Cocking my head, I took mental stock of any lingering effects but all seemed fine. “I'm okay, Kill. Just a bit shaken from those memories. They were …” I trailed off as I shuddered, rubbing at my arms to reassure myself that they were whole.
Not far from where we sat in the shadowy booth, there was a woman perched on the edge of a table with her legs spread, the bandanna-clad head of one of my Hunt buried between them. Her own head was thrown back, and her hands clasped at the man's scalp while he serviced her.
Killian must have noticed I was distracted and glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh.” He turned back to me as the woman moaned louder, clearly approaching her climax. Her skin was rippling with glittery scales so she can't have been human. “Sorry, that's sort of normal around here. Does it bother you?”
“No.” I shook my head slowly, still watching the scaled woman while she orgasmed onto the heavy-set man's face.
“Will you tell me what your dream was about?” Kill asked, changing the subject and drawing my attention back to him. “How do you know it was a memory?”
“Memories,” I corrected, my eyes still darting back to the couple as the biker got to his feet and kissed the woman passionately before lifting her off the table and pushing her to her knees in front of him. “There were two … or at least, I'm pretty sure. One each for Ciarah and Gràinne. Neither of my former lives were very gentle.”
Killian's mouth tightened as I finally wrenched my attention from the scaled woman, who was now enthusiastically returning the favor on her partner, and back to my Lord of Winter. Or … prospective Lord of Winter at any rate. I was still yet to formally accept any of my Lords.
“Tell me, ma belle fille,” he urged. “Let me share the weight of those memories for you.”
His gaze was so intense, so sincere, it tightened something in my chest and I almost accepted his offer. How would it feel, I wondered, to share the burden of my fragmented horrors?
“No,” I whispered, even as my hand cupped his cheek gently.
Killian held my gaze for a long moment, his emotions clear in the crystal depths of his eyes. He was frustrated, desperate, and in pain. I understood. He wanted to help, he wanted to heal. But some agonies were not halved when shared; instead they doubled.
“Very well,” he accepted, his jaw tight with anger knowing he couldn't question my decision. There was no doubt I was in charge around here, memories or not. Now the old-timers simply needed to accept it.
My attention flickered back to the couple near us. The woman was still on her knees, her hand wrapped around the bearded biker's slick cock, working it up and down while her mouth was busy with his balls.
The quick foray into temperature play with Killian prior to the party starting had ignited something inside me, awoken a need that had not yet been satiated. A rogue memory bubble burst, allowing me insight into my former life—Ciarah's former life, that was—and I knew that I’d liked sex. Loved it. And I wanted more.
Right now.
“Killian.” I turned his face back to mine as he too had become distracted by the live-action porn show we were being treated to. When I had his attention back on me, I dropped my hand to his lap. It wasn't difficult to locate his cock, already halfway hard through the heavy fabric of his jeans, and I grabbed it firmly.
“Ciarah, mon amour,” he grinned. “Are you sure? You're not one of the clubwhores, so if you want to go somewhere private …”
My lips parted to respond, to tell him privacy meant nothing to me. For countless years I'd been afforded no such luxury as my ruthless captors had done as they pleased, so I saw no reason why I couldn't do as these clubwhores did.
These men were mine, and if I wanted them in front of ten times this many spectators, then who was to stop me?
Before the words could pass my lips, the song playing over the speakers ended, shifting into something new, and the group of girls who'd been dancing near us moved.
In their absence, I could see straight across the room to a pool table where a voluptuous woman with violet hair undulated to the sexy beat of the music.
As I watched, she reached up, slowly, sensually, tugging at the neck-tie of her bikini top and releasing her full breasts from their fabric confines. She tossed the scrap of material at one of the men surrounding the table, staring up at her with adoration, and seemed to laugh at whatever he said in response. They were too far away for me to hear, but as he leaned forward into the light, tucking a folded note into the girl's fairy-floss underwear, my blood turned to ice.
“Merde,” Killian swore, seeing exactly what I saw. “That foolish boy. Ciarah, chère, he is just pushing the boundaries, trying to get a rise out of you.”
“It's working,” I snarled, climbing over Killian and out of the booth, not for a second taking my eyes off my fae-damned Lord of Spring.
Perhaps I hadn't made myself clear enough, when I'd laid my claim. Perhaps he needed a fucking reminder, right here and fucking now in front of my entire Wild Hunt.
“Ciarah.” Killian snatched my hand, halting me as I was about to storm over there.“Ciarah, he is not foolish enough to let her touch him. He's just trying to make you mad.”
My ire turned to Killian in a single glare, and he wisely dropped his hold on my hand. Thank the Veil one of these stupid fae men respected my power.
Well, Arlo was about to learn that lesson the hard way. I'd had enough of his insolence. It was time he made a choice. Accept his position as Lord of Spring or forfeit it permanently.
Even as ancient as I—the Veil Keeper—was, I would not force a man against his will. It would be his choice, but if he chose badly it would also cost him his position in The Wild Hunt. After all, this was my Hunt and all the men in it belonged to me.
My black patent leather heels clicked across the hard floor as I approached the stripper and her audience, and Arlo watched me, his jaw set stubbornly and his glare hard.
This was going to be enjoyable.
“Do you not speak English?” I asked him as I approached and stood in front of him. The big man towered over me, covered in ink and bullshit, glaring with defiance. I understood—he was the typical alpha male type. And he should be. I needed him strong and powerful to fight for me, defend me, pleasure me, but I also needed him to be a willow branch.
He could bend and not break.
I knew that firsthand.
I had been twisted, tortured, all the best attempts to tame had been thrust upon me.
I'd bent … but I hadn't broken.
I'd do the same to Arlo.
“The fuck are you talking about?” he growled down at me, every bit a god. There was this arrogant gleam to his eyes, this set to his jaw. Upstairs, he'd almost succumbed. Hell, I thought he had. But I should've known better. It takes more than a hand job to bring a god to his knees.
“Do you not speak English?” I repeated, putting my hands on my hips. Several of the people gathered around us were staring now, men sipping beers, women running their fingers through their hair and licking their lips.
This was going to be a spectacle.
How fun.