Rosemary Johns - Rebel Academy - Curse

“Sorry,” Bask whispered.

Was he shaking from joy, excitement, or…?

Crack my broomstick, had I been too harsh on the whole bosom issue?

I stroked my hand through Bask’s hair because touch both fed an incubus and told them that you loved them, along with them knowing that they pleased you. It was biologically bred into them and then conditioned in their training.

The succubi were more ruthless than witches.

“Your performance in the tournament was outstanding, and you protected our whipping boy. It pleased me, just like you shall forever. Don’t doubt it.” I slipped my hand down Bask’s back, caressing circles between his shoulder blades. “You flew with courage and strength. Didn’t you feel the connection between us all? We belong together and even our magic, the world, and the Fates can’t deny it.”

“Please,” Bask’s voice was hoarse. He raised his head; his eyes gleamed like he was holding back tears. “Pet me.”

Instantly, Sleipnir kissed Bask, winding his arms around him and crushing their bodies together like he was trying to make Bask a part of himself, just like his tattooed brothers were.

That way at least Bask would be safe.

I tightened my hand in Bask’s hair, before kissing down his pale neck. I needed this: to devour his coco and almond on each swipe of my tongue, nibble, and bite harder, until he arched and moaned in ecstasy.

Bask’s pleasure had called to me when I’d been trapped in Hecate’s Tree. His obsessive love, when I’d been nothing but an echoed memory from the past, had driven the other Immortals to resurrect me. Yet how could I save him now?

Bask was still shaking.

Sleipnir pulled away from the kiss in an attempt to study Bask’s face, but Bask burrowed down instead, hiding against his shoulder and clasping Sleipnir’s coat hard between his hands.

Sleipnir and I exchanged a concerned glance. Then Sleipnir’s expression darkened, and his hair shaded to red. Mist poked his head out of his pocket with a furious snort, pointing over at the platform with his hoof.

When I twisted around, I met the Duchess’ appraising stare. She studied our tumbled embrace with contempt. Then a smug smile crept across her face.

Cold washed over me.

Hecate’s tit, no…

Bask was shaking because he knew .

I’d won my own freedom. Bask had saved Fox. But Bask had lost his freedom and life to the Duchess and he hadn’t said a word. All he’d wanted was one last pet because he loved us, and we loved him.

Heavens above, how I loved him…like I could curse worlds to perpetual winters if only it’d save him from the Succubi Court. Like I could curse myself to frozen eternities.

I stilled. That bitch who hid her cruelty behind her pretty face thought that she could steal my lover tonight.

Not a chance on my witchy behind.

My magic sparked, flashing through my eyes. I directed my determination and that single thought — you won’t take my lover — right at the Duchess.

The Duchess’ eyes widened. Her hands clenched the throne’s armrests. I smirked, snapping my pink around her, scrawling across both her cheeks:

BITCH

A visitor to an academy should always wear the correctly labeled badge.

Professor Bacchus snorted and then pretended that her laugh had been a cough.

Pocus, Bacchus’ familiar, was wrapped around her shoulders in cat form like a scarf. His sleek black fur glimmered, and his pentacle collar glittered at his neck. Bacchus only transformed him as a punishment because he hated it. I’d learned from Sleipnir and Fox that transformations should never be forced on a shifter.

Although, considering that Bacchus kept her cute cat familiar naked when he was in his Halfling form, perhaps she allowed him his fur now as defense against the cold.

After all, why would she stroke a familiar who she was punishing, until he purred with a beautiful rumbling rasp that made me want to tickle him under the chin?

The Duchess froze, shaking with her desperation to claw away the words, but her hands didn’t leave their death hold on the armrests.

I wasn’t certain whether to admire her self-control or be worried by her stubbornness.

I’d made my point.

All of a sudden, a popular song that was like an orgasm of guitars, piano, and drums (my witchy behind had never heard such an unholy mix), exploded with a triumphant chanting about both champions and losers. I supposed that we were both at the same time.

Ambrose truly was the Irony Fae.

Yet there was one side in this tournament who were nothing but losers.

Guilt squirmed in my guts (and in this tight corset, I didn’t have room for guilt bloating ). By winning, I’d forced the Princes to lose and their stakes were just as serious as my own.

I glanced across at the Princes, who huddled in front of the gates like they hoped to be forgotten. I smirked at the memory of how they’d tumbled from the dragons’ back onto their behinds, and Lysander’s outraged expression.

Oh, there went the guilt bloating again.

Lysander’s head was ducked, and his hair covered his face. It was so unlike him that my chest ached. Willoughby’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

When Lysander raised his head, and his gaze met mine, I couldn’t hold back my gasp. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his expression was bleaker than I’d ever seen.

Destroyed.

“I never meant it. I threatened it, but I didn’t...” Sleipnir’s voice shook. “We wrecked him…”

“I’m Magenta, this is my academy, and you’re all my Rebels. That fae will be ours, and he shall be un wrecked at our hand.” I pushed myself out of the tangle of my lovers and to my feet, brushing the snow off my dress.

You must look your best before going into battle.

When I lifted my chin, Lysander’s eyes widened, as if he thought that I was about to fight him . Whereas in fact, I was about to go into battle for him.

Sleipnir slouched up next to me, and Bask still clung to him.

Willoughby and Lysander exchanged a glance, before straightening their shoulders and marching towards us.

Lysander stiffly held out his hand. “Well played.”

I stared at him. I didn’t associate good sportsmanship with fae.

But then, I’d never… cared …for a fae, either. My younger self would consider this modern world as crazy as me.

Willoughby’s lips twitched. “It’s customary, I believe, to shake it.”

Bask let go of Sleipnir to snatch Lysander’s hand and kiss its back like Lysander was a maiden.

I sighed. “How romantic.”

Lysander’s lips curled, and he dragged his hand back, batting Bask away. I forgave Lysander everything in that moment for the laugh he’d drawn from Bask.

For helping him to forget…

“What exemplary manners.” I patted Lysander on the head. “I expected you Princes to pitch a tantrum and kick snow on us with your stompy feet.”

“ Stompy feet ?” Willoughby mouthed.

Lysander’s smile was slow and so delicious that warmth curled through me. “Why would my noble self do that? One likes you Immortals, or with your startlingly poor observational skills, did you fail to notice?”

I shuddered at the way that he drew out like , as if he was sucking each of us with his tongue. My heart beat rapidly against my ribcage, and my mouth became dry. Black cats, I wanted him. I almost missed the insult (although, I was beginning to see that it was the Princes’ brand of banter), wrapped in the compliment.

Almost.

Yet when I met his dancing eyes, I couldn’t hold back my own smile because that bleak, destroyed expression had been driven away.