Page 8 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Seven

Soren

My appetite is a problem that doesn’t go away when I close my eyes. If anything, it gets worse in the hour before sunrise, when the walls between worlds are thin and the only thing hungrier than a demon is the house cat that lives on the second floor.

Inside, the new girl Rose is dead to the world. She sleeps like she’s getting ready to fight something, limbs sprawled, teeth gritted, fists clenched. I can taste the lingering magic that’s not quite contained by her body. It’s like standing next to a downed power line.

I stand over her for a moment, considering. As an incubus, I’m supposed to wait for the invitation, permission, a crack in the will. I’m not some alleyway parasite desperate for a fix. I can afford to be picky.

Dreams are my business, and business is always good at the Serpentine Academy. Especially the hours before dawn, when the boundaries weaken and the whole dormitory vibrates with the hormonal stew of two hundred witches and assorted magical miscreants.

I’ve done this for centuries, since they invented bedrooms. You’d think the thrill would dull, or at least develop a dull covering of shame, but the opposite is true. Sexual desire never stops being fun, especially when you feed off it for a living.

Tonight’s prey is especially delicious. She’s new, so her shields are shit.

I get comfortable at the edge of her mattress and let myself in.

Her dream opens to me with a sigh and I slip inside her head.

It’s not a normal dream, which is a nice change.

Some girls dream of falling or drowning or running naked through school.

Rose is dreaming of fighting, her knuckles bloodied, her mouth curled in a snarl.

Lucien is there at the edge of the ring, bare-chested and smug as hell.

He’s not fighting, just watching. Judging.

There are hands around Rose’s throat, but she’s not afraid. She’s pissed.

I slip into the role of her opponent. She wants a fight, I’ll give her the best dreamscape brawl she’s ever had.

We trade blows. She doesn’t hold back, even in her own subconscious.

She’s fast, dirty, and creative. I let her get in a few good hits, then when she’s close enough, I shift the script, let the hands on her throat slip lower, slide down her chest, the grip going from chokehold to caress.

Her whole body floods with that sweet undercurrent my job is to find.

She grabs my wrists, pulls me down, and the next thing I know we’re rolling on the mat.

I let her pin me. She’s got a knee to my ribs, two fists grabbing my shirt, and her breath is hot and angry against my ear.

I make sure it hurts, just enough, not more than she wants.

My hands slide up her sides, and I feel the shiver run through her even as she snarls through it.

Her dream self wants to kill me but her real self wants something else entirely, and I can taste it as the lines between the two collapse.

I flip her easily, pressing her shoulders to the mat. Underneath the anger, the heat, I pull her wrists up above her head, hold them there with one hand.

She’s not a sadist, not really, but she likes it rough. I file that away for later. I drag my mouth along her jaw, slow and deliberate, and whisper in her ear, “Is this what you want?”

She arches up, the answer yes in every muscle.

I decide to oblige.

Her dream obliges too, shifting the scenery from a boxing ring to a bed.

She’s not wearing anything, and neither am I, because this is a dream, after all.

She’s on top again, riding me with the same relentless hunger that drove her fight.

Her nails rake down my chest, leaving marks that feel real enough to burn.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Rose’s dream version of Lucien sitting in a chair watching us.

Fucking Lucien . But I don’t care about Lucien, real or illusion right now, because this girl needs to come.

The energy starts flowing then, that sweet rush of life force that feeds me. It’s incredible with her, stronger, wilder, like capturing lightning in a bottle then drinking it. Her magic bleeds into everything, making the dream vivid enough to taste the salt of her skin.

I roll us again, pinning her beneath me, and her eyes burn into mine with fury and want.

I’ll have to find out later what’s making this woman so angry.

Can’t say I’m not enjoying it though. I slide down her body, trailing kisses and bites along her ribs, her hipbone, until I reach the place where she’s wet and ready.

When I put my mouth on her, she bucks against me with a curse that would make a sailor blush.

“Soren,” she gasps, and hearing my name on her lips sends a shock through me that has nothing to do with feeding.

She knows it’s me. Somehow, she’s aware of me being here.

I work her with my tongue and lips until she’s trembling, until her thighs clamp around my head and her fingers grab in my hair. The lust and sexual energy pouring off her is incredible. I drink it in, feeling stronger than I have in months.

When she comes, it’s with a cry that reverberates through both dream and reality.

The energy surge hits me like a drug, and I have to fight to keep my own voice from echoing hers.

For a second I almost get sucked too deep.

She’s got this undertow to her, like drowning in an ocean of honey, and I have to force myself to keep my grip.

She’s beautiful, sweat slicking her skin, mouth open around a wordless shout. I want to see her like this again. But I’m greedy and nights here are far too short, so I keep going. I run my thumb over her clit, slow and mean, and watch her buckle.

I let her ride the wave down, then it’s over and she’s limp, boneless, and I can finally detach, sliding back into the waking world like a diver surfacing from dark water.

Well done, Rose Smith .

Galanthis, the insufferable cat, is in the doorway with a look of feline judgment.

Cats hate incubi, and I give him a one-fingered salute.

Her taste is inside me, smoky, with a touch of sugar.

It sticks to my bones in a way I haven’t felt in years.

I want more. Not just the sex, but her, the way she’d burn herself alive for the right cause.

Most of the witches here are pampered, spoiled legacies.

Nothing like this creature, this feral, raw thing. She reminds me of me.

Too bad she’s my student.

The Serpentine Academy is fully aware of what I am.

Of what I do. They don’t care. Things are different in the supernatural world and the witches know you don’t expect monsters to play nice.

They certainly don’t themselves. The Crescent Moon Coven are not people I’d want to cross, and that’s coming from a demon.

I stretch, rolling my shoulders, and glance at Galanthis, who is now staring at me with undisguised contempt. “Jealous much?” I say. He flicks his tail and looks away.

Most nights I’d check in on a few regulars, like the senior in 210 who dreams exclusively of eating her friends (literally), or the witch in 116 with a chronic merman fetish, but tonight I’m full. Strangely, oddly, satisfyingly full.

What an interesting turn of events.