Maisie

The words sank in like stones.

Consummation.

They were going to force me to choose one of them right now. The one I supposedly felt the strongest pull toward.

Pull?

All I felt was this helpless anger festering inside me. A part of me wondered if I could reject it, then I recalled rejections weren’t a thing with Lycan bonds, and if they were holding the priestess by claw point, what I wanted was no longer on the table.

I had to pick.

I knew who the first one should be without thinking about it, and it had nothing to do with the strongest pull. It was that when I thought about his face and wanted to smash it in the hardest. I felt the fiercest anger when I thought about him.

And from the stupid, smug look on his face, Soren knew it was him.

I wanted nothing more than to slug it off. For a moment, my anger boiled to a critical point as I considered choosing someone else, but I had never been someone who cut her nose to spite her face.

If I was going to be their Erasthai, if they were going to force me into doing this, then I needed to make the best of the situation. I needed the bond at its strongest.

It was the only way I could gain some leverage. Some advantage. And goddess knew I needed some right now.

This was no longer about my emotions. It was my life on the line. Being their Erasthai meant if something happened to me, it happened to them. They would protect me for sure.

No. They wouldn’t merely protect me.

They would die for me.

And for the first time in my life, I decided I wasn’t going to sit around to be used. I was going to use them.

A cold calm settled over me and I said, "Soren."

Neither of them looked surprised. Mercer and Jericho bristled slightly. Quinlan’s expression was the exact opposite. He seemed... pleased.

Soren stepped forward and the moonlight kissed his skin.

Goddess, he looked devastating.

The black embroidered jacket clung to his powerful frame like it had been sewn onto him, the silver threading catching the light.

His hair was slightly mussed from the earlier chaos, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look both regal and feral.

A single silver earring dangled from his left ear. Flecks of blood dotted his sharp cheekbones and jaw, making him look like a beautiful savage who had just stepped off a battlefield.

My stomach flipped. Hatred and hunger twisted so tightly inside me I couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

I gripped the dagger tighter as he stopped right in front of me, towering, radiating heat and raw power. The priestess whispered instructions, but I barely heard them. My pulse thundered in my ears.

I raised the blade to his neck, right over the strong, pulsing vein. The steel kissed his skin. For one wild second, I imagined driving it straight through his neck and killing him.

Soren’s dark eyes met mine. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. Then, deliberately, he arched his neck further, offering me better access, baring his throat completely in a show of dominance and mocking surrender.

He can read me, I realized with a jolt of fear. He knows exactly what I was thinking.

"Go ahead, child," the priestess urged, her voice shaking. "Mark him."

I rose onto the tips of my toes, heart hammering so hard I felt dizzy. He was so tall. So impossibly still. My free hand trembled as I braced it against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his jacket.

"I... I don’t know how," I whispered.

Soren’s voice was low, rough, intimate. "Suck."

It was one word but it sent heat straight between my legs.

I swallowed hard. Leaning in, I pressed my tongue to the fresh incision.

Soren shuddered violently. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as he lifted me up against him, his hand splaying possessively across my lower back. I sealed my lips over the bleeding pulse point and sucked.

His blood flooded my mouth, rich, dark, impossibly sweet, like spiced wine and midnight and something dangerously addictive. I was suddenly, desperately thirsty. Thirsty for him. For more. For everything.

My teeth began to itch, aching with the need to bite, to claim, to mark what was mine. The hatred was still there, burning hot, but it twisted into something darker and hungrier.

And I gave into it.

My teeth sank into his neck.

Soren moaned.

His hand fisted in my hair, holding me there as I drank from him in deep, greedy pulls. I felt the bond snap into place... and it was the strangest feeling.

Like it had always been there, but it pulsed stronger, hotter and brighter. I could feel him inside me, a dark, commanding presence in my mind, and it was far too intimate that I tore away from him, panting.

Soren stared down at me with burning eyes. His thumb brushed roughly over my lower lip, smearing his own blood across my mouth.

"My turn," he growled.

He simply gripped my chin, tilting my head to the side exposing the long line of my throat as he brushed my hair over my shoulder.

When he cut me with the dagger, I realized the dagger was made of ash and silver, because it burned. Possibly to keep the wound open for long enough for the mark to form.

It took on a different meaning then, surrendering your neck to someone who held a weapon that could kill you.

Soren lowered his mouth to my neck. His tongue dragged over my pulse point in one slow, possessive stroke, making my knees buckle.

Then he bit.

I cried out, the pain sharp, and my hands fisted his jacket. It took about two seconds before pleasure set in. It pooled between my thighs in a shameful rush with every suck of his hot mouth, sending pulses straight to my core.

And with the bond thrummed wildly, shuddering as it strengthened into something thick and unbreakable.

Only then did he pull back, his tongue stroking the mark slowly, sealing it, then he pressed a bruising kiss over it, and I heard him in my head. You were mine first, and you’ll always be.

I was trembling, aching, barely able to stand.

Apparently, the only choice I made was who went first, because Mercer stepped up next.

His expression lacked Soren’s smugness. If anything, he seemed angry.

Which wasn’t unusual for Mercer.

I marked his neck the same way. My hands shook less as I cut him, then sealed my mouth over the wound. His blood burned down my throat like fire—like all that fury he always carried about was also in his blood.

He didn’t hold me like Soren did, but he let me step on his shoes and tug his neck harder into me.

The second I finished, I handed him the dagger and arched my neck.

But Mercer didn’t want my neck.

Instead, Mercer dropped to his knees in front of me.