Archive of Our Own

“I’m home—oh?”

Imagine her surprise when she caught Dolly’s gaze, a blend of resignation and stubborn resolve as she repeatedly refused a rowdy bunch of Maulers who begged her for another pour, as if ready to sell their very souls just for a single drop. 

“Welcome home,” she eventually greeted Merlin after managing to snatch back an unopened bottle that had been stolen by an irresponsible paw. “Sorry you had to see this mess.”

Merlin barely managed to sidestep someone who lunged unintentionally at her. “I was only gone for a few hours. Is it always this fun when I’m away?”

“No, no, the Maulers had something to celebrate today. But since they’re away from the Ashen Wastes they decided to do it here.”

That explained why the Maulers were more unhinged than other factions: Mikola slumped uselessly against a wall, Smokey sneaked off with a certain hyena while knocking over nearly everything on their way, and only Antandra looked remotely sober despite the flush on her cheek. 

“Where’s Brutus?” 

“He’s, uh… preoccupied at the moment.”

Merlin’s eyes flicked to Brutus and Kruger who were belting out the song of their people as others cheered. The lion who was meant to keep the Maulers in check had also drowned in the festivities, and Merlin turned her attention elsewhere; someone seemed absent from the lot. She knew well enough that he would have loved to sing along to such a lively Mauler anthem.

“And Shakir?” 

Dolly lifted her chin toward the man who was, surprisingly, half-sleeping and half-sulking on the bar table in the corner. His ears twitched irritably and his tail thumped against the bar stool, advertising his obvious grumpiness for free. 

Merlin blinked once, trying to make sense of it. That was definitely weird.

“Between you and me, he’s not being his usual sharp self,” Dolly tapped her cheek, equally confused. “Can you perhaps help me figure out what’s going on?”

As requested by her one and only (and by default, her favorite) barkeep, she approached Shakir, who was clearly sulking: eyes heavy and eyebrows taut, a half-full glass in front of him among countless empty mugs, his consciousness already halfway to snork mimimi land.

“Hi, my favorite troublemaker,” Merlin bit back a smile as she took a seat right next to him. “Had a little too much, big guy?”

The wolf prided himself on restraint especially against worldly indulgences like this. To see him slouched over a bar table screamed self-inflicted defeat, too ridiculous for Merlin to ignore. His golden eyes squinted at her, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice, and the faint jingle of his earrings was still audible despite the ruckus around them.

“Mmm.” 

He muttered something half-heartedly, eyes on the glass before him, claws tapping the bar in an annoyed rhythm. He looked like a sulky pup trapped in the body of a warrior nearly twice her size, the contrast making her stifle a giggle. Merlin wondered what had driven him into this rare, almost-never-seen grumpy mood while everyone else reveled in celebration. 

“Too bad,” she teased, “I was about to ask you to spar.”

“I know that’s a lie.” His voice was muffled in the crook of his folded arms, his back hunched like a cooked shrimp. “You barely spar with me anymore.”

A laugh slipped out despite her confusion. Cute, though she kept it to herself. 

“What, you’re actually keeping a tally?”

The man’s gaze was suddenly sharper than his slouch suggested: “Don’t you have better company to bother? I’m sure your new friends are very eager to get your attention.”

The mage leaned forward, resting a gentle hand on the wolf’s shoulder. This time her head tilted in quiet reassurance, her smile faltered for the briefest moment; it was never her intention to make him feel cast aside. 

“You’re my friend too, Shakir, can’t I spend time with you?” 

Shakir didn’t answer right away. His gaze went astray as if the floorboards had suddenly become more interesting than her.

She sighed, this time more gently, careful not to make light of his feelings. “You think I’d ditch you because the place is a little fuller now? Having more people around doesn’t change what we are, and it never will.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it.” 

He grumbled into his arms yet again, sulking all the while despite being far too big and definitely too old to be pouting. The magister racked her brain for a way to cheer him up, though she quickly ruled out more alcohol. No one in the hall needed that kind of preventable disaster.

Never in her life had she thought she had preferred the pestering, overexcited, overconfident Shakir. Somehow those versions were far easier to handle than this sulky one.

“Magister?”

A gentle voice distracted her from what she was trying to do. It was warm and soothing at the same time, such a contrast to the rowdy celebration and the clinking of glasses around them. Merlin turned toward the voice and found herself caught in the kindest eyes in the entire hall.

“Ah, I was looking for you. Where have you been?”

“Faramor!” Her excitement spilled out in recognition. “I was just meeting Rowan to discuss the new trade route. How has it been in Cedartown?”

"All good, thanks to you!" The Wilder raised his glass lightly in greeting, his smile easy and reassuring as he bowed a little toward the owner of the house.

And Shakir noticed something: though her hand still rested on him, her attention had fled elsewhere as if he had vanished from the room without a trace. The smile she offered to Faramor wasn’t the kind she ever spared for him. It was warmer, softened just for the other wolf.

(A small, stubborn part of him wanted that smile too. He couldn’t even trace when he had first started wanting it.)

“Valka’s been a great help too, bless her.” His voice carried its familiar calm like the embodiment of nature itself, his expression softened even more by the liquor. “But we all know it wouldn’t be half as efficient without your planning.”

She shook her head in disagreement, “Rowan deserves all of the compliments.”

“But you made it possible too. You deserve the compliments as much as anyone.” The smile on his face remained just a tad too long not to mean anything. “And perhaps even more.”

Merlin had downed exactly zero drops tonight, yet the warmth in his words made her heart stumble over itself. She caught herself staring back at him, her pulse stuttering as if it had only just remembered how to beat. The hall seemed to dim around them while others were unwilling to intrude.

Well, maybe except for one other wolf within the vicinity.

Faramor couldn’t miss the restless thump of Shakir’s tail against the bar stool, ears pinned back like a sulking pup. He needed no translator for such signals being a wolf himself. If anything, it was hard not to laugh at how obvious the poor Mauler was being.

“Ah. He’s had too much, hasn’t he?”

“Uh huh,” Merlin grimaced at the thought of Shakir slumping onto the floor if nothing was done soon. “Would you help me bring him back to his room?”

Faramor bent down to haul the wolfkin upright, only to be met with a series of clumsy, powerful swats aimed at his face. Shakir’s hand cut through the air with all the precision of a blindfolded man trying to catch a fly with broken chopsticks.

“I don’t need your help!” the Mauler snarled, baring his fangs despite the slur in his speech.

Faramor eased back, hands lifting in a gesture of surrender. His tone was patient though the glint of amusement in his eyes said otherwise: “All right then, can you stand on your own?”

Shakir shot upright from the bar stool, only to immediately wobble on unsteady legs and nearly topple backward. For someone of his stature, the sight was downright ridiculous. Merlin let out a panicked yelp as she rushed forward with Faramor, the two barely managing to keep him from planting his ass on the floor.

Now he was slumped against Faramor’s shoulder, head spinning yet still managing to mumble: “…See? I’m fine. Told you.”

Faramor adjusted him with effortless grace, unbothered by the fact that Shakir was already baring his fangs in contempt, eyes closed shut and head hanging low in shame.

“Grrr—”

“Hey! No snarling!”

“What a spirited fellow!” Faramor dismissed him with an easy laugh. “Well then, shall we be on our way?”

The walk to his room was painfully slow as Shakir seemed very keen to extend a duel invitation to every inanimate object that fell within his line of sight. Even a poor coat rack earned a growl as if it had personally insulted him, his mother and his second cousin twice removed. It was utterly unbecoming, and none of them had ever seen the Mauler in such a ridiculous state. 

The goal now was simply to wrestle him into bed, and perhaps, tease him tomorrow when he was sober enough to remember it.

“I hope I wasn’t stepping into anything between you two when I came over,” it was Faramor who broke the silence, and a faint, knowing smile accompanying his rather playful accusation toward the mage. “You seemed rather close.”

Out of everyone there, Merlin had to be the one fully sober to feel her head throb at the implication. 

“Oh, we were just talking. It's nothing like that.”

She proceeded to make a mental note that Faramor, with a loose tongue under the influence, should be avoided at all costs going forward. He was bolder and keen to know about everything and anything. Lucky his usual day-to-day self was nothing resembling this.

“If you don’t mind me asking—”

Oh no. That was the kind of preface someone might use before asking such a risky question.

He then adjusted his hold on the Mauler who started slipping off his grip, earning a soft grumble: “You don’t seem to mind his company. I wonder why that is? Most people wouldn’t want to put up with him half the time, let alone sparring with him.”

"Mmhm. He can be chaotic most of the time." 

Her tone carried more warmth than she intended, and she pressed on, "But he's wonderful company to spar with, he always knows exactly where I need to improve. I think that’s his way of keeping me safe out there."

Her eyes flicked toward Shakir who was slumped against Faramor’s shoulder, his brow furrowed even as his consciousness slipped away now and then. Despite the stern expression on his rugged face, her own softened.

"Uh, I’d like to believe it, anyway."

Faramor raised his brows at her addition, amusement peeking from behind his eyes. "Like a sparring mentor?"

Merlin chuckled at his question, realizing how foolish she sounded to him: "Perhaps. Or maybe he just doesn’t want me dying on him so I can fight him again and again."

"Ah. So you see him that way."

"What way?"

His steps slowed as they neared Shakir’s room, sight not leaving hers as if to be sure she caught every word. 

"It seems to me there’s still room for someone else to stand by your side."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to still the hall itself, one could almost hear a pin drop on the carpeted floor along the hall. A deliberate short pause as an act of mercy, and then he added so very softly—it fully threatened to lull her mind into a different place entirely. 

"Someone more… gentle, perhaps?"

Merlin felt heat slowly rise in her cheeks, words caught in her throat in surprise as she threw her gaze away from him.

"I think I might’ve misunderstood your words, Faramor," she said eventually while treading carefully, "It’s late, and my brain might not be functioning at its best."

And his laugh was becoming addictive to her: "I assure you, you most likely did not."

"Hello?!" 

The bark and the clattering of his earrings with every flailing jerk of his head were enough to show his agitation, his arm nearly smacking Faramor in the face before the Wilder dodged it with ease. "Really? You’ve got to flirt right in front of me? My head’s already pounding so don’t make me suffer more!"

“Stay still, my friend,” Faramor shifted his grip to pin Shakir’s arm. “We’re almost in your room, and I’ll tuck you in tight.”

“Tuck me in?” Shakir’s voice rose an octave higher at his seemingly demeaning statement, his tail thrashed against the other wolf’s leg. “Tuck me in?! I’ll tuck the shit out of you instead—”

The words abruptly dissolved into a hiccup, then a string of groans before his head slumped back onto Faramor’s shoulder once again, his protest reduced to weak mumbling. Merlin let out a snort she could no longer hold back, silently glad the attention was not on her anymore.

The mage stopped in front of a room and pushed the door open, revealing a sparse space of any decoration which, in its own way, reflected him well. A few sharp blades and a whetstone lay neatly on his desk, perhaps to deter unwanted guests.

(But then her eyes caught on something small and absurdly out of place. A funky little trinket in the shape of a wooden wolf perched almost shyly on his bedside table, something she had picked up in Alkali for him. He had told her back then that he ‘had no use for this’ and had shoved it into his pocket with little care. 

Yet here it was, close enough to bid him goodnight every day.)

True to his word, Faramor guided the Mauler onto the bed with surprising ease, lowering him with the care of a father tucking in his own flesh and blood. As he brushed the blanket over him, a strange warmth settled at the Mauler’s chest. Every movement was deliberate and cautious to the point where Shakir’s golden eyes widened in something akin to denial. 

No wonder Merlin liked this. The thought startled him, and he loathed admitting it.

"Watch it, my blade—"

Faramor noticed at once, unclasped the sword from his hip and set it aside along with his gauntlets. Only then did he resume to wrap the Mauler securely in the thick blanket. Shakir made no effort to escape his care despite the grumbles that slipped out from between his teeth and fangs.

“All set,” Faramor announced with a rare air of satisfaction, “Comfortable?”

“Hmph.”

That was all he got, which only made Faramor laugh at how petty the other wolf was. Shakir was now bundled like a snack wrap, scowling with his body tucked neatly away and only his muzzle left free. Then Faramor’s eyes found hers again, mischief brewing in his less-sober mind.

“Get back on your feet soon, my friend,” he said, his tone unmistakably teasing. “Else Magister Merlin’s attention will all be mine, and I might just keep her as my sparring partner.”

“Over my dead body!” 

“Stop teasing him, will you?”

“Too far?” His inquiry carried no remorse in response to her laugh slipping through, though he softened afterwards. “Would you like to return to the hall with me now that he’s tucked in?”

“Perhaps I’ll join you once he’s settled. Thank you for carrying him here.” 

Her fingers brushing the edge of the bed in a small, protective gesture as she smoothed the wrinkles on his blanket. “Say thank you, Shakir.”

“I’d rather not have you show your face around anymore.”

“Shakir!”

“Ugh!” The sulking wolf turned his body to the side, facing the wall. “Fine. Thanks, I guess!”

“Ha! Very well, I’ll take my leave now.”

His answer carried amusement, and the grin in his voice seemed to linger even as he shut the door behind him. The echo of his teasings stubbornly clung to the room as if mocking Shakir relentlessly despite his absence.

Merlin let out a long sigh, her brows taut together despite the softness in her voice.

“You were so grumpy the whole time.” A short pause to give the wolf some time to sort his muddled thoughts, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The wolf kept his gaze stubbornly on the wall and laid stiff as a statue, she thought he would ignore her existence entirely as if she never existed. But she was proven wrong as his hand fumbled underneath the blanket once, twice, before finally landing on hers, his eyes still fixed on the plain wall of his room. 

It surprised her, but she didn’t pull away. 

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the clumsy touch, his claws lightly grazing her skin to send warmth through her chest until her heart stumbled for the nth time today. Shakir then muttered something low, but it was too muffled for her to catch.

“What was that?”

His ears twitched at her question but he was still too stubborn to look at her. Shakir was weirdly at a loss for words tonight despite being bestowed with a silver tongue, as if each one spoken cost him a year of his life. And gods above he was no suicidal man.

The single word came out almost like a stutter. “Stay.”

Merlin blinked, his grip on her hand tightening.

“Oh.”

Now it was her turn to cast her gaze anywhere but his face, she couldn’t bear the tension brewing between them. “Okay.”

Silence lingered and stretched a little too long for anyone’s liking. Her heart felt as if it might leap out from between her ribs, and judging by the way his grip tightened again, perhaps he felt the same. Summoning what little courage she had left, she carefully latched her fingers between his to return the gesture in kind.

Shakir’s golden eyes shot open and snapped to her face in disbelief. For once the wolf seemed distraught, his voice breaking.

“Wait— what?”

The mage immediately pulled her hand back, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she stumbled over her words.

“Oh, sorry! I thought you wanted— I mean, your hands— I just—”

“I do!” he cut in almost immediately, blinking rapidly as if surprised he was given that gesture at all. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”

This time, the silence stretched even longer and flavored with an added awkwardness. Shakir dragged a hand to his temple, groaning as the throbbing in his skull reminded him of the liquor he had downed earlier to distract himself. He shifted upright, resting his back against the bed frame. His presence still looming even in weariness.

There was a mental fistfight happening behind his eyes. Despite the haze of alcohol, he still needed to be sure this wasn’t a cruel trick, that he wasn’t hallucinating things he wanted to hear.

“Come here.”

The strong did not plead for anything, yet here he was, vulnerable all the same.

Merlin hesitated at first, then carefully climbed onto the edge of the bed, resting on her knees beside him as she leaned closer to catch his words. Then he leaned in, whispering as if afraid the walls around them might hear.

“I was drinking to get over it, alright? The fact that, you know, uh, that you’re always too busy for me. And then there’s him! He gets the kind you never gave me. And you just—just hand it to him without him having to do anything. I wanted it too, you know?" 

The thinning of his voice felt too apparent, too much to bear. 

“He carried gentleness and charisma like it was nothing to him, no wonder you were swept away. I mean, I was too!”

Shakir paused for a moment, ears flattening in defeat which ached her heart.  

“And feel like, I don’t know, like… you’re slipping away from me.”

He didn’t need to say a name, yet Merlin could already pinpoint who he meant, his tone sour and jealous. The alcohol in his system only barely softened the bite.

“There are other things that demand my time, but that doesn’t mean you’ve been replaced.” Her voice was steadier than his, at the very least. Her hand rose instinctively to his shoulder, “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

The wolf’s ears twitched again; she always noticed the way his earrings swayed with the motion.

“And, uh, I don’t… want a Faramor.” 

The disbelief in his question nearly drowned the entire room. “You don’t?”

Merlin’s pulse thrummed in her throat, but her answer eventually came through: “He’s everything you said, but if I wanted someone else, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Shakir’s chest heaved once, twice, then again, and again, many times already that Merlin began to fear she had offended him with her words, before all the already-thin restraint he desperately clung to snapped and unraveled. He pulled her against his chest, his strong arms locking around her as if letting go would mean certain death.

“This is unbecoming of me.” His voice colored with shame yet warmth slipped through the cracks of his words, he didn’t mind her being the sole audience for it.

“They say the strong shouldn’t need affection. That it's something that weighs you down. And yet—” His hold tightened, head dipping lower as his muzzle pressed into the crook of her neck, warm breaths against her skin. “I care for you more than I’d like to admit.”

She pressed her face closer against him, desperately letting his warmth blur her already-muddy thoughts. Her hand slipped instinctively around his waist, fingertips tracing the contours of muscle shaped by countless fights and relentless training. 

It was far too easy to stay here and forget everything else, even the celebration was waiting for her with open hands at the hall.

“I don’t want him near you.” The slur of his words only confirmed what had been obvious all along. “Matter of fact, I want you to myself.”

“You’re drunk, Shakir.” 

The reminder meant as much for herself as it was for him. Then, she added quietly: “It isn’t right for me to revel in this.”

“Drunk or not, I know what I want.”

Before she could retreat from his grip, he caught her hand, drawing it slowly to his muzzle. His mouth brushed the inside of her wrist, his tongue tracing lightly over the same spot while his golden eyes never left hers. Then he nipped, and then another kiss against the skin. 

“Ah—”

The gesture was painfully, unbearably sinful. Would Dura strike her down if she wanted more?

Her breath hitched, and the way he looked at her didn't make this easy at all. 

“Can—can you say this again tomorrow?” 

Merlin eventually blurted out, self-control barely taking over.

“Tomorrow? Why?”

“Because I want to hear it when you’re sober.” It was so hard to peel herself from him when every word tasted like ash. Seconds ago she would’ve thrown herself at him had it not been for her clearer mind. Not yet, she needed to make sure that nothing, not even a single drop of alcohol clouded his judgement. “So you’ll remember.”

A sulky growl rumbling low in his chest as he let her go. “I don’t want to wait that long.”

A laugh slipped past her lips at his immediate reaction. Merlin set her hands lightly on his shoulders to steady herself, her head tilting in endearment. Dura above, if only he knew how hard it was for her to keep from giving in too.

“Think of this as a reminder I feel the same. A down payment of sorts.”

Then she leaned in and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. As she pulled away, she couldn’t help but giggle at the way his eyes widened in faint shock, ears twitching at the unexpected touch. He was always the one eager to give, yet when she returned the favor, he instantly froze like his wolf brain had forgotten the next step to anything and everything. 

Of course his pout returned the instant she completely pried herself from his arms.

“And I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. If you haven’t changed your mind, that is.”

Each step she took away from Shakir felt heavy, but she held herself firm for what was meant for her would find her tomorrow.

“Good night, wolf.” 

With that, the door shut, leaving Shakir to his own devices.

For the first time that night he found himself desperate for the dawn to come. He flung himself under the blankets, squeezing his eyes shut as if sheer willpower could drag morning closer, his tail thumping restlessly against the mattress.

Merlin hadn’t caught a wink no matter how hard she tried.

Every time she shut her eyes, she was reminded of how embarrassingly lustful she had been. The image replayed again and again, her mind wandering further each time as she wondered what would’ve happened had she given in. By the time the shy, faint sunlight crept through her window, she gave up. At least she knew her ritual of brewing tea would ground her, so she rose from bed, set the kettle to boil, and reached for her prized leaves. The kind meant to make her relax, or so the merchant had promised.

That was, until the sharp knock at her door nearly made her flip the kettle upside down. Her stomach nearly flipped too.

Her heart skipped; it didn’t take a genius to know who it was.

She hurried to the door and pulled it open, and there he was: Shakir, hair slightly tousled, yet looking more like his usual self now. The shadows beneath his eyes spoke loudly enough of a sleepless night. 

“I haven’t changed my mind. I still want you to myself.”

The words tumbled out of him before she could even greet him. His sharp, bright golden gaze locked on hers. “Have you changed your mind, Magister?”

“I haven’t.”

“Ah. Good.” Shakir nodded stiffly. Then, glancing aside, added, “Good to hear.”

What now, shake hands? 

After everything, after last night’s tension and want and ache and yearn, this was what they had come to? 

“Shakir?”

But the way she breathed his name tore the last thread of his restraint.  

Shakir drove her back into the room. He was never known for gentleness, and Dura above, that was exactly what thrilled her when his hand clamped around her jaw. The door banged shut with a kick, and in an instant her back slammed against the wood. His grip slid down to her waist, fingers digging in. Not a word was spoken yet the intensity made her knees buckle as she dug her claws into the thick fur at his nape in need, in desperation. 

And then it happened in a single breath: both of them leaning in for the kiss only to be met with equal ferocity from the other. 

Merlin tore away for air, lips swollen. Sparring had already made them familiar with each other's bodies, though never like this. 

“Can’t keep up, Magister?” 

Her voice broke, almost a mewl. “Please… don’t hold back. Just ruin me already. Please please please—”

“Ha! Can’t get enough of me?”

He hoisted her against the wall and her legs intuitively wrapped tight around his waist, leaving her suspended and helpless as he pressed himself into her. The sudden grind of his body against hers made her gasp against his mouth before he claimed her again, way more arrogant this time. He was mocking her, for sure, as his touch went messier in its intention. 

“More?” As if all the taunts hadn’t been enough, “Beg for it, Magister. I’d like to hear it.”

“The Magister does not beg!”

Merlin’s eyes went as wide as saucers, heat instantly draining from her cheeks.

“CHIPPY!”

Screams erupted in unison from the other side of the door. Chippy, the loyal hamster familiar, banged and scrambled against the wood with his tiny rodent hands, flipping upside-down in frenzied yet futile attempts to open the door.

“Chippy doesn’t understand! Why would she need to beg?” His muffled complaints pressed against a hand that is seemingly far bigger than his head. “And why is Shakir inside, threatening the Magister? Chippy must help!”

She pressed her forehead into the crook of Shakir’s neck, legs still locked tight around his waist while she wished she could disappear into the wall. A rare flush crept over the wolf's normally unshakable features; never had he been interrupted mid… activity, and of all the ridiculous times the universe had chosen now. For an infuriating second, his wolf brain wondered if the hamster outside might make a decent dinner.

“Magister!” The jingling bells belonged to Mikola, the first to attempt to diffuse the situation. “Haha, uh, we were here to apologize for last night’s ruckus! Some tables were broken and uhhh we were here to pay for the damages, kind of!”

But Shakir didn’t pause for anyone or anything. He tilted his head, nipping and licking at her ear. His other hand brushed over her clothed breast while making a quick work of the buttons of her top. Merlin shook her head frantically, trying to disapprove as she was fully aware her gasps might no longer remain soundless. 

And yet, the idea that others might hear how Shakir made her feel was a prospect she could entertain. 

“Yet it seems we also have to apologize for eavesdropping.” Brutus—oh Dura, not Brutus!—eventually chimed in, voice wise despite the awkwardness. He cleared his throat and proceeded to tread carefully, knowing who was inside. “We… double apologize.”

Her feet now touched the ground when he loosened his hold, but only because Shakir wanted to press her face against the door. One hand kneaded her breast after dragging the bra down to her waist, while the other snaked lower, discovering a very pleasant surprise.

He whispered, almost silent: “Wet already?”

“Ah—not now!”

“We’ll come back later to settle the matter! Right, Chippy?”

“No!”

“Yes! Bye!” Mikola swooped in and yanked Chippy away from the door. A string of “No!” and “Let me go!” followed. Clearly they both had to haul the hamster off by force. “They were just, uh… sparring! Right, Brutus?”

“Hah! Come on, little one. Let’s see her later when they’re done sparring.”

Great. Even Brutus was making fun of them and their chuckles did nothing to convince Chippy. At last they had stepped away from the door and down the hall, leaving them alone once more.

“They’re gone. Now you can sing your little praises for me, Magister.”

She shot him an irritated look, which only earned a smug grin in return as if he had done nothing wrong. With a flick of her wrist and a low murmur of an incantation, Shakir’s hands were bound behind his back, wrists locked together by a magical force.

“Tsk!” It was too late for him to complain now. “This is cheating!”

“My room. My pace.” 

She exhaled loudly to gather herself while the wolf thrashed uselessly against the spell binding his wrists. Another flick of her wrist shoved him toward the bed, and a firm press of her finger to his chest pinned him there. His eyebrows rose as he was seemingly unimpressed by the stunt, but his body betrayed him. 

“This is punishment. And there’s nothing you can do about it unless I let you.”

Merlin’s voice was low and commanding as she straddled his lap. She ripped off the bra that had been hanging awkwardly across her waist and tossed it to the floor without care. Her hands pressed onto his shoulders as she ground down on his half-hard cock, wanting to make a point as if he existed solely for her pleasure. 

This time, it was him squirming under her control

“How does that feel, Shakir?”

An annoyed smile tugged at his lips as he caught his breath, already plotting what he might do once free from any restraint—and he would make sure to pay her back tenfold. It was just a matter of time, and he was a patient man.

“Oh, you’ll be the death of me. For sure.”