me.

Scowling, Cato gritted his teeth, the muscles along his strong jawline announcing irritation like staticky neon. He then hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her away from the door. Beautiful as I found her cries for help, her pleas to let her go, I hurried after and slammed a hand over her begging mouth, culling the sweetest music I’d ever heard—for her sake, if anything.

She squirmed and wiggled, a feisty magpie indeed, but there was no escaping her gilded cage of flesh and bone, of power and ferocity beyond anything she could ever imagine. As Cato jerked her back into his chest, I squeezed her cheeks, muffling her whimpers with my palm and marking her flesh with my nails.

“Hush, little magpie,” Cato urged, breathing in her hair, his words whispered at her temple, “or they’ll hear you.”

Nostrils flared, her gold-streaked emeralds watered, wide eyes searching for comfort in this round room of stone and muscle. They eventually landed on me, and I just cocked my head with a grin that told her she’d find no safety here. Slowly, her gaze lifted to the obsidian antlers twisting and twining from my skull, polished and classy as fuck in this realm, not a snarl of dead flesh to be found. No, just shiny, deadly weapons these cuffs couldn’t cage.

Her whimper vibrated against my palm, and I pinched her face, almost as a warning, because, fuck’s sake, my erection could only get so hard.

A faint possessive tug rippled from Cato and Geralt, our feelings shared, our emotions entwined. Blood oaths centuries ago bound us together until the end of days, but so too did our ancient leviathan lineages. Considered impure by some leviathans, we had each other, birthed from aristocratic demonesses with a penchant for wilder, fiercer, more violent mates. In the eyes of the demonic masses, we were destined to be generals in the future apocalypse, yet our noble demon peers despised us for all we had—for all we could do courtesy of our absent fathers.

We leviathans were prophesized to end this world, but making a mess of it was a hell of a lot more fun.

Usually.

Thislittle venture with the hellmouth splitting, all of us shitfaced and high off our faces, had turned into a tedious miscalculation that I was desperate to escape.

Until now.

Until her.

A shadow loomed over me, Geralt back and using that massive smoky-black mountain of a body, pure muscle and fucking huge, to block her from the one-way windows near the door.

“If you refuse,” Cato started again as he swept her hair from her face, gathering it and swooping it to one side, exposing her throat and her fluttering pale pulse point, “and we refuse—they’ll punish you.”

Not a trick to knock her to her knees, mind you. Stories spread through the dark legion during free time that some demons had rejected their magpie for whatever reason in the last week—fickle bastards, our lot—and then the magpie was beaten to a bloody pulp right in front of them by the prison guards. Maybe to entice them, blood in the air and screams aplenty. Maybe they did it to punish her for not being alluring enough. Maybe they just needed the flimsiest excuse to get their rocks off.

I didn’t understand it, nor did I give a shit about the logic: all I knew was that magpies were brutalized if they couldn’t perform.

“But say the word,” Cato hissed, the shift of his tone from playful tormentor to earnest lover making me straighten up and take notice. I swiftly set aside the cocksure sadist in my soul, focused on him and her, on what this meant for all of us. “Tell me, little magpie, here and now, that you truly wish to escape this place…”

Cato’s bright blues were accented with black lightning bolts, and they cut from me to Geralt. Without hesitation, we rumbled our support, always up for anything he offered—especially if it was about to get violent, bloody, and awful. Besides, we had a little bird to protect now, one who needed to stretch her wings and soar before she was crowned in the apocalypse.

“Speak your truth, magpie,” Cato murmured as he dragged his lips seductively down her temple to her cheek, the openmouthed kiss a possessive brand on her soul. “Tell me you want out and we’ll leave nothing but ashes.” Fuck yes. “One word, magpie, for you, for the way you sing to us…”

Her black brows furrowed, lips trembling against my palm, her eyes wide and glossy like she couldn’t dare blink and allow the tears to fall. Delicious. Do it—let me lick you. Let me sample your fear.

With a snarl, Geralt paced behind us again, his mood stormy and his bloodlust electric, the air rank with both. He was ready, our brother, to both crack skulls and kiss the ground she walked on.

“Or stay and play.” Cato swept a gentle thumb beneath her lower lashes, right eye and then the left, gathering the damp there with a sigh. “Give them what they want, keep the peace, and we will find you when it’s over. But if you try to flee now without us by your side, they will hurt you, magpie.”

“Whip you down to the bone,” I added, just to really paint a broad picture in her mind’s eye. I loved a good whipping, both as the flogger and the floggee, but this wasn’t the time, place, or divine female meant for my usual games.

“And your flesh,” Geralt growled, his accent so much more fucking regal than ours, even in this realm, “is far too lovely to be split by anything but our teeth.”

I rolled my eyes. Poetic twat.

Chest heaving and shuddering with every panicked gasp, our magpie’s emerald eyes shot around what could very well become her tomb if she wasn’t careful—then sealed shut, tight and clenched, milking out a few stubborn tears that hung on her lashes. When she opened them again, a watery resolve blazed bright, plucking at my heartstrings more than I cared to admit.

So, with an arched eyebrow, a little warning not to say anything fucking stupid that would force our hand, I eased off the pressure on her cheeks, then pulled away completely. A pale pink tongue swept her lips, and she nodded, staring at the ceiling like it was just so fascinating.

“I-I can do it,” she said thickly, her insistence all shaky and breathy—absolutely delicious. “I can take it. I’m okay.”

I snorted, flashing a sharp smile when she looked to me again. “We’ll see.”

Our magpie blanched, and maybe if Cato hadn’t wrapped both arms around her from behind, caressing her curves, mapping her figure, those wobbly knees might have finally given way. Instead, she found herself trapped in a monster’s embrace, a king with no throne, his hands sweeping over her like we already owned her, mind, body, and soul. I inhaled sharply when he gripped her hips and bucked into what I imagined to be a delectably perky ass, grinding his desire, spelling it out so there was no mistaking what exactly Stay and play meant.

“Give me your name, magpie,” I urged, injecting a bit of velvet into my tone. Usually that alone turned a lover weak and useless, putty in my cruel hand, but she lifted her chin and shook her head.

“No.”

“Why?” Geralt hissed, almost like her response pained him. Defiance sparkled in those golden streaks, and she squared up with me as Cato continued his rough exploration over her bandaged ritual dress.

“Because it’s mine,” she remarked. The challenge stoked the ever-present hellfire in me, searing the last of our recent boredom to dust.

“By the end of this, it’ll be ours,” I fired back, snagging her chin between my thumb and finger, pinching hard enough to make her squirm. “Just like your heart.”

Cato’s pale gaze flicked up at me, and he smirked as he delicately grazed his teeth over her bare shoulder. Geralt, meanwhile, unleashed a snarl meant for both of us. Never a fan of the way we tormented lovers before we gave them the world, our brother, but Cato and I barely put up with him waxing romantic lyrical bullshit at them either, so, you know, fair’s fair.

As Cato’s hands slowly unraveled her dress, exposing her layer by layer, I pressed mine to my chest and did a little bow that was all the rage in this realm’s royal courts centuries ago.

“We’ll give you our names.” She had no idea the gift that was, the power in one’s name. Demons and fae especially worked to keep their monikers to themselves, but she didn’t strike me as a witch—which meant the likelihood of her using our names to bind us to her bidding hovered around zero. “I offer them freely, with no price.”

All she gave me in return was the purse of her full mouth, her skin pebbled and her eyes still defiant—

Until Cato peeled away the cotton strap around her breasts, unveiling dusty pink nipples hard enough to cut diamonds. Geralt’s thunderous pacing stopped, and my gaze plummeted to the little darlings crowning her weighted breasts, supple and round, good for binding.

“The monster at your back is Cato,” I said, tone light and conversational—a distraction right before I flicked her right nipple. Our magpie squeaked and jerked back into Cato, then gasped and bounced forward, probably when she got an even better feel of his cock between her ass cheeks.

“Say his name.”

“C-Cato,” she whispered, so quick to give in to my demand. Good. Nothing more sublime than a lover with just the right amount of courage and defiance when, deep down, they were really just the goodest girl.

Hearing his name on her tongue, Cato flashed his teeth, some of that gentle restraint fading as he pressed closer and licked her shoulder, up her neck, and snapped at her earlobe. He had bared her down to the waist, but apparently that wasn’t good enough; Geralt stepped in a moment later, jaw set, eyes narrowed, and yanked at her skirts, tearing the layered cotton stripes, slashing at them with claws more accustomed to peeling flesh from bone.

“This impatient fucker is Geralt,” I told her, giddy at the sight of him spiraling faster than the rest of us for once. “Say his name.”

“Geralt,” she forced out in a terrified whisper. Our magpie shrank away from him, his size intimidating even to seasoned warriors in the pit, while the rest of him looked like a beautiful black titan freshly released from his underworld cage. Frustrated with her attire, he really tucked in, so focused on the task at hand, at ripping and slashing and tearing stubborn cotton, that he didn’t catch her eyes drop to his shaft, then rocket back up just as fast, her cheeks on fire.

But I did.

I miss nothing, darling.

“Hasn’t he got the biggest cock you’ve ever seen?”

Her blushes went nuclear, made worse by my smirk, by the way her discomfort so obviously thrilled me. Then, for the cherry on top, I chuckled, willing the sound to swell and bounce off the walls, the laughter echoing long after I’d stopped.

“Oh, that’s right,” I whispered, bracing my hands on my knees as I dropped into her eyeline. “Not sure you’ve ever seen a cock before, eh, little virgin?”

Visibly shaken, she looked me dead in the eye as I grinned, always the cat who caught, defeathered, and gutted the canary. Why a virgin would ever volunteer to become an abused member of the ancient Magpie Order was beyond me. Even more curious: Why would the order use a virgin for this—servicing the dark legion, our miserable stay in this realm temporary at best?

Virgins had such value in the supernatural world, from the properties in their blood to the way they tasted when consumed. This… seemed like such a waste, but like fuck I’d complain about finding our virginal queen by chance.

“We can smell it on you, little magpie,” Cato whispered heatedly, teeth flashing at the shell of her ear as he cupped her weighty breasts and squeezed, rolling her nipples between his fingers so that she whined. “Innocence, untouched, unclaimed…”

Until now. I added a second pair of hands to her breasts, infatuated with the dusky rose hue of her nipples, with the way they paled when pinched—the way she shot onto her toes in a panic when I pinched hard.

“Say his name,” I murmured, jutting my chin to the master at her back. Our magpie swallowed hard, her throat bobbing with a knot I wanted to work out with my thumb.

“Cato,” she whispered, finally leaning into him, her shoulders flush to his chest. Possession tightening like a snare, I flicked my gaze toward Geralt, the hulking monster looming over us transfixed by her lips.

“Touch him.” My tone told her where. Not his sculpted chest or his defined torso. Not his pale grey scars from battles long forgotten, his left arm sliced to shit. There. “And say his name.”

She reached for him with a trembling hand, stroking the swollen head of his enormous cock, touching down on the wet pearl at its tip. Then, with a deep breath, she cupped his shaft, her gaze to the ground, submissive enough to make us all snarl.

“Geralt.”

He snatched her hand with a groan, the sentimental fuck, and kissed the top of it. Gentle. No teeth. No fire. No malice. He was the softest leviathan-demon hybrid I’d met—but he could cleave an entire army in half solo. I’d seen it, laughing in the background while he cut down foes left and right like a hot knife through butter. An enigma, our brother. Highly valued in our trio, no matter how mercilessly we took the piss out of him on a daily basis.

The magpie’s gaze snapped up, her mouth parted with a soft gasp as Geralt turned her hand over to kiss her palm, then the tender underside of her wrist. Over her shoulder, Cato met my eyes, and my grin turned feral just as his sharpened. Without warning, I snapped up her throat, collaring her and wrenching her out of that lovesick bubble Geralt always made without even trying.

“Aedan,” I hissed as I closed in on her, lost in her wide, watery eyes, in the way the gold slashed the green like she was so much more than human. “Say it back to me.”

She squirmed, hands flying to my forearm and tugging to no avail. Refusal to obey a direct order resulted in me squeezing, and she winced, tongue swiping across her lips in the most fucking distracting display that I growled.

“A-Aedan.”

“Louder.”

“Aedan,” she offered with a little more gusto, squealing as Cato busied himself with her nipples, pinching and plucking and twisting. Geralt, meanwhile, stole one of her hands from my arm, back to kissing it, to mapping the pale veins under her flesh.

I, meanwhile, pressed just hard enough to the ones in her throat, highly aware of the pressure needed to make her head spin. “Louder.”

“Aedan!” My name ricocheted around the room like a wayward bullet, pinging and clanging. It made my cock ache and my heart sing, and my cheek twitched, feral smile wavering, because if I didn’t bury this cock in her cunt fucking soon, I’d lose it.

Muffled laughter erupted from the other side of the invisible glass.

We all stilled. Heat flared in splotchy red patches across her cheeks, her eyes darting there, to them, and Cato bared his teeth. Rage raked up my back, and had it not been for these cuffs, for all the supernatural kryptonite embedded everywhere in this bloody prison, I’d rip their heads off and fuck their gaping mouths for sport.

The air crackled and hissed, our raw power pushing back against the sigils, against the spells that bound us, but instead of losing it like I would have before she walked through the door, I thought of someone outside our little group for a change. While Cato snaked his arms around our magpie, hugging her, claiming her with something as simple as one arm cut across her body between her breasts, the other snug around her waist, I shifted my stance so she couldn’t look for them. Those dancing greens eventually settled on me, no longer hunting for the windows, and Geralt quickly fell in beside me, all of us blocking out the howling, nattering guards.

“Little magpie,” Cato purred as he nuzzled her hair, then nipped at her temple, her sharp cheekbone, “those ingrates are inconsequential now. Ignore them.”

No one with a brain would defy Cato, but I’d seen it before, and with this exquisite virgin, a human who clearly had no fucking idea what she was doing with her precious life, I felt the message needed an extra push to really land.

“And if you don’t,” I informed her as Geralt peeled the last of her dress away, the big lug distracted once again with her body, “I’ll paint your ass raw before we even get started.”

Eyes closed, our magpie nodded, but rather than basking in her surrender, Geralt just snarled, his presence suddenly suffocating.

“I cannot resist much longer,” he seethed, his scowl burning a hole straight through my skull. “Enough of these games.”

“Patience, brother,” Cato insisted before I could pop him in the jaw. “She is worth the wait.”

This time, when our magpie blushed, it wasn’t with humiliation. No, something about the warmth of the red sheen, the flutter of her lashes, and the biting at her lower lip—that flattered her.

Oh, darling, we can make you feel so good.

This was nothing.

A drop in the ocean of the worship male leviathans heaped upon their chosen mates.

“Isn’t he merciful?” I whispered, sweeping some of that thick black away from her face, swooping it behind her ear as I eased closer. “Cato is your judge, jury, and executioner… On your knees, magpie, so he feels your gratitude.”

That word—magpie—came out a sneer, because I craved her actual name and my patience was wearing thin. Still, there were games to be played, and when she slowly started to fold, I grabbed her and whirled her around.

“Continue.”

Back to me, our magpie sank to the ground and settled on her knees. Without prompting, she fisted the base of Cato’s rock-hard cock, but just as she sat up straighter, lips parted, he caught her chin in one hand. Cradling it, stroking her jaw with his thumb, he locked onto those stunning emeralds, and briefly, they were lost to each other. Connection sparked, hot and wanting, the room suddenly dipped in hellfire.

Longing—yearning—tugged in my gut, the sensation shared so viscerally by Geralt that it seemed to pain him. His features darkened, that long white mane spilling forward as he bowed his head with a growl, tresses just begging for her sweet caress.

It really is her, isn’t it?

Ours.

The one we’d been waiting for, hunting for, since we were young, pampered, spoiled halfbreeds running wild on our mothers’ estates, tormenting servants and searing damned human souls for fun.

Well then.

Nothing else to consider.

Once we were finished here, we sure as shit weren’t going back to that sad holding cell.

And she wasn’t going anywhere without us.

With a slight bend in his knees for her comfort, Cato steered her to his cock, then groaned, head falling back as soon as her lips closed around the tip. Eyes on him like she wanted to read his pleasure, track his response, our magpie took a few inches into her mouth, then retreated. It was a slow dance, tender and intimate—me and Geralt almost forgotten.

And that just wouldn’t fly, baby.

Now that Cato had claimed first taste of our new mate, she was fair game. Head foggy with lust, I crouched behind her and really touched her, mapping her figure, tracing the dips and curves. They kept magpies clean-shaven, her former masters, from her pits to her arms to her legs, right down to the cleft of her thighs.

Teeth gritted, control tenuous, I delved low, plunging two fingers between her slick folds, and stroked her swollen clit.

“When we make you come,” I taunted in her ear, “you’ll give us your name.”

She tried to shake her head, but the task proved difficult with a huge cock in her mouth, Cato’s shaft glistening with saliva, her mouth working one half and her fist the other. Her core shivered as I parted her lower lips, the air scented with her wet heat, her arousal thick and obvious, so apparent that Geralt nearly lost it, his snarl splintering some of the grey bricks around us. He clapped down on my shoulder, claws slashing my ivory flesh, gripping hard enough that he’d crack my fucking clavicle if he didn’t get his shit together soon.

But who could blame him?

She was wet and wanting for us.

The craving was mutual.

And that was always a game changer.

“You have the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen, magpie, and I’ve barely had a proper look,” I rumbled. Toying with her clit, stroking and massaging no matter how bratty she was with those clenched thighs, I then licked up her spine to the base of her neck. Never had anyone tasted, smelled, felt so fucking good—so life-giving that if we went without her, we’d shrivel up and die.

As she worshipped Cato’s cock, her eyes hooded and heavy, a bit of drool dribbling from the corners of her mouth, I painted the prettiest picture.

“If we were alone,” I told her, glancing between Cato and Geralt, our minds so alike after all these centuries, “I’d have you ass up with your cheek to the ground, thighs spread wide, so we could watch you touch yourself.”

But we weren’t alone.

While we’d ordered her to ignore them, they were there, lurking, watching, reveling in the destruction of a magpie in a way that those fuckers had probably hoped would be more violent than this.

They didn’t deserve a show like the one I had in mind—but next time.

Next time, she wouldn’t escape a single sinful thing.

Her whimper finally pushed Geralt too far, and from the look in his eyes, the demonic roar thundering in his chest, it was either get out of his way or be run the fuck over.

“Here, you surly bastard.” I stood and gestured to her kneeling figure. “Get us her name, then.”

Despite the space given, Geralt still shoved me aside—but I came back swinging with a shove of my own, then a ram of my antlers that gashed his chest wide open. As the inky onyx flesh stitched itself back together, Geralt lunged at me, and then there we were, two snarling idiots pushing and shoving, fighting, all flying fists and bared teeth. He pulled his punches like always, and I did my best not to actually gore him—like always.

“Brothers.” Cato heaved a long, luxurious sigh, his hands woven into our magpie’s thick black hair. “Is this really the time?”

We stumbled apart, chests heaving, muscles clenched and tight, adrenaline spiked and bloodlust piqued. My split lip spread wider with a manic grin, and Geralt brushed the black, bloody smear from his cheek with a roll of his eyes and a smirk shared between brothers. Skirmish over, he folded to his knees, then crawled to our magpie from behind, huge and imposing, and twisted onto his back.

“Open wide, sweet magpie,” he urged as he scooted under her, gently prying apart her calves first, then her knees, his intentions obvious. “Let me in.”

But ever the frightened songbird, she mewled around Cato’s cock and tried to jerk away. The hands in her hair mounted her in place, Cato’s pace slow and kind—but still at his pleasure. Only when he was through with her would she ever escape him, and like fuck that would happen now.

“Do not fear me,” Geralt drawled, inching deeper between her thighs, eyes on the prize and white brows furrowed with die-hard determination. “Fear is for the sheep.” He stroked her legs and the globes of her perky ass, massaging her, coaxing her as I never would. He was a catching more flies with honey sort—I preferred nets and traps, the verbal warfare sometimes even more exciting than the deed itself. “Easy, sweetness… Open for me.”

Tonight, the honey worked, because there she was, shuffling in place, making room for this massive monster as his head scooted beneath her. Geralt lifted her legs and braced her feet over his shoulders, then lurched up, licking her slick sex with a groan that made my cock twitch. He tasted her deeply, face buried, and wrapped clawed hands around her thighs, keeping her right there no matter how she squirmed and squealed. Arched up, he tucked in, his skin littered with telltale goose bumps, nipples as tight as hers, and cock desperate for attention. Pillowed by that long, silky white mane, he feasted on our magpie like she was his first meal, his last, devouring her cunt while she whimpered and gasped around Cato’s shaft.

And I refused to sit on the sidelines one fucking second longer.

Shoulders back, erection bobbing with every stride, I marched next to Cato, smirking when her eyes fluttered open and immediately launched to mine. For a few beats, I enjoyed the show, the way Cato’s length lazily plundered her mouth, like he had all the time in the world. Then, when his right hand fell away, I replaced it with mine, threading my fingers through her hair, weaving control like a tapestry, and then jerked her back so that he popped out of her mouth with a wet suction noise that made her blush.

“Say his name.”

“Cato,” she managed, her voice heavy with desire—and maybe a whiff of shame. Maybe she hadn’t expected to enjoy this. Maybe she hadn’t thought we would consider her pleasure at all.

I tugged her head toward my jutting cock. “Now, say mine.”

She fluttered those damp black lashes, and then, out of nowhere, a little bratty expression flashed up at me. Those full, dribble-soaked lips pressed, almost like she was about to say, Mine, but then—

“Aedan,” she whispered. Protectiveness spiked in my gut, the need to guard and treasure this kneeling creature with my life pounding through me out of nowhere. Schooling my features, refusing to let her see that weakness just yet, I arched an eyebrow and fisted her hair harder.

“And now yours.”

She gulped and barely shook her head. “No.”

Excellent. Hungry as I was for it—not yet. Not until we’d ruined her just a little more, spoiled all other lovers for her so she had no choice but to stay.

“Pity.” I then thrust between her slightly parted lips without warning. While Cato had been merciful, allowing for her fist to make up for her shortcomings, I had always been the crueler master. After hitting the back of her throat, assessing just how deep she could realistically take me, I fucked her faster and meaner than he had, no room for her fist with her mouth full of my cock. Her sputters and coughs went ignored, drool on her chin, her chest, her eyes wide and watery again. With Cato’s hand on the one side of her head, mine on the other, and Geralt rooting her to the spot with his admittedly talented mouth assaulting her sex—she was stuck.

Helpless.

Ours.

Only when her eyes rolled back in her head did I stop, pulling out and passing her back to Cato. My crowned shadow brother gave her a few moments to chase her breath, wiping her chin and cheeks with his knuckles, cooing sweet nothings at her in a leviathan tongue few understood anymore. Then, when the tears stopped falling and her chest stopped heaving, he had his way with her again, slow and steady, even taking a moment to wrap her shaky hand around the base of his shaft for her. It had no rhythm, no consistency, and she almost clung to him for balance, bobbing her head as best she could, struggling under all our attentions.

She whined when he retreated—almost like she knew if it wasn’t Cato’s cock in her mouth, it was mine, and nothing about me had ever been gentle. This time, he allowed me to twist both hands into her coarse locks, and I fucked her face with earnest, her tits jiggling and core shuddering, her hands slapped to my thighs and blunt nails jabbing in as if that might stop me.

Whenever I felt the urge to spill my seed down her throat, I eased off and passed her to Cato again. Back and forth she went, one to the other as Geralt feasted on her, his groans and growls filling the room, the perfect accompaniment to her strangled cries.

Eventually, I handed her off to Cato for the time being—small mercies and all that shit—and crouched beside her. Geralt had her worked into a writhing, grinding, sweaty mess, his hair no longer that neat silky pillow but a choppy sea of white beneath them.

“Pause,” I muttered, tapping his shoulder and waiting. His eyes snapped open as he lifted our magpie ever so slightly off his arousal-drenched face, and I held up two fingers. Literally two seconds, you pussy-obsessed fuck. Those black eyes rolled, and he hefted her higher, handling her like she was nothing—because, really, her frame was light as air compared to the rest of us.

Tempted as I was to pinch and flick and twist that engorged clit, I eased two fingers into her instead with the knowledge that Geralt would have fucked her with his formidable tongue by now. She tightened around the intrusion, her squeals muffled by Cato, but I ignored her, wetting both fingers to my liking, followed by my thumb. Then, satisfied, I shuffled around, watching, the beast in my soul savage at the sight of Geralt lunging up to reclaim her. His arms coiled tighter around her thighs, and, like he sensed where this was headed, he tilted her forward, really zeroed in on the crest of her cunt while spreading her perky cheeks for me.

Exposing the puckered hole there.

Thumb and two fingers slick and sticky with her own desire, I slipped a tip in without warning. Her scream made Cato hiss, both his hands in her hair, hips thrusting ever so slightly as he face-fucked her with more gusto this time around.

“Tut, tut, nameless vixen,” I crooned, nudging a good inch in, followed swiftly by another, her ass a tight inferno I knew I wouldn’t have the pleasure of destroying—this time. Cato was just such an ass hog. “Nothing is off-limits to us anymore.”

Much to my surprise, one deep breath and she relaxed just enough for me to plunge knuckle-deep. After some admittedly cautious probing—virgins required much more finesse than I offered seasoned lovers—I went for that second finger, Geralt so deep in her cunt it was a wonder we hadn’t broken her yet. She swatted back at me, arms free but the rest of her caged, and I scoffed, responding with a cheeky smack to one of her cheeks, loving the way it jiggled.

“Oh, stop,” I drawled, swapping fingers for my thumb, prepping her with her own juices, working her as best I could before that cock in her mouth inevitably found its way here. “Stop fighting, magpie. We can smell the want on you.” Dense and heady, it surpassed all our natural scents combined, the stonewalled room drenched in her.

“We see it in your blushes,” Cato added, every word strained, his resolve to be the gentle, merciful king fading by the thrust.

“You love having all three holes filled,” I carried on, keenly aware of the way her muscles tensed and her body shook, the obvious signs of her desire soaring and staining Geralt’s mouth. “And we’ve barely even started with you—”

A staticky whine slammed through unseen speakers, and we all flinched, Cato’s hackles up, his crown shivering, his eyes screaming bloody murder.

“You assholes have ten more minutes,” came a crackly but familiar male voice from the ceiling, “and then it’s back in the cell. Use your time wisely.”

Collective rage detonated from us like a bomb, and this time, our magpie genuinely tried to escape, pushing and shoving and flailing, almost like she sensed our wrath and wanted no part in it. Despite the fire in his eyes, the war drums pounding in the pulse point on his neck, Cato dropped down to cradle her head, murmuring sweet nothings to calm her.

No matter how a leviathan raged, his mate was never the target. Never.

The same couldn’t be said for demons, naturally, but having been raised by three strong matriarchal demonesses, only a demon with the brain the size of a fruit fly would turn on their females. Most male demons didn’t share our opinion—but this gorgeous creature hadn’t found herself in the company of those pureblooded dickbags.

She had been chosen by sons of the apocalypse.

And she would be protected and treated as the dark queen she would one day become, no matter her humanity—no matter her physical frailty. We wanted all of her.

But we had ten minutes to finish this charade before things took a turn for the bloody out there.

Still crouched, Cato worked her clit with two fingers, and I left her ass alone—for now. Joining my shadow-crowned brother, I sat back on my heels as Geralt doubled his efforts, his knees up, this a full-body task. As the color dripped from her cheeks to her chest to her navel, heat rolling off her in invisible waves, a sweaty sheen across her skin and eyes clenched shut like she was fighting her own pleasure with everything she had—I grabbed her throat.

Her eyes snapped open.

I squeezed, my sharp smile making her jerk and shiver in place.

But when she finally shattered, she pressed her lips together, biting down hard on the lower one as a squeal lodged in her throat. Stubborn creature, right to the very end.

“Say it,” I snarled, yanking her forward as Geralt licked and licked and licked, her climax the only scent in the room now. “Give it to us!”

She had made a deal.

Sort of.

An orgasm for her name.

“Now, little magpie,” Cato barked. He then delved between her forcefully parted thighs and pinched her clit. “Your name.”

She finally looked at us—really looked—with stars in her eyes, tears swelling and twinkling like diamonds. “Ileana.”

“Ileana,” I hissed, knowing I’d never taste another lover’s name on my tongue for as long as I lived.

“Ileana,” Cato choked out, his voice demonic and deep, nightmare fuel to the fuckers listening outside.

“Ileana,” Geralt declared, thoughtful and sweet as he kissed our mate’s name along her inner thigh. She grabbed at my arm, my hand still locked around her throat, then shyly peeked over to watch Geralt worship her.

And I—

Fuck.

I was already in love.