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Malix holds up both hands. “Whoa there, Merlin. I’m not interested.”
Erik rolls his eyes. “I’m not propositioning you.”
Kian cuts in before Malix can say anything else. “What do you want?”
Erik stands, his too-thin body unfolding like a praying mantis, then he crosses to face Kian and gestures at his arm. “I want a piece of that. Of the magic you contain.”
The… what?
I blink, staring between Erik and Kian as I wait on somebody to offer me up some clarification. A piece of the magic they contain? What does that even mean?
Kian, Malix, and Frost share a look and seem to come to some kind of unspoken agreement. Then Kian grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it off over his head.
My desire for my mates has become a low-level hum inside me, something I’m slowly learning to tamp down in their presence. But the moment Kian bares his expanse of tattooed muscles, heat flares through my body and every carnal memory I have of him returns to the forefront of my mind.
He’s as gorgeous as I remember, and his tattoos have grown in number. The long, tribal-looking curl down his abdomen has felt my tongue, and looking at it dipping into the waistband of his jeans sends a rush of need through me. Coupled with the potent incense and the overwhelming warmth of the shack, I feel woozy enough to fall. Instead, I shuffle sideways and lean against the sweating wall.
Erik chuckles almost maniacally and crosses to a podium-style altar in the corner. He opens a trapdoor on the front and digs around inside for a moment before emerging with a long, sharp ceremonial knife.
I have my own knife in my hand before he even turns around.
Malix reaches out and rests his fingers lightly on my knuckles. He gives me a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“Seriously?” I hiss, gesturing at the mad witch.
A grin slashes across Malix’s face. “Calm down, kitty.”
I point my blade at him with my best glare, then lower it and remain where I am as Erik goes back to Kian. But I don’t put my knife away. Just in case.
Erik’s nose scrunches as he sizes up Kian. “You aren’t one of the poisoned, are you?”
“I am not,” Kian replies stiffly. Then he angles the right side of his body toward the witch and thumps the muscles of his shoulder with two fingers. “Shoulder.”
Erik eyes the tattooed expanse of Kian’s shoulder for several long seconds, like an artist about to carve marble. Then he lifts the viciously sharp blade and digs into Kian’s skin.
My own shoulder burns in sympathy, but Kian takes it like a man. A muscle twitches near his temple, and his jaw tightens in pain, but he gives no other outward sign of discomfort. Bright red blood drips down his arm, stark against his black tattoos.
Bile rises in my throat, and the hot, lightheaded feeling intensifies. I’m not a wuss about blood or pain, but the look of pure rapture on Erik’s face disgusts me.
The mad witch digs out a chunk of Kian’s flesh with slow, methodical slices. He looks almost gleeful as he pulls the lump of tissue away from the bleedin
g wound and holds it up in a slant of sunlight falling through the living room window. Blood falls from the hunk of skin onto the floor at Erik’s feet.
I swallow hard, horrified at how Kian let the mad witch carve him up without protest.
As Erik holds his prize up to the light pouring through the window, I realize the skin he chose has a tattoo on it. I feel a pang of dismay over the fact that Kian’s gorgeous tattoos are going to be screwed up, and I glance at his arm to survey the damage.
His tattoos are moving.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen Frost’s identical tattoos move, but afterward, I could just pretend it was a trick of the light. Now, I watch in fascination as Kian’s tattoos rearrange into a new pattern around the bloody wound. Where the tribal curls slashed to the right, now they slash to the left. A swirl pulls away from his collar bone and slides down, framing the still-oozing cut.
My skin crawls, and I tighten my grip on the hilt of my knife to ground myself. When the tattoos are done moving, they look like they’ve always been in that position, wrapped around an injury that will surely scar.
What the fuck is happening?
Erik looks between the wound and his bloody, tattooed tissue. “Ah. Give me a moment and I’ll fix you up.” He takes the skin to his altar, leaving the knife and the lump of tissue on a small plate, then he returns to Kian. “With your permission, I’ll close the wound.”
Kian nods, his expression empty of pain or disgust or anything I think he should be feeling right now. If he can handle having a literal chunk carved out of his arm without breaking a sweat, it’s no wonder he so easily walked away from his mate.
