Verity was very warm, and exceptionally comfortable, and the two unusual states had her puzzling for a moment before she realized that she was listening to someone’s heartbeat and her cheek was cushioned on that person’s chest.
She recalled the absolute decadence of the night, her heart beginning to race. She had set out to have sex on her terms and ended up indulging with absolute abandonment in a level of debauchery that she had not ever even imagined was physically possible.
She was half delighted with her discoveries, half utterly and completely embarrassed. And suspected that she had taken not one, but three mates.
The gargoyles slept in a tangle of limbs. She wondered if it was normal to the species of Others, or particular to this triad. They were completely uninhibited in their bodies, and in their physical proximity to each other, with Etienne sprawled over Dior as much as she was, his face pressed into the curve of Dior’s neck. Blaise lay over her back, pretty much as they’d finished having sex, and even in sleep his hand cupped her breast.
She should not be surprised by their sleeping postures, she told herself. They had f-ked each other as much as they had her, with as much enjoyment.
They formed triads, Dior had said. She thought it was a pretty good guess that meant as lovers.
Did it bother her? No, she decided. There was a crazy sort of sense to it – with their appetite for sex, and the frequency in which they had it over the course of the night, if they weren’t as interested in each other as they were in her, she suspected she would never get any sleep.
And it was so very comfortable sprawled over Dior, with Etienne’s hand in hers, and Blaise a heavy weight on her back.
Oh god, she thought. What was she doing? By selfishly taking these three men to bed, and by extension taking them as mates, she had dragged them into her problems. The vampires still wanted her blood, the coven still wanted to use her to influence Alatar, the people of the hospital and co-op still looked at her for leadership, and Charon… Oh, Charon…
She closed her eyes and listened to Dior’s heartbeat, trying to find the peace she had woken with.
Blaise moved against her, brushing kisses against the back of her shoulder.
“She is asleep,” Etienne muttered. “Don’t wake her.”
“She is awake,” Blaise replied. “I felt her sigh.”
“Until she grabs you by the c-k,” Dior murmured. “She is asleep.”
“I want to f-k someone,” the goat complained. “And her breast is in my hand. Have you felt her breasts? They are the perfect handful. And she smells like sex and flowers. I can smell our seed on her skin, and my hard on is killing me.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Verity intervened. “And have a drink of water.”
“Awake,” Blaise crowed triumphantly.
“Get her water,” Dior opened an eye. “Whilst you wait.”
Blaise grinned broadly as he lifted her out of the nest. “I like having a mate,” he nuzzled under her chin. “You smell so good all sleepy and warm.”
“Mhm,” the way his hands stroked, and his mouth suckled, if her bladder was less demanding, she’d be inclined to let him have his way with her. “I need water.”
“I will bring you water,” he promised, the green of his Other radiant in his eyes.
She staggered into the bathroom and used the toilet, an experience that reflected the gargoyles various appetites the night before. Well, she thought, as she used the cleansing system, considering how they had used her she shouldn’t be surprised by the results. They had used each other in the same way, and she wasn’t surprised when Blaise handed her a glass of water on his way to the bathroom.
She wasn’t entirely sure how to get over the lip of the nest. She didn’t have the height of the men. “You need to put a step in for me,” she decided as she finally managed to get over and slid down its curve, until she settled against Etienne.
“Mon petit chou,” he lifted over her. “Mon petit.”
She exclaimed as he rocked into her, his dark curls hanging free over his forehead, and the Other vivid in his eyes.
She could see the griffin in his high cheekbones and sharp nasal bone, as she could see the lion in Dior’s strong jaw and broad cheekbones, and the goat in Blaise’s cheeky smile and wicked eyes.
Etienne’s lips grazed hers, but his eyes held her prisoner, his gaze intent, as if he challenged her to see his soul and judge him on it. Impossible to resist, she tangled her fingers into the dark curls of his hair, feeling them wrap around her fingers before pulling free.
“Yes,” the griffin purred. “Mon chou.”
“Hey, I brought her water,” Blaise slid into the nest. “If she is anyone’s cabbage, she is mine.”
“Raté,” Etienne sneered.
“Hey,” Blaise protested. “Tête de noeud.”
The grin that Etienne sent the goat over his shoulder was wicked. “Mon chou,” he lowered his mouth to Verity’s and kissed her with skill and without mercy until she melted beneath him, her hands clenching on his hips as she sobbed in her moans, pushing her body up against the griffin seeking release. “She knows,” he smirked. “Can you make her plead like this?”
Dior decided to end the argument, kneeling between the griffin’s legs, and stroking into him, causing Etienne to cry out, his eyes fluttering as well as any flirt’s. “Yes,” the lion rumbled. “But who makes you plead?”
Blaise laid himself on his side, stroking his hand over himself and watching with every evidence of enjoyment as Dior rutted into the griffin, his grip around the base of the griffin’s c-k controlling his pleasure and preventing him from thrusting deep into Verity until the lion was ready, and then driving him into Verity until the griffin groaned out his release and Dior roared as he came.
Verity exclaimed under the force of Etienne’s ejaculation, sure that she tasted his seed in the back of her throat as both men sagged heavily over her, pushing the air from her lungs.
“Prostrate ejaculation,” Blaise told her, his eyes at half-mast. “I bet you felt that. It is good.”
“So good,” Etienne agreed on a moan.
“Off,” Blaise demanded. Dior lifted from Etienne and Etienne rolled to the side, still groaning. The goat inhaled sharply, and his grin reached a new level of feral. “Elle es ten chaleur.”
“? a alors,” Dior purred as the goat rolled Verity onto her stomach and stroked into her from behind, ensuring that he was the only male to take her at the time.
“Mon chou,” Blaise gloated.
“I was first,” Etienne pointed out.
“Oh,” Verity tried to fight her way of the feel of the goat in her body. “What are you arguing about?”
“Non, rien de rien,” Dior ordered.
“Nothing,” Blaise exclaimed obediently as he lifted onto his hands and thrusted deep, the green light of the Other ablaze in his eyes. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing,” Etienne concurred, smugly. “J’étais le premier.”
“Curse you,” Blaise groaned as Verity came, dragging him into his orgasm.
“I am sorry,” she said to him.
“Not you,” he kissed her cheek. “The smug griffin.”
“Move,” Dior commanded. “Je vais semer ma graine.” Verity groaned as the lion filled her.
“Yes,” he said with satisfaction. “Feel me.”
He kept his strokes close and tight, pushing against her until she gasped like a fish out of the water, dragging air in for a moan that her throat could not put sound behind, and she came, clutching at the cushions, her nails puckering the threads of the cover. He pushed deep as he came, his roar one of triumph.
He dragged his tongue up the column of her throat. “Ma graine est allée profondément.”
“Hmm,” Etienne was still smug. “Mine was still first.”
“We shall see,” the lion gargoyle decided. “Given time, what nature gives us.” Verity was on the edge of sleep again. “Mon petit chou,” Dior encouraged her to wake. “We will wash, eat, and then do what the day needs from us.”
“What does the day need?” She wondered.
“Gardens, apparently,” Etienne replied. “Rooftop gardens.”
“Really,” she felt hope flare. “You are really going to do something?”
“Of course, we are,” Dior answered her. “This is our city, and you are our mate. We want this city to thrive, and we want our mate to be happy. If that means finding a way to feed the city through this war, then we will feed the city.”
“I am…” She pushed at the tears that spilled despite her efforts to hold them back. “I am overwhelmed.”
“We will survive,” Dior assured her. “We have survived worse wars. Our young will learn to fly off the balcony of this building and grow knowing this city’s topography. It may not be the same city we grew to know, but that is the nature of life – to change.”
Verity pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and wept, and Etienne wrapped himself around her, murmuring phrases in a language she did not know, but which soothed her in its musicality and the tone behind the words.
Eventually the men coaxed her into the bathroom, and the bathtub that was big enough to be a small swimming pool, and they washed her between them, before seducing her into another round of sex, that left her flesh aching knowing it had been well and thoroughly used by masters in the art of rutting, who knew at exactly which point sex passed from pleasure into pain and rode it with an almost frightening precision.
She sagged across Etienne’s lap on the couch in the living room and opened her mouth obediently as the griffin fed her breakfast – bacon and blueberry pancakes, the contradiction seeming negligible to the gargoyles.
Dior checked his phone as his partners dressed their mate into off-cast clothing that carried their scent.
Verity looked down at herself and gestured to him in helpless surrender. “What is this?” She wondered. “I guess I need to find clothing that fits.”
“But in the meantime, you will wear our scent,” Blaise was happy about that. “And all will know that you are our mate.”
Dior dialled Elior and waited until the vampire answered the call. “Dior. Thank you for returning my call.”
“We were rutting our mate,” Dior was not hesitant in explaining his refusal to answer the phone. “You could hardly expect us to answer during our claiming.”
“No,” the vampire paused. “No, I guess not.”
“What do you want? We are still rutting,” Dior’s growl was on the edge of hostility.
“I appreciate you returning my call during such a delicate time,” Elior was a politician at core, and he responded as was appropriate. “You will remember that the girl is a healer, and her blood is important to us.”
“Yes.”
“I would like to send my medics to collect today, to set a precedent.”
“Acceptable,” Dior knew that if he got the vampire collection out of the way, he would have longer to establish his triad’s relationship with the healer. “After midday.”
“Agreed.”
They ended the call, and Dior watched Etienne and Blaise fawn over their mate, his mind on the many problems presented by the war – protecting his new mate and the young that would come, feeding the city, fighting the enemy, and protecting the city.
No matter how congenial their interaction with the vampires had been to this point, the gargoyles served the city, not the vampires, and not Elior.
He wondered if the vampire remembered that.
Elior’s decision to with-hold food from the city pushed Dior onto a ledge – whilst he could understand Elior’s reasoning, Dior’s loyalty to the city meant that if an alternative solution was not found, he would have to go against the vampire.
He suspected that Etienne, at the very least, knew that possibility lay ahead – the griffin had always kept his relationships with the vampires they worked with formal and distant.
Blaise was more immediate dwelling, and the goat had made many friendships amongst the vampire soldiers, including with Nate. Dior and Etienne had always worked at sheltering the goat from the harsher realities of the world they lived in.
That shelter would extend now to include their new mate. But Dior suspected that the healer would not accept their attempts to protect her as contently as the goat.
Verity had a stubborn streak in her, and she had seen too much to be lulled as Blaise was.
She looked across the room at him. “I need to go out,” she met Dior’s eyes. “I need to find Charon. He will fear the worse, and I don’t want him to get caught or killed by the vampires in a rescue attempt.”
“What is Charon, to you?” Dior wondered, though, deep within he knew what the man was to his shy but determined mate. Her trust in him had been absolute.
She flushed. “He is mine,” she told him. “Which, I guess, makes him ours.”