Rebel Academy: Crush

Chapter Sixteen MAGENTA

Invisible, I sprawled on the thick carpet of the Prince's floor in the East Wing, resting against a grand wardrobe, which was picked out with a mosaic battle scene between Immortals and Princes. I'd been concerned that the wards would stop me from following Willoughby into this forbidden part of the castle, but it appeared that in my ghostly form, I could trick them.

Number 77 in the Advantages to being Undead.

I had to admit that the title Voyeur Ghost did rather fit, as I remained ladylike and only peeked...twice...as Lysander and Midnight changed into pink silk pajamas. I couldn't decide whether the curve of Midnight's ash wings next to his alabaster shoulder blades or Lysander's emerald wings were more beautiful.

Lucky me, I didn't have to choose.

To my surprise, Willoughby perched on the edge of his ice bed, which glittered like crushed diamonds, without changing.

Did he wear that military style uniform even to bed?

Willoughby was pale, and I was decidedly certain that it was my fault. My goodness, that hurt.

To my even greater surprise, Lysander shot Willoughby a glance that was tender, as he strolled to the marble counter at the far side of the room and fingered the stallion cup as reverentially as I had. Then he unscrewed one of the seven jars of tea.

Why, I most certainly would like a cup, how kind.

I bit hard on my lip not to let the words tumble out, even as I eagerly sniffed the scent of fresh earthiness, which took me back to my morning ritual of tea with my father in the Bird Turret.

If I asked Lysander to serve me, he'd most likely spit in it...or faint. Unlike the Immortals, he wasn't used to ghosts making demands of him.

So, tempting...

Yet it was even more tempting to watch how that the Princes were around each other, when they weren't puffing themselves up like they had to play at being the Immortals’ rivals. Lysander's expression was soft in a way that I'd never seen before, and Willoughby's was more broken.

Sweet Hecate, I didn't know them at all.

When Lysander smiled at Midnight, the vampire crawled with a confident swagger towards the basket next to the counter, which was lined by a blanket. The basket was rough and nothing like the rest of the luxurious bedroom. Midnight climbed in, turning around and tucking his wings close to his body…wings that would be broken tomorrow.

I winced. I'd saved my mage, yet Lysander had failed his whipping boy. I'd mocked the fact that Lysander could care for him.

Well, didn't I feel the foolish one now?

Midnight stretched out one arm and then the other, wriggling around to fit his long limps into the basket. Cauldrons and broomsticks, that must be uncomfortable.

As Lysander poured the hot water onto the aromatic leaves, he absentmindedly patted Midnight's head.

Ah, so the princes did have their own dog after all.

Perhaps, Bask would get to play with a puppy, just not quite in the way that he'd imagined. I shivered, as Midnight licked Lysander's hand, between each finger, and then sucking his thumb into his mouth.

I held my breath, waiting for Lysander's hex or crisp slap.

Instead, Lysander laughed.

I'd never heard him like that. It felt like he'd slapped me.

All of a sudden, I knew what I wanted even more than the tea that he was preparing. And I never wanted anything more than a decent cup of tea.

Lysander disentangled himself from Midnight, who let his hand go with a reluctant pop. "Tasty as I am, restrain yourself. You may feed from my royal personage in the morning."

My eyes widened. Feed? Did a Prince truly sacrifice his blood to a vampire whipping boy?

Lysander glanced at Willoughby, who was curled against the headboard of his bed with his arms around his knees. "You're not still worrying about that witch? She's beneath a Prince's notice."

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did.

Lysander carried the black tea over to Willoughby, passing it to him, before he perched next to him on the bed. It looked like the same easy ritual that I'd had with father. In the West Wing, it was more like a mad scrum for the bathroom, dive for pillows, and then cuddle together on the same bed. This was quieter and fitted royalty.

But it was still familiar and relaxed.

I'd been expecting Lysander would act like a guard or with his usual snark. But then, expectation makes an ass of us all, especially a witch who'd been stuck in a tree for a century and had never even seen how the Rebel boys had lived together before that.

Perhaps, a lot of what I'd imagined had been wrong.

I stood up, before floating closer to the bed.

I just needed to touch. One single touch....

When Willoughby took a sip of his tea and sighed in satisfaction, I couldn't help my own groan of frustration.

Willoughby looked up, sharply.

I pinched my non-existent self. Invisible people do not groan.

Lysander tapped Willoughby on the knee to get his attention. "Drink up. There's no time to get distracted by witches, who as I said, are bene—"

Willoughby slammed the cup onto the bed, and the teeth sloshed out onto the sky-blue velvet covers. Lysander gaped at him.

"She wasn't beneath your guardian's notice." Willoughby's eyes narrowed.

Lysander snarled, and his eyes flashed with a sudden predatory danger. I rushed forward to block him, but I'd forgotten that I hadn't materialized.

His hand whooshed right through me.

Hecate's tits, that tingled.

Lysander knocked the stallion cup thudding to the carpeted floor. Willoughby became ashen.

"Thunder, no..." He scrambled to the edge of the bed after the rolling cup, but Lysander caught him by his long hair and dragged him back.

"Do not speak like that about my noble guardian." Lysander leaned over Willoughby, pinning him to the bed. Yet his gaze darted to the glowing board on the wall with the lists of scrolling Privilege and Punishment Points. Could the magic woven into the room tell if he didn't defend the academy's patron? I knew from Robin that Titus was a narcissist, but was part of him inside the academy as well? My magic shook at the thought. "You don't have the right and you don't know..."

Willoughby cupped Lysander's cheek as gently as his fellow Prince's words were violent. "I beg pardon."

Lysander slumped against him like that was all he'd needed to hear. He eased off him, before casting an uneasy glance above him at the ceiling of the bed, which glistened with ice for a moment like it too had been enraged by Willoughby.

"Do you imagine that it’d bring me much pleasure if your brother tightened your suit or made your nightmares worse?" Lysander drawled.

Willoughby's lips twitched. "Not much."

Lysander chuckled, before pulling the ribbons out of Willoughby's hair, which swung like a waterfall over his face. "Why would you risk anything for her?"

For me….

Willoughby wet his lips, hesitating. "Because of the way that her magic and she make me feel. Tonight, for the first time in an age, I heard the rivers sing."

My heart clenched. I'd heard it too: beautiful clear notes.

Had it truly been because of me...because we were together…or because of our love?

Lysander had become very still. He scrutinized Willoughby for a moment.

Then he coughed, dragging the covers over Willoughby. "Sleep, stupid elf."

Yet, there was a fondness to it, just like the way that Lysander sauntered past Midnight, ruffling his hair on his way to his own obsidian bed.

It was certainly a shock that the Princes tucked each other in. Of course, so did the Immortals, but Bask was far more creative, using his teeth, tongue, and fingers in ways that I'd never imagined even with my familiars’ descriptions of the Rebels' wanking.

You could only do so much by yourself, it would appear.

Sleipnir would never allow Lysander to live it down.

My brow furrowed. Only, I knew that I wouldn't tell my delicious Immortals. The Princes believed themselves alone and free to be themselves.

This was even more private than a memory.

I’d never sneak a look into their private world, if it wasn't to save Willoughby. I'd hated the stricken look on Bask's face, after the Stop Game had blown up in our faces in such a spectacular fashion. I should've been able to read Willoughby well enough to never hurt him like that. But instead, I'd made him believe that I was playing with his feelings to publicly humiliate him, just as Lysander had warned.

All of us had come to care for Willoughby, and Echo would weep (or peck my tits because he could be volatile when it came to love), if I left him believing that we didn't.

His magic was powerful, and my magic wanted it.

I wanted him.

Black cats, I hadn't truly understood it until that moment.

The lights dimmed, as Lysander slipped under his own covers.

There was an exhilaration that I didn't understand, as I settled to face Willoughby on the bed, who’d turned to the side. His breath was soft and even. I longed to reach out my arms and clasp them around him, resting my head on his chest.

Ah, so this was obsessive romance then.

I adored watching how the lines smoothed from his face, as his breath evened out to sleep. I realized then that he must be in pain when he was awake.

He was so beautiful.

I stroked a strand of hair out of his face, and he didn't stir.

When I looked up, I caught Midnight's gaze, which was leonine in the dark, from his basket underneath the counter. My breath stuttered. Could he see me? Or did he always stay awake, watching over the Princes, until they were deeply asleep?

I took a solid form (without making myself visible), and leaned closer to Willoughby. I blew against his lips. His face creased in a frown.

Then his eyes fluttered open.

They were so blue like the frozen rivers that he could hear only because of my magic. I gasped, and his eyes widened at the sound. But he didn't move, cry out, or attack me with his ice.

Instead, he shivered like he was holding himself together from breaking, as he murmured, "Magenta...?"

My name rolled from his lips, slow and sensual, like both a prayer and a seduction. Yet there was nothing to seduce because I was already his.

I moved my lips close enough to his, so that he'd feel their touch on each word. "It doesn’t matter where you sleep, Prince, you're still one of my Immortals."

"Am I dreaming?" Willoughby's arms banded around me like steel, stroking the hollow of my ghostly back.

I wasn't even visible, yet he was the one who was making me feel. The bed was cold, but warmth coiled through me.

"You're awake." I shivered at the way that his breath was cool against my lips, just as his fingers heated my back in sweeping circles.

He flinched, and his wide eyes were devastatingly hurt. For the first time, I realized the power that I held over him.

I could truly break him.

Willoughby's fingers clawed into my dress. "This is more teasing like in the Stop Game." When he turned away his head, pain lanced through me. "Will you take tales of the stupid elf back to your beloved Immortals? Do I need to say stop again?"

"Do you want to?" I slipped mists around Willoughby, twisting his chin, until he faced me again. Reluctantly, he met my gaze. "Sweet Hecate, this is no game or dream. If you love and want me, then I'm yours. Just let us have tonight."

Willoughby's gaze softened. Then his eyes darkened. "Tonight, you're mine alone..."

He caught my lips in a possessive kiss. His frozen magic slipped over mine, until I shivered. I sank beneath his icy depths. I wrapped my hand in his hair, pulling him even more deeply into the kiss. He was delicious. I could lie like this in his arms all night.

There was a world of need and desire in every kiss that he feathered along my jawline and then my neck. I bit my lip not to laugh as he missed, tonguing only air. I directing him by the hair, and his dancing gaze met mine.

Making out with the invisible girl was a challenge.

I was certain that an elf prince was up to it. His prick was decidedly on board; it pressed against my hip. Yet Willoughby appeared not to notice his own excitement, rather he concentrated on my pleasure alone. I yanked his hair lightly, when his kisses became too passionate.

Willoughby and I were turned away from Midnight, but Midnight might've become suspicious of kissy sounds during a wanking session. At least, I hoped that Willoughby didn't normally lie in bed conducting make out sessions with the pillow as my substitute.

Perhaps, he did.

I peered over Willoughby's shoulder. Midnight's glowing eyes still watched Willoughby with an edge of both suspicion and hungry excitement.

I swallowed, and the coiling warmth within me flared even higher. There was something alluringly naughty about pulling this off in the Princes' bedroom at night, while Juni believed her charges to be locked up and chaste. Even more so, with Lysander lying in the opposite bed, quietly snoring.

After all, I was a wicked witch, even if it felt more blessed than wicked, the way that Willoughby hooked his leg over mine, pulling me even closer, until his hard body pressed against mine. His suit was so tight that I could feel every muscle, as his chest rose and fell.

I yearned to unwind that silk and free him. I was desperate to kiss over every inch of revealed skin, licking over his nipples and making him feel...

But if he wouldn't remove his clothes, then I'd join him beneath them.

I smiled against his lips, as I slipped my mists inch by inch down his trousers. Then I wrapped them around his hard prick.

Ah, so the stories about elves were true: They were as beautifully formed in their manly parts as everywhere else.

Did that mean fae also had as large pricks as they always boasted? After all, they were pricks...

When my mists encircled Willoughby's balls, gently playing with them and the soft skin behind, before stroking up and down his prick in love and worship, Willoughby hissed sharply through his teeth.

Lysander turned over in bed, half waking. "What's wrong?" He called, sleepily. "A nightmare again? Do you need me to come sleep with you, Will?"

I froze with my mists still down Willoughby's pants.

Witch's tit, I didn't fancy attempting to stay silent, stuck between the two Princes. My nose scrunched up. Did that also mean that Lysander comforted Willoughby when he had nightmares?

Was Lysander attempting to destroy all my fae prejudice in one night? Also, why couldn't I stop imagining how close my own lips had been to Lysander's in Bacchus' class?

Willoughby's brow furrowed. "No need to concern yourself. It's only..."

"Oh, I understand," Lysander grumbled, plumping his pile of fluffy pillows and settling back down in a disgruntled pile of fae. He folded his golden wings over his ears, as if to block out any more noise. "It was less a nightmare and more a wet dream about your witch...again."

Willoughby flushed, and his eyes widened with panic. I smothered my laughter against his shoulder, but Midnight snickered.

I didn't know if I loved the your witch part or the fact that he'd desired pleasure with me so badly that he'd had wet dreams about me, where we now lay.

But this was no longer a dream.

I curled my mists more tightly around Willoughby's prick, swirling around its sensitive head, lapping around it like a tongue, and then stroked him hard and insistent.

Willoughby held me like he'd been frozen to ice and without this touch, he'd shatter.

I pumped his silky prick quicker and quicker...

Sweet Hecate, this beautiful, dangerous creature was mine.

Willoughby didn't turn away from me this time. I was lost in his cold gaze, as much as he was lost in mine. There was nothing anymore, but each other. This moment and touch.

I understood now: my pleasure didn't matter because this wasn't about lust or touch.

It was love.

Willoughby's breath became ragged, and he shook. My mists licked round and round the ridge of his prick’s head, at the same time as stroking faster.

If I shattered Willoughby, could I put him back together?

"Come," I whispered.

I swallowed Willoughby's gasp with a kiss. His prick pulsed and came, and I held him, as his magic flowed through mine. It craved to break free and freeze the room, destroying everything in our passion. Yet I could control him or together, our magic found a new way to cling to life, rather than to death.

As I lay in bed with a deadly prince whose power was as wild as my own, I realized that this was about more than the Membership or freeing us from the academy. I hadn't lied to Willoughby.

This wasn't a game.

Yet I'd awoken the same as Willoughby, and I knew that I was the one who could shatter.