“I should not have rutted Priya in front of you,” he says, meeting my gaze boldly.
The lad is forthright, and I like that. “Happen you couldn’t help yourself,” I say, lips twitching in a grin. “I heard Omegas were lusty, but admit to being surprised by how much so. Still, a full-blood wolf shifter is not the same as an Alpha.”
His eyes turn shifty. “I did not like to handle Priya at first,” he admits. “Hawthorn said she would accept my natural ways, but I was still nervous. When she came into heat, Hawthorn gave her to Brook before me. I was incensed at the time, and we fought while Brook was rutting her. After, I was freed to rut her how I needed to.”
“I would need to mate her in half-shift,” I say. I don’t strictly know if I would need to mate her in half-shift, but I want to. I’m three entities in one ever-shifting body: the human, the wolf, and the beast that falls in between. The half-shift is the one way for all to be bound. Most shifters lose awareness as they change form. For a split second, they are neither one nor the other. That does not happen for me. The three parts are all connected permanently. When I shift, I’m merely letting one part come to the fore.
He swallows, but his eyes show no disgust, only dark interest. “She did not seem fearful of that form,” he says.
“It will be a lot for her to fucking take,” I say, feeling angry that he’s not trying to talk me down from this ledge.
“I am ever in wonder at her capacity for rutting,” Caden says. “I believe she will take you in whatever way you need.” Then he grins and shrugs. “But perhaps it would be advisable in her next heat if we all thoroughly rut her first.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Priya
RAGLAN STILL HAS not rutted me, and many days have passed. I’m beginning to doubt that he will. I fluctuate between excitement that I will soon be reunited with Hawthorn, and frustration that life on board the ship is not going to my plans.
To make matters worse, I’m disciplined several times a day, and while it is a light spanking, my bottom is constantly sore. Raglan does not seem to mind that Caden and Brook take me to our room and rut me to exhaustion after.
He does not seem to care at all.
I am needy, but I am needy for only him.
Today, I stand upon the ship’s prow. A school of dolphins play in the waves, and I wonder if Zeta is among them. I still cannot comprehend that she is a hundred years old. The sea shifters have long been working with the King, I have now learned.
Raglan was always part of a plot to capture the regal Orcs. I’m yet to forgive him for his deception. I’m also disgruntled both by the lack of rutting and his ability to make me feel good post-discipline while barely touching me. Confusingly, it is both satisfying and dissatisfying at the same time.
I hear footsteps approaching and recognize the heavy tread. My lips tighten with vexation even as my traitorous body turns to jitters.
Throwing a haughty look over my shoulder, I’m greeted by his smug grin. Long, dark hair tied back in a cue, a rough beard, and a ragged scar that dissects his right brow and cheek. The scar is a little less fearsome today, but the poison blade went deep, and he says it will take many weeks to fade. As I turn to face him fully, my anger softens seeing that terrible mark on his beautiful face.
Etiquette dictates he come to a stop before plowing into me. He does not. “What are you doing?” I demand as my back makes contact with wood. His arms cage me, and strong hands grip the railing, trapping me. I’m in a state of shocked outrage when his head lowers and his lips capture mine.
There is not a great deal of thought involved in the consequence when my palm connects with his cheek.
“Goddess save me from feisty wenches!” Raglan exclaims as the sound of my slap rings in the air. “You slap a man before or after a kiss. Never in the middle!”
“What? Why not?” This is the most ridiculous rule I’ve ever heard, and further, I do not believe it is a rule at all but a notion he has conjured up to fit his own depraved ways.
He takes possession of my offending hand, which is still stinging from the blow and examines it gently. I eye this process cautiously while attempting to wrest it back.
He brings my palm to his lips and kisses the sting away. I wish he would stop kissing my hand all the time—I wish he would stop kissing my lips, too—but the hand is more readily available . . . the back, the palm, the tips of my fingers.
Finally, he stops kissing my hand but retains possession like he might resume the activity at any moment.
“It is just the way things are done,” he says like he is an authority on wenches slapping roguish shifters.
My eyes narrow as it dawns upon me that he probably is an authority.
“Well, that is a stupid rule,” I say in an attempt to distract myself from the fluttering low in my belly. I do not want to like this man and Alpha. He is not a good man, and further, will not rut me. By his own admission, he is a thief who flaunts rules of every kind. My brother would have him horsewhipped and thrown in jail on sight. The King has threatened to have him hung a dozen times or more. As I’ve learned from the crew, who are eager to regale me with tales of Raglan’s many adventures and
