Nostrils flared, Geralt pressed himself back to the wall, feet planted, long white mane bunched at his back, claws gritted into the stone—like he had to hold himself back or he’d attack. Teeth bared, cock hard, he stared our magpie down with a low rumble, and then it hit me.
Virgin.
Aedan inhaled sharply to my left, the realization shared.
A volunteer virgin dressed in white, wrapped in strips of cotton fabric that circled from the top of her head to the tip of her nose. Exposed were her ruby-red lips, smeared with ritualistic blood, a thin line dragged from the center of her plump lower lip down to her sharp chin. The fabric snaked around her neck, two strips crisscrossing down and around her breasts, wrapping, wrapping, bandaging her up—
Like a gift for monsters to tear into. The material clung to her curves, bandaged tight around her chest, the dip of her waist, the elegant swell of her hips. It then plunged to the floor in fluttering layers, exposing her legs at random. Milky-white skin like she had never tasted the sun. Bare shoulders and arms, strong, the muscle groups faintly defined all the way down to delicate wrists and regal fingers. Trimmed nails. Hairless—not a strand on her arms, pits, or even the glimpses of leg I devoured like I’d never seen a woman before.
And perhaps I hadn’t.
Never before had such a divine specimen landed in my lap, wrapped and presented so perfectly.
She cradled a ball of red yarn in both hands, a single strand of twine trailing behind her, and I eased back on my heels, snarling at the invisible window, at the hushed voices murmuring beyond the door.
Some Earthbound witches delved into Purgatory, occasionally even Hell, with an enchanted ball of red yarn just like that. If they lost their way home, they’d follow the string.
It seemed cruel to arm magpies with that here—because no matter what hell they found on the other side of that door, they couldn’t leave.
That silly bit of twine would never take her home.
But she didn’t seem to realize that.
No, with her next hesitant step, she unraveled more red cord, this little lamb toddling deeper into the wolf’s den—the monster’s lair. Lust cracked and scattered like a volatile lightning strike, illuminating my marrow and sparking wildfire in my soul. My brothers rumbled and growled, the fire spreading, possession rife in the air.
Need to claim her. Mate her. Mark her.
Now.
The sentiment snapped between us, evident in Aedan and Geralt’s prowling posture, their clenched fists, their eyes zeroed in on her.
She belonged to us, this magpie, and we didn’t even know her name.
Had yet to lose ourselves in her eyes.
Never stroked and fisted her hair—
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore but taking her.
For centuries, we’d had our fill of lovers, both together and apart, but the song had never struck before. Sweet soprano, divine chorus, a lure to the apocalyptic hymns in our hearts.
Leviathans craved strong females. Males had the physicality, the world-ending malice, but females, our mates—prophecies spoke only of them, of these vicious beauties who would tear humanity apart, and in the ashes of this scorched earth, they would birth a new generation of monsters.
The world belonged to them. Males, alphas—we hunted and fought, fucked and destroyed, but the divine feminine… She was the way.
And I—we—wanted this one.
I straightened, hackles up and teeth bared when a guard’s hand reached in behind her—but only to grab the door and drag it shut. Boom. It slammed and locked into place with an imposing sense of finality. Cock hard as the stone around us, firm and desperate to plunge into her, mouth swimming with saliva at the thought of biting her right where her neck and shoulder met, I pounced with a snarl that rattled the walls and splintered the one-way glass…
Then charged clear across the room for the mate we had spent centuries hunting for—and grabbed her before they could rip her away.