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“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.
