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They circled each other like suspicious wolves, but the shackles restricted much movement. Emotions swooped and flew about them like bats in a cave, blindly searching for a safe place to rest, but finding none.
“You know what it’s like as their prisoner,” Sean appealed to the empathy he knew the king possessed. “Can you blame me for doing anything they asked to escape their wrath?”
“Ye could have told me!” Malcolm roared. “I would have protected ye.”
His words both touched and angered Sean at the same time. “How can you be so arrogant? They threaten me even now, within these walls. I am not their prisoner as you were Malcolm, I am their possession. They own me, body and soul.”
Malcolm froze in place, his eyes daggers of emerald fire within the sharp planes of his masculine face, his chest lifting and falling as though he’d run a league at full speed. “The only way that could be is if ye…”
“Yes,” he hissed, a bit of his soul flickering and dying like a candle in a storm at the disgust and disbelief in Malcolm’s eyes. “Yes, I made a deal with them. I sold my soul, more than a century ago, and I became one of their minions, as you call it.”
Malcolm took a step toward him and looked as if he was about to be kind, but Sean backed away, holding a hand up.
“Don’t you dare ask me why,” he warned. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just comfort yourself with the knowledge that whatever happens here tonight, whether you win or lose this battle, I’ll be thrown back in the dark void that has been my personal hell for the rest of eternity.” His voice wavered on that last sentence, so he kicked his chin up a notch. “You’ll be done with me forever.”
“I’m not done with ye,” Malcolm de Moray growled, eyes glinting with a familiar fever. “I’ll never be done with ye.” Tearing off his shirt, Malcolm tossed it to the stones. This time he stalked Sean like a predator, reaching out and dragging him against his hard, corded torso with punishing force. “Ye’ve bewitched me, somehow,” he accused, giving him a shake for emphasis. “Ye canna belong to them, Sean, because ye are mine.”
Oh, if only that could be true.
Even if his soul were to be set free, Sean would instantly die. “Malcolm—”
Malcolm’s fingers pressed against his lips. “Doona speak,” he commanded as his lips descended once more.
He had to know, Sean lamented quietly. The tension in Malcolm’s muscles, the bruising desperation of his lips told him that the king realized the futility of their connection, but refused to accept it.
It was the anger of a man who was a Druid in his spirit and a King in his land. He was used to controlling his environment. To bending others to his will.
But Sean was something he could neither control nor possess.
With a frustrated groan, Malcolm shoved his tattered trews down his waist, allowing Sean’s cock to spring free. In an astonishingly graceful maneuver, the king turned him to the bars, forcing him to cling to them.
His own clothing hit the floor.
Malcolm’s body was a muscular mass of coiled strain behind Sean as strong hands gripped ass with bruising fingers. He spat into his hand in a coarse gesture, then maneuvered his erection in place.
Sean panted as alarm and shock heightened the blood and lust racing through his veins. Malcolms growl of possession drowned out his whimper of submission and he surged forward with a powerful stroke.
Pleasure/pain rocked Sean forward, flooding his limbs, and he threw back his head with a moan.
“I’m sorry,” Sean gasped, as he thrust forward again, harder this time. Deeper.
“Shut up.” Malcolm wrapped Sean’s hair in his fist and secured his neck in place as he shoved inside with such force, Sean’s teeth clacked together.
“Forgive me,” he panted.
“Never.” Malcolm thrust forward again and again, his hips bucking against Sean’s ass with jarring force.
Sean braced himself against the bars, the task leaching him of strength. His arms trembled and burned with the effort, and sweat bloomed on his skin.
Malcolm thrust so deep, he evoked sensations Sean never before experienced. His body wanted to thrust back, to seek release and to meet his need. But his relentless rhythm was too brutal and too fast, so Sean helplessly took what he gave.
The king’s growls became groans as the friction intensified to unbearable.
“Come for me.” This time it was a command, as he pulled on Sean’s hair in a way that caused his inner muscles to clench with a spiraling pleasure. “Scream my name, traitor, as ye knew it all along.”
Sean obeyed. Treacherous pleasure seized him in its unrelenting hold and Malcolm’s name poured from his lips again and again. First as a plea, then as a prayer. And at last, a worshipful gasp as wave after wave of bliss pulled him from the void and lights exploded even in the darkness behind his eyelids.
When the climax began to fade, the Wyrd Sister’s cruel threat permeated his pleasure with a raw pain.
