The Wolf's Captive (3 page)

Even with the feel of Paolo behind her, Lucia found that couldn’t take her eyes off the stage, where a group of statuesque women broke into dance in perfect time with the drums. Where were the drums? It didn’t matter; these women, who started out wearing more clothes than most of the attendees, were slowly taking them off. Paolo’s dick ground harder into her back, and, to her right, Gaston Grimaldi’s face tightened around the mouth, his hand on the woman’s head as she bobbed up and down on his cock.

Lucia, herself, could not fight it for long. The crowd around her surged in time to the drums, which beat faster and faster until it seemed people were panting with the exertion of restraint. Paolo’s hands danced their own dance on the sides of her body, coaxing the fire in her belly, drawing it higher and higher. She couldn’t tell him no, but she couldn’t surrender, either—not fully, not to him; she couldn’t show him what she truly was. She didn’t
trust
him. And yet, when he moved his hands to her belly, she groaned and leaned into him, betrayed by Bacchanal.

Suddenly the music stopped, and the lights went out.

Lucia moved to turn around, but Paolo clasped a rough hand to her lower belly, pressing her to him and sending streaks of fire through her. She felt wet between the legs. She wasn’t going anywhere.

One by one, a circle of lights illuminated the stage. The Dance was not over.

In the exact center of the stage stood a raised platform, about waist high, made to look like a natural rock. On it reclined what even Lucia had to admit was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. The woman was clothed in a draping robe of sheer, shimmering white fabric, so that there were only hints of the beauty underneath. She wore the golden mask of the Goddess of Summer over her nose and eyes, with the addition of a small crest at the corner, meant to look like a glint of light from her bright eye. It was the Grimaldi crest; that was why Gaston did not care to be Winter—his sister, Lucrezia, was Summer, reclining in peace, pretending to be innocent and unaware.

Then the drums began again. Slow, deep, soft. Something was coming. Every child knew the myth, how the world was torn between the harsh extremes of Summer and Winter, until Winter seduced Summer and begat Spring. But the myth was boring, Lucia thought. The Dance was everything.

From the back of the stage, behind the circle of light, there was the hint of a shadow prowling around the edges. Lucia thought her eyes were playing tricks on her; there was no prowling in the myth. She leaned forward to get a better look and was reminded of Paolo’s iron grip. He wrapped his arms around her, his mouth by her ear, hot breath on her cheek, and her body yielded to him yet again. It was getting easier for him each time, and harder for Lucia to resist the growing hunger between her legs.

The drums beat harder, louder. Summer began to look over her shoulder, worriedly. There really was someone prowling the edges of the circle. The figure of a man who moved like an animal, stepping in time to the rhythm, taunting his prey. The drums grew louder, more insistent, and the man burst into the light, upright now, tall and hard and muscled, with shoulders broad enough to carry two women at once, and abdominals that rippled as he moved with easy grace. He was covered in the scars of battle, and wearing the white mask of Winter, his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Lucia gasped. He was magnificent.
Better than the god, himself
, Lucia thought, and couldn’t bring herself to regret the blasphemy. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn away.

And his loose white cotton trousers barely contained the bulge of his erection. Winter was ready. The crowd moaned as one.

Paolo gripped Lucia close with one arm, freeing his other hand to explore. He moved slowly, in time with the drums, his hand flat on her stomach, all the way to her ruined bodice. The drums quickened pace, and Paolo grabbed her breast hard, pressing the nipple. Lucia sighed, and through half-lidded eyes she saw Summer turn around, looking for Winter.

It was Winter that Lucia watched as the warmth pooled in her core, as her breath came fast, as her pussy grew wet. Not Winter—the man beneath Winter’s mask. She imagined his hands tormenting her nipples, his mouth on her ear, his dick pressed hard against her, and for a moment she was able to forget her situation, and simply enjoy the Dance.

Winter circled around Summer and stood before the crowd. He seemed to be looking for something. The drums beat on, through the confusion of the crowd and of Summer: this was not the myth, Winter was supposed to come to her, and her alone. Winter shook his head at some unknown frustration, but then he raised his arms to the crowd. There was a cheer, and every able foot in the amphitheater kept time with the drumbeat as Winter finally turned towards Summer.

Paolo’s hands wandered over Lucia’s confused body, and Winter advanced upon Summer, and in the back of her mind Lucia was sure there was something wrong with all of it. Paolo was not the right man, and this Winter was not like the myth at all, but the Dance was taking over anyway. Summer raised herself to meet her god, her chest heaving, her skin flushed, and instead of bending to his knees to kiss her feet as the god had, this Winter ripped away her gauzy robe.

Summer’s breasts trembled, and her belly flattened. The echoes of her surprise rippled through the crowd. Winter’s arms corded with muscle, and Lucia burned for him. She could almost close her eyes and pretend that Paolo’s mad hands belonged to the man who played Winter.

Winter pushed Summer to the rock, one hand on her chest, the other working to free his cock.

Paolo pulled down Lucia’s bodice.

Lucia was suddenly as bare as the Severille slave had been, her nipples rising to hard little points in the gentle breeze. But she could not tear her eyes away from the stage. Summer opened her legs and the crowd screamed, louder than it ever had during blood sports, louder than anything. Thousands of people throbbed together, all wanting only to fuck, and they needed Winter to make Summer come first.

His cock was incredible. Even from where Lucia stood, it was incredible. Lucia ached for him while the rest of J’Amel ached for him to complete the Dance, to come together with Summer and let the city join them in final, blissful release. But Winter paused. He stood above Summer, his massive, swollen cock held in one hand, and looked out over the crowd one last time. Lucia could have sworn she heard him growl.

And then he reached down and flipped Summer over onto her belly, as easily as if he had tossed a pillow. Her limbs flailed in surprise as he dragged her back to the edge of the platform, the round pink of her buttocks resisting as he lifted her up to his waiting cock. She squealed as he entered her from behind, and the sound traveled the length of the shocked amphitheater. Lucia’s pussy pulsed with heat as she watched Summer melt, watched her head fall into crossed arms, her hips begin to strain, grasping, grinding into the man taking her from behind, completely overcome by the god of Winter.

But Lucia was completely overcome by the man who wore Winter’s mask, so much so that she forgot whose hands mauled her naked breasts, whose dick pressed into her back, who was hurriedly gathering her skirt up by her waist. She was blinded by Bacchanal. And maybe it was only the fever of Bacchanal, but she imagined she saw Winter looking out into the amphitheater, looking for someone, even as he performed the holy rite that would ensure a bountiful season for his beloved city…

Summer’s screams rung out in the heavy air as her orgasm rocked the amphitheater. Lucia heard the echoing moans of citizens who came with her, just from watching, and from the corner of her eye she saw couples begin to flood out of the performance area, some to private rooms, some just to darkened corners, and some didn’t have the patience to wait at all, coupling on the floor and benches of the amphitheater itself. But she could not take her eyes off of Winter. He pulled away from the spent Summer, his masked face still turned toward the crowd, as though he were searching for something. And then he pulled off his mask.

It was Lord Cesare Lupin. The Wolf.

A part of Lucia’s heart broke as she realized she’d never have him, that he was so far out of her league that it was laughable. And yet, another part of her was relieved, because she felt that darkness, that part of her that ached to surrender to a man, stir at just the sight of him.

And then his eyes met hers.

Lucia would have been lost in that wonderful moment if it weren’t for Paolo. She heard him mutter, “Finally,” and then he twisted her around for a kiss. She balked, throwing her head back. There wasn’t time to think, but it was somehow clear now that this was wrong, no matter what her situation, no matter how drunk she was with Bacchanal. No matter what she owed.

Paolo’s wide eyes turned angry. Lucia suddenly realized her bodice hung limp, her breasts bouncing in the air, and he held her skirt up at the back, exposing her ass and more. She tried to cover herself with one hand, pawing at her skirt with the other, and shook her head.

“But you’re mine,” Paolo said.

He snatched at her hand, exposing her breasts again, and she slapped him. In the shock of the moment, Lucia looked for an
oscario
, one of the toothsome masked guards of the Bacchanal, but there were none in their private section, and it would be hard to see her from the edges of the amphitheater where they stood sentry.

Paolo grabbed at her again, and she struggled and lost her balance; whether he threw her to the ground or she fell, she’d never be able to say. But she lay at his feet, and when she looked up she saw the terrible mixture of anger and lust in his face.

Would he really? He
couldn’t.
The thought was too terrible—her mind shied away from it. But still he stood over her with one hand on his belt.

“I don’t want you,” she said desperately.

It didn’t seem to matter. Things might have gone very badly if it weren’t for what happened next.

A blur in her peripheral vision crashed into Paolo and knocked him aside so fast it was like he disappeared. One second the terrible vision of Paolo loomed over her; the next, there was…Winter.

Not Winter. Lord Cesare. His scarred chest gleamed with sweat, small beads of it caught in the fine, dark hairs that trailed down his torso to that magnificent cock, now hidden in his trousers, and the muscles in his arms rolled back and forth as he opened and closed his fists, his jaw clenched in anger. He reached down and hauled Paolo up by the throat, keeping his own body between Lucia and the world.

“You defile the Bacchanal?” His voice was a low and deep, as though it echoed up from a great depth. Lucia flushed with shame and tried again to cover herself.

“Tell me your name, whelp,” Lord Cesare said. He shook Paolo for emphasis. “Your
name
.”

“R-ramora,” the boy croaked. “Paolo Ramora.”

Lord Cesare stood there with Paolo hanging at the end of his powerful arm, and Lucia realized that Paolo’s feet were actually swinging in the air. No man could be that strong, could he? But Paolo was choking. Before Lucia found her voice, Lord Cesare tossed him back to the ground like a crumpled tissue. “Run,” the Wolf said.

Paolo turned and bolted back into the crowd, not even daring to spare another look for Lucia. Lucia was grateful for that, at least; she didn’t want to be seen by anybody. She wanted to disappear, just as Paolo had.

Until Lord Cesare looked at her once more.

She had no idea how long she lay motionless on the ground, pinned under that stare, but she only looked still. Inside she was at war with herself. Whatever it was inside her that longed for the harsh touch of the Severille, whatever longed to surrender to a man, recognized something in Lord Cesare and bloomed. She clung to what remained of her discipline. If she moved, it would be to throw herself at his feet. If she spoke, it would be to offer herself to him completely.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He took a step towards her, his face coming out of shadow. He was beautiful, in the hard, elemental way of the rocky coasts to the north, his severe bone structure covered by rough, tanned skin. His dark eyes shone as if lit from the inside, and his black hair fell lightly around his shoulders. Lucia craved him.

He took another step, hesitating as she flinched. Finally he crouched down and extended his hand.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

She blinked. For one second she considered it, and then her mind flooded with fear. Fear of the consequences, fear of the future, but, most of all, fear of what she truly was inside, and what she’d have to face if she ever saw this man again.

She fled.

C
HAPTER 2

Lord Cesare Lupin applied every ounce of the strength and discipline that he’d learned growing up in his father’s house and willed himself to be still. He could
not
chase after her. He could not force her to do anything she did not want to do, not after what she’d already been through.

Whoever she was.

What he could do was direct an
oscario
to her side, knowing the guardian of Bacchanal’s sacred law of consent would clothe her and make sure she arrived home safely.

He’d thought about killing that Paolo Ramora. He had wanted to, in that moment, and he could have done it. No one would have questioned him. Even Gaston Grimaldi, in business with the Ramoras and always looking for an excuse to weaken the house of Lupin, would have to defer in the case of such a clear violation.

But that would be to risk unleashing the…
thing
that lurked inside him ever since his last raid into the mountains.

He’d been so afraid that it would emerge during the rite, that he would not be able to contain it. It would have been a disaster like no other for his family, and for the city, to expose what he had become, whatever that was.
Perhaps what I have always been
. The words ricocheted around his mind for several long seconds, wounding him in a million little ways, before he was able to force stillness upon himself. And he did it now as he had done it during the rite: by thinking of her, this unknown commoner who refused to give him her name.