Despite having taken two women, Elarion felt more ravenous than when the night began. Perhaps it was the power of the binding, perhaps something more. Whatever it was, it left him burning — a fever that roared in his veins and demanded release. With a hard swallow of his drink, he moved toward the far side of the mat where his last Tribute waited.
Noelis had been silently bracing herself as she watched him with the other two. Though she was not a virgin, she hadn't lain with too many men, and the reality of what awaited her sent an anxious tremor through her limbs.
She'd tried to keep her gaze averted, but it was impossible to ignore the sounds and heat that filled the chamber — the panting, the groans, the rhythm of bodies meeting bodies on silk. The air had turned thick with scent and sweat. When her turn came, the distant noises from the other beds had grown quieter.
She took a deep breath as a pair of rough hands found her waist. Elarion's breath was hot against her neck before she could even register the movement. His mouth closed over her skin, his teeth grazing her pulse. He sucked hard drawing a whimper from her lips. Instinctively, she pressed against his chest, but his body was immovable — solid, unyielding. When he loosened his grip just slightly, she twisted, trying to gain a breath of space.
That was when she saw his eyes.
Green, but not as they had been before. They glowed faintly now, wild and consuming, like some feral thing peering out from behind his human calm.
He devoured her with that look alone.
The moment's reprieve shattered when his mouth found her again — down her neck, over her collarbone, until he reached the neckline of her dress. The silk was no barrier to his hunger but he wanted it off. With a pull of his teeth, the fabric gave way, baring the soft curves beneath. He seized one breast in his hand and drew the other into his mouth, his tongue circling until her body betrayed her with a gasp.
His other hand slid beneath the hem of her gown, parting her thighs. His knees followed, pressing her legs wider until she could no longer resist the weight of him.
All the restraint he had clung to — the vows, the control — crumbled like ash. He had promised himself there would be no intimacy or enjoyment. Only duty. Yet here he was, lost in the scent and taste of this last tribute, drowning in it. His carnal cravings took over and he could not stop. Elarion was a passionate lover and the sex with Bellatrice was great but what he was feeling now was a level of heat that he'd never experienced.
Noelis's breath came fast and shallow. She had been ready to accept her Marking, but not like this — not with such urgency, such rawness. Her past experiences had been more tame and though she had seen that look of desire in men before, Elarion's glare was pure feral.
What occurred next was a blur — the rustle of silk, the hard grip of large hands which fell all over her body and whose fingers found its way inside her moving in and out with fast precision. The hard hotness which was pressed against her inner thighs moved to the entrance of her opening and without hesitation pried open her lips and entered. Her body fought between resistance and surrender as he pushed deeper, his size stretching her until pain and pleasure tangled together. A cry escaped her, half moan, half scream.
He moved with a brutal rhythm, each thrust a demand that left her breathless. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her back arching of its own accord. At some point she stopped thinking, stopped trying to understand what was happening, and simply moved with him — their bodies caught in a primal dance that neither could stop.
When the final wave came, it was unlike anything she'd felt before. A surge of heat and light rippled through her, spreading from where their bodies met to every nerve and sinew. The Mark on her wrist burned white-hot, as if something ancient had awoken and then disappeared.
She thought she saw something then — a vast shape, smoke and gold, the faint outline of a great a feline shape circling them both.
And then it was gone.
Elarion groaned, the sound more of a growl than the sound of a man. His body shuddered, and for a moment he pressed his forehead to hers, breath mingling, their hearts beating in erratic sync. The power that passed between them was dizzying — too much, too fast.
When it was over, he drew back, his expression settling once more into perfect composure. "It's done," he said, his voice hoarse, cold and distant.
Noelis said nothing though her pulse still raced. She pulled the remnants of her dress around her shoulders, trembling. Somewhere nearby, she heard soft sobs — the petite Tribute, Rowena, had been crying quietly in the arms of the other Tribute.
Elarion didn't look back. He dressed in silence, drew the curtains closed behind him, and left the chamber.
For a long moment, only the crackle of torches filled the silent air.
"What happens now?" one of Calen's Tributes murmured from the next bed over.
An attendant answered softly, "You will be taken to your rooms and we will reconvene for breakfast tomorrow."
Calen had finished long before Elarion. He had taken both of his Tributes at once, finding amusement in their differences — the tall one, poised and cool, and the auburn-haired one, hot and fiery, meeting his gaze with a look of challenge. It had been satisfying, but the bonding drained more of his strength than expected.
He reclined on the cushions now, sipping wine while his two women nestled beside him. Across the chamber, Alixon was also done, laughing quietly with his own Tribute as they shared fruit and wine.
Calen's eyes wandered — inevitably — toward Elarion's curtained square.
He knew the man well enough. Everyone did. The perfect prince. Head boy at the Empyrean Academy, the embodiment of every noble virtue. Calen, on the other hand, had been the Academy's troublemaker — charming, reckless, impossible to discipline.
When Elarion had bested him in the Grand Hunt, Calen's pride had taken a blow. When Elarion had chosen the bead — the very token Calen had set his sights on — it riled him all the more.
Now the last thing he wanted was to hear Elarion go about his business so Calen drank and drank trying to keep his mind focused on his Tributes.
"Calen, third son of the House of Drakonus," he said as he gestured for the girls to introduce themselves.
The tall one was Inaya Nikeva a princess from the Northern Territories. Her father had three wives and she was the daughter of the second. The red head was called Faelynn Feiber whose father was the right hand man to the Leader of a Kingdom called Felynn. Not a royal but from a respectable family. The two Tributes didn't speak much to each other so Calen had engaged them both in some harmless banter when they were interrupted by the growing sounds coming from Elarion's square.
Calen begrudgingly endured the carnal sounds, each thrust now creaking the four posts that framed it. The frames were made of thick hard wood. God what was Elarion doing in there.
The shadows beyond the sheer veil shifted in unmistakable motion — Elarion's broad frame towering above a smaller, curving silhouette. The tempo of their movements grew harsher, faster. The sound of silk tearing. A muffled cry.
Calen raised an eyebrow, he hadn't expected Elarion to be that kind of lover. Who would have thought, the perfect prince was a total brute in bed. Calen was no gentleman but he had his own boundaries and the ferocity of what he felt from that square was unsettling. Who would have thought that the saintly Prince of Ardenne might harbor such a dark streak.
He turned back to his wine, but his thoughts kept wandering. Which one of the girls had Elarion taken? It was probably the petite one who was either suffering from Elarion's pounding or enjoying it — it was hard to tell which from the sounds alone.
The panting grew to a climax and was followed by a silence that prevailed through the air of the chamber. Moments later, the curtain tore open and Elarion stepped out, his face hard and unreadable, his tunic half fastened. Without a word, he strode past the others and left the room.
Calen arched a brow, exchanging a glance with Alixon, who gave a low whistle.
"Such a gentleman"
But as Calen leaned back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded, the fluttering curtains revealed the faces of three remaining Tributes and his eyes rested on the one to the far right.
He recognised her face. Her gaze met his own for a brief second before she turned away, the other two Tributes attending to her.
The possessor of the bead. The one Elarion had just claimed.
A surge of heat rushed through his veins, a boiling wrath for which he couldn't explain.