Wicked Games (33 page)

Morgana had told Grim about a flash of an image she'd seen in her vision: a hand holding a whip outlined in red neon. The book had identified it as the logo for a New York club called The Whip Hand.

Which explains why the most powerful witch on the planet was dressed in red corset, a thong, lacy stockings, and high heels. It was a costume that displayed every gorgeous inch of her elegant body, long, toned legs, and full breasts.

In other words, she was dressed like a submissive—just the kind of woman the killer liked to hunt. Morgana was playing the bait to the hilt, prancing around on those crimson stilettos, drawing the eyes of every straight man in the place, whether dominant or submissive.

Percival couldn't blame them. Morgana was an exquisitely beautiful woman, with that long-boned, elegant face, a narrow nose, full lips, and delicately chiseled cheekbones. Her large eyes were a green so vivid, they reminded him of spring leaves, and her black hair fell in a silken waterfall of ebony curls to the small of her back.

All of which should make her an irresistible target for the killer.

Which was why the three of them were occupying a table, pretending to be sexual dominants. If the killer was a werewolf, as Morgana believed, she'd need the backup. Werewolves were not only eight feet of fangs, fur, and claws, they were invulnerable to magical attacks. With no way of defending herself, she'd be almost as helpless as the mortal victims had been.

True, Morgana was stronger than human, not to mention good with a sword—given fifteen hundred years of experience, she should be—but that might not be enough to let her fight off a monster. Percival, Marrok, and Cador, with their vampire strength, would more than balance the scales. Considering what the killer had done to those seventeen women, he deserved everything they could dish out.

Nor could he claim to be a victim of animal instinct. Unlike the movie version, real werewolves were no more driven to murder than real vampires. This fucker was just a furry serial killer who liked to butcher women.

“Morg's got another nibble,” Marrok said.

Percival tensed as the strange dominant approached Morgana. He was a handsome man, tall and blond with blue eyes so piercing, the color was evident all the way across the room. Dressed in black jeans and a blue polo shirt, he looked broad-shouldered and muscular as he loomed over Morgana. The bastard had to be six-one, six-two. He leaned down to speak to her, his expression hooded, sensual.

Under the table, Percival's hands curled into fists.

Morgana looked up at the man, her glance assessing.. She said something and turned away, her body language dismissive.

The big man froze, his face going expressionless. Then he nodded stiffly and walked away.

“Aaaaand he goes down in flames,” Cador said with a cynical grin. “Morgana Le Fay—body of a Victoria's Secret model, personality of a rabid polar bear.”

The witch glanced toward their table, then hastily away. Her cheeks colored.

Cador straightened in astonishment. “Did she just blush?”

“Appeared that way to me,” Marrok drawled.

Both men turned and looked at Percival, who glowered back. “What?”

Cador put down his beer bottle with a thump. “You know what. If we're not going to get a new partner . . .”

Marrok snorted. “Fuck that.”

“. . . You need to address this thing you've got going with her.”

“What thing?” Percival gritted his teeth so hard, they creaked.

“Don't play stupid,” Cador snapped. “You can't pull it off.”

Marrok leaned forward and directed a cool, level gaze his way. “She wants you, Percival. She's wanted you for a long time.”

“She wants a goddamn giant lizard.” Percival curled a lip and sipped his drink, only to grimace as he realized it was nothing but half-melted ice. He gestured their waitress over. “I'm afraid I don't measure up.”

“Soren's not her lover.” Cador sprawled back in the booth, eyeing him. “Soren's just her scaly, shape-shifting fuck buddy, and you well know it.”

He was also Dragonkind's ambassador to the vampires and witches of Avalon. The pair had been on-again, off-again lovers for the better part of a decade.

Yet a decade wasn't long at all by the standards of the Magekind; Percival, Cador, and Marrok had been Morgana's partners a hell of a lot longer than that.

She'd also been cutting Percival off at the knees for most of that time.

As the waitress refilled Percival's scotch, his mind flashed back to the earliest of those galling encounters . . .

•   •   •

I
t had begun when Morgana, Percival, Marrok, Cador, and a young Maja named Sebille had ended up in a fight with thirty-eight Saxon raiders. The Magekind were normally more than a match for human warriors, but those odds were pretty bad however you sliced it. The five had had their hands full, but in the end, they'd managed to drag victory from the bloody fangs of defeat. By the time it was all over, four of the five of them had been in the mood to celebrate their survival, despite the rain pounding on the leather roof of the tent Morgana had conjured.

Marrok and Cador had wasted no time seducing Sebille out of her clothes. Cador had found an excuse to spill the little redhead across his lap for a brisk spanking while Marrok toyed with her pink nipples, plucking and rolling them into hard peaks. Both men were savagely erect.

So was Percival, for that matter, but his focus wasn't on the lush little redhead. The woman he wanted was Morgana Le Fay.

The dark-haired witch was trying unsuccessfully to ignore the laughing trio and the scent of arousal that filled the tent. She hadn't been as brittle in those days, or as inclined to give the team those nasty little jolts.

But Percival had been just as fiercely attracted to her as he was now. There had always been something irresistible about all that beauty, intelligence, and raw magical power.

He wanted her. What's more, his acute vampire senses told him she was aroused by what Cador and Marrok were doing to Sebille. Her green eyes kept flickering toward the Maja's pinkening arse as she giggled and yelped under Cador's carefully measured spanking.

Recognizing his cue, Percival rose from his place across the fire from Morgana and moved to sit beside her. The scent of her need teased his nose and made his cock buck behind the laces of his britches.

“If they're going to fuck her,” Morgana growled, “why don't they just do it?”

“Because spanking her arouses them all. It's foreplay.” Deliberately, Percival let his voice go low and deep. “Would you like to try it?”

Her head snapped toward him, and her green eyes widened. She recovered quickly, giving her chin a regal tilt she must have copied from Queen Guinevere. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you sure?” He gave her a slow smile. “Because I'd be willing to . . . accommodate you. I'd love to see that lovely arse bare across my lap.”

Her pupils expanded, her lips parted, and she swallowed audibly. But a moment later, she stiffened, eyes going hard. “I said no.”

Percival's first instinct was to keep pushing, explore the vulnerability he sensed, but he knew the witch well enough to recognize when she'd dug in her heels.

It was Morgana, surprisingly, who refused to let it go. “Her submission to this . . . to being spanked like a child . . . It's beneath a Maja.”

The girl evidently heard, for she shot Morgana a wounded look and went still over Cador's lap before trying to rear up and regain her feet. The knight flattened a palm on her back, stilling her as he gave Morgana a narrow glare.

Knowing his friend was a heartbeat from giving Morgana herself a spanking—welcome or not—Percival intervened. “Don't discount the importance of submission, Morgana. Everyone submits to something, whether it's men, the law, or the will of God. You submit to the king, do you not?”

“That's hardly the same thing,” she scoffed, but her eyes flickered. Something in her expression made him wonder about her one night with Arthur, when, as a nineteen-year-old girl, she'd conceived Mordred, Arthur's illegitimate son. The seventeen-year-old king hadn't known Guinevere at the time, and neither of the lovers had been aware they were half siblings. According to Merlin, Arthur's father, Uther Pendragon, had taken Morgana's mother by force following an attack on her Druid temple.

Following a hunch, Percival gave Morgana a cool look. He'd been commanding men—and women—for years, and he knew a vulnerable spot when he saw one. “Perhaps before you insult and humiliate a fellow Maja, you should know what you're talking about.”

“I don't think . . .”

“That much is obvious.” Rising, he crouched behind her, caught her shoulders, and turned her to face the trio. She tried to turn away, but his hands tightened on her upper arms, and she stilled. “Watch.”

Cador had gone back to spanking the girl, but now both he and Marrok knew they had an audience. There was a reason the two were Percival's partners. They had a way of sensing his intentions and giving him exactly what he wanted.

Cador smoothed a hand over the curves of the girl's lovely arse. They'd used leather cords to bind her arms and legs. He slid a finger into the girl's sex. “Mmmm,” he purred. “She's slick as fresh-churned butter and tighter than a nun.”

The girl whimpered, a tiny, helpless sound that made Percival harden even more—and he already could have pounded stakes with his dick.

“Sebille's little nipples are nice and hard,” Marrok told his partner. He'd draped the girl's upper body across his own lap as he sat beside his partner, teasing the hard peaks.

Morgana made a low, rough sound.

“What was that?” Percival asked, knowing damned well she'd almost moaned before she bit back. Apparently their witch liked a little hot talk.

For a moment there was a charged silence filled by the soft, wet sounds of Cador's fingers working the girl's pussy, her helpless moans, and the two knights' low rumbles of approval.

The lush scent of sexual arousal teased Percival's nose—coming not least from Morgana. “Look at them,” he purred, his mouth barely an inch from the rapid rabbit beat of the witch's carotid. “Sebille's so hot and ready . . . and small as a doll between them, bulls that they are.” He pulled her into his lap, letting her feel his erection. “She's helpless. At their mercy.”

“No.” That definitely sounded like a moan.

“Would you like to be at mine, Morgana?”