Chapter Thirteen

Hermione sighed, allowing her head to fall back against Orias' shoulder. Her eyes closing, she asked, "Did Tom tell you to do this?" This being the circumstance that found her in the mountain of a wizard's lap, one of his hands having slipped—with no protest from the writhing witch—beneath her dress and up along her thighs to dip between them, teasing and stroking.

"Tell me to do what?" He caught her earlobe between his teeth and raked gently, drawing a rumbling whimper out of her. "Make you purr like that?"

She hated her brain at moments like this. Orias Mulciber knew how to touch her, and here she was thinking. She should be letting her muscles tighten and strain so he could do what he was clearly aiming for, but no. She had to go and be curious.

"No, but I imagine you'd take an opportunity to do that, with or without his say-so," she murmured, trying to give herself over to it.

"Yes, but I believe I already told you as much." Frustrated by her stubbornness, he shifted her forward on his lap. With his free hand, he started undoing his trousers.

Glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes alight with that glowing amber, she saw him slipping his cock free of his clothes. She barely held back another little rumbling sound as the action sent a delicious ache rippling low in her body. "I meant," she said, needing to get the words out now, since she was more than aware he was about to make her lose her ability to speak and then she'd never get to ask the question. "Did he ask you to distract me?"

He jutted his chin, indicating for her to move and she lifted herself for him. One hand still rubbing between her thighs, Orias anchored his other arm around her hips and pulled her down over him. A groan sounded in the back of his throat at his entry while the witch gasped, immediately bracing her hands on his knees for leverage as she started pushing back against him and pulling herself forward.

He let his head fall back as she rocked over him. Normally he preferred to be the one in charge, but after last night—he hadn't been remotely in charge of anything, yet it had still been amazing, albeit eye-opening—and with what he understood of her new nature, he thought it would save them all time if he accepted that it was actually her. This soft, feisty wolf-witch currently hanging her head and digging her nails into his skin through the fabric of his trousers as she worked herself against him, controlling the depth and speed of his thrusts all on her own.

And she expected him to think let alone speak?

She wasn't wrong, but he was under explicit instruction, here. "Why . . . ?" He uttered a small, gruff sound as she shivered, her body clenching tight around him. He lifted beneath her, meeting her motions and was rewarded with her exhaling a sharp, pleading moan. "Why would you think that?"

Her movements became twitchy, the roll of her hips jerking as her muscles started tensing. She could tell by the way he quickened his strokes that he knew she was close. "I don't—I don't know." She forced out a breath, inhaling in a soft mewling sound as he used his arm around her to pull her against him, giving her the freedom to let her body go taut. The rubbing of his fingertips had become unsteady but harsher, sweetly rough in a way that edged her closer, still.

She threw back her head, crying out as she came, but she wasn't alone in it. The grip of her body around his, the shiver of her skin against his bare thighs, even the wail tearing from her throat, brought him to release as her own orgasm held her stilled over him.

For a few breathless heartbeats, they were frozen together.

As it ebbed, she tried rocking herself against him once more, but the result was no more than a jerking shift of her hips, the sensations coursing through her just sharp enough now as they dwindled to almost be painful—not actual pain, though, more a bizarre feeling that could she could only think of as her body not being able to take any more.

Orias exhaled, the sound loud and petulant, and clamped his hands over her hips, moving her over him. She screamed again, trembling in his hold as the mix of pleasure and that strange, aching feeling of too much. He spent himself entirely, her deep, roughly stilted motions coaxing from him every last drop.

He halted her, simply holding Hermione pinned to him for a few moments.

As the tension drained from their bodies and she felt herself all but melt against him, she tried to understand what had just happened—why it had been so very powerful. Then she remembered. Her body was still sensitive from last night. First Orias had bent her over that sofa in that little library chamber, then there was the study with Tom . . . . Even with what was happening between her and Fenrir, she simply wasn't used to so much physical attention.

She already knew her instincts were making it so she was always a little bit ready for one of the alpha-males she'd surrounded herself with to take her. Those same instincts were to blame for this. Being in close quarters with these two for so long, they were keeping her body primed, rewarding her for giving into her males by making her orgasms stronger. She breathed out a long, low breath at that. Well, she was in for a treat over the next several days, wasn't she?

Lifting herself in shaky a movement just enough for him to slip free of her, she turned and sat back down in his lap sideways. She dropped her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes.

"You didn't actually answer me," Hermione observed in a whisper as he circled her with his arms. "Did he ask you to distract me?"

"I believe I answered you by asking why you would think that." Orias let his own eyes drift closed, as well, as he rested the base of his skull against the artifact display case at his back. Who'd've thought a bloody reliquary tour would lead to sex? Well, clearly Hermione Lestrange or Tom Riddle would. Bloody intellectual types.

"Meaning you didn't answer me." She was so tired now. A nice nap sounded very appealing after a good shag, and he didn't seem to be reminding her that they had anywhere else to be. "And I don't know. It's just a feeling I got."

Orias shrugged, wondering if she was starting to doze, because he was certainly feeling like he could do with catching a few winks and she appeared to be quite comfortable using him as a body pillow like this. "He said he wanted me to keep you occupied because of how busy he is this afternoon."

Hermione wanted to pick at that, to puzzle over if it was something Tom didn't want her to know about or if he was merely concerned about leaving her alone too long, given his knowledge on her kind and what he understood her instincts were doing to her right now.

Whatever Tom's motive, she and Mulciber were both fast asleep before she even got to ask.

"You summoned me?"

Tom Riddle was not a man easily startled—ever—but the werewolf's sudden question drifting into the room from the doorway at his back nearly made him jump out of his skin. Blue eyes narrowing lethally, he pivoted slow to face Fenrir Greyback. Bastard was literally lounging against the jamb.

"How many times have I told you to never sneak up on me?"

Fenrir had to hide a smirk. It was really the only power he had over a wizard, wasn't it? He'd already circled the grounds, counted all the paths out so no matter what this resulted in, he could map out a quick exit strategy while on the move. He was not of a mind that Tom Riddle was actually going to harm him, but Fenrir knew this could only be about Hermione, and so he had no idea what to expect, really.

"You know my kind moves silently," he offered with a shrug. "When we make noise it's because we want someone to know where we are for a specific purpose."

"For that odd occasion you wish to inspire fear in your prey rather than catching them unawares, I'd imagine," Tom said, smoothing his hands down over his suit jacket. He felt much more collected now that he'd had a second to adjust to Greyback's abrupt presence.

"Precisely. There in lies the difference between a wolf and a werewolf."

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes. Werewolves could be dramatic creatures. Who knew? "Come, have a seat." Tom settled behind his desk as he gestured toward the chair opposite.

Fenrir arched a brow but moved to do as the Lord of the Death Eaters bid him. That brow crept up higher still as his host uncorked a crystal decanter and held it out in offering.

His amber-eyed gaze leaping from the wizard's eyes to the liquor, and back, he said, "You think I really can't smell the veritaserum in that?" He tapped the tip of his nose with one finger. "The herbs in that potion are very distinctive." As was the fact that he could smell sex, he could smell the familiar scent of Hermione's arousal, in this very room. Maybe sometime last night? The scent was faded, easily several hours old, but it was there.

He already knew his witch was involved with Tom and Mulciber, so it was no surprise. Though, the veritaserum coupled with his awareness of what had gone on—an awareness he would keep to himself unless it was pried out of him—made him rather curious about this meeting's purpose.

"If you want the truth about whatever it is, then you'll simply have to ask your questions and choose to believe, or not believe, my answers."

Tom's shoulders slumped as he set down the decanter and recorked it. Certainly, he had spells galore that could worm the truth out of even the most stalwart man . . . but he wasn't dealing with a man, not truly. He knew werewolves naturally had a much higher pain threshold than the average human, what he did not know was if he had the strength or energy to repeatedly cast until he managed to surpass Fenrir Greyback's ability to withstand pain.

So, unfortunately, the werewolf was correct. Tom would have no choice but to decide whether he was satisfied or dissatisfied with whatever answers he gave.

"Very well." Tom folded his hands neatly atop his desk, assuming the picture of perfect calm. "You know your bite turned Hermione Lestrange?"

"I do." Truth.

"Did you know when you bit her that she would turn?"

Fenrir's eyes narrowed. Odd question unless the Lord had some reason to suspect. Not that he'd be wrong. "Seeing as you want honesty, I can say . . . I hoped." Almost a truth. Yes, he'd surmised she was healing from the illness on her own, yes he had thought she'd make an amazing werewolf, but he had not known for one hundred percent certain that it was true.

"How did you find out?"

That question made the werewolf tip his head to one side, his cold gaze turning calculating. The Lord wasn't confirming things he already knew or suspected, he was fishing for information under the guise of suspicion. Hermione likely wouldn't have told them the full truth of their . . . relationship. Protecting her took priority over sating the Lord Tom Riddle's need for answers, by far.

All right. Sanitized version of events it was.

"She came to me." Which she had—she'd found him that night. He'd led her to him, sure, but there was no need to divulge that. "She suspected, I confirmed. Made me promise not to say anything."

Tom braced his elbows on the desk, pressing his steepled fingers to his mouth. He merely looked at Fenrir Greyback for a few painfully silent heartbeats. Those answers were all near-exact to what Hermione had said.

Yet somehow Tom could not shake the feeling there was more to it.

"Are you aware she and I have entered into formal courtship?"

Fenrir fought not to react to that. Not because of the idea of her being in some ruddy conventional human arrangement with the man—this was not anger. If she was in courtship with Tom, why did the mingled scents in the air from last night include that of Orias Mulciber? Oh, this was interesting.

Offering a thoughtful, yet bland frown, Fenrir shrugged, the movement lazy, perhaps even seeming bored. Oh, yes, he could feel a minor flaring of territoriality, but he pushed that aside.

"I was not," he said smoothly. Truth. He'd had no idea. "I think the Lestranges would've told me if I was biting someone's intended."

Tom's features pinched. "It's only recent," he responded, his tone edging toward caustic.

Now. Now was the time to ask. "You mean to see this through? To take her as your bride?"

"Of course." Tom sneered at the question. Why on earth would one court a person they had no intention to marry? Whether the marriage would be genuine or a sham was typically another matter, entirely. "I didn't take you for one to waste time with stupid questions."

"It's not a stupid question." Fenrir leaned forward in his chair, resting his palms on his knees. "My kind, for whatever reason, it's never really been clear, has always had ties to your family. We've always answered to the Lord or Lady of the Death Eaters. Now that you intend to take one of my kind as your wife, I'm curious to know if this is some sort of special treatment, or will her presence at your side mean maybe your people will stop treating mine like we don't exist."

"Everyone knows you exist, Greyback."

The werewolf's expression soured at the Lord's light tone—clearly because he knew how useful they were, he'd never forget they were there. "So you say. But sure enough, you lot are quick to use our blood and our bite for your own ends and then ignore us. We're nothing more to you than tools at your beckon call. Some still even think us monsters."

Tom nodded, pursing his lips. Greyback . . . had a point. No one had ever believed his side of the tale about how, exactly, he'd ended up biting young Remus Lupin all those years ago. Tom wasn't even certain he believed it, but he had said he did—he'd blatantly lied—in order to keep in Greybacks' good graces.

Well, this meeting certainly wasn't going how Tom had thought it would. Here he'd been so ready to be angry with Greyback, yet now they were having an actual discussion. How very odd.

Of course, logic dictated he should trust the werewolf as far as he could through him.

"You're not wrong." He nodded again. "Humans are trying, but there is still a lot of fear. It will all depend on if she wants our people to know that she is afflicted with the curse."

Well, that was a shitty answer. Fenrir allowed his frown to darken visibly. This sounded like some political bullshit response. She didn't need to reveal herself for Tom to try to encourage different behaviors for his followers. "She thinks she can live a normal life with this, and if you aren't going to make that to happen, then you need to tell her so."

"One thing at a time, Greyback. She hasn't even had her first change, yet."

Exhaling through his nostrils, Fenrir nodded. Sure. But if Tom chose to ignore this matter . . . . Well, he was certainly going to put a lot of thought—long and detailed—into how he would handle the matter.

Tom let out a sigh. "She has asked to be . . . kept here during the full moon. In one of the basement cells."

"What?" That cut through Fenrir's other thoughts, shutting them down for the moment.

The Lord repeated himself.

"No!" Fenrir was on his feet, the heels of his palms braced on the edge of Tom's desk. He spoke through clenched teeth. "You're not caging her during the moon!"

"It's what she wants."

"It's torture!" Fenrir's stomach was turning and clenching all at once at the idea of being in captivity while under the moon's sway.

Tom shrugged, not bothering to disagree. "She doesn't seem to think so."

"She doesn't know any better! You can't let her."

Once more Tom shrugged. "And I tell you again, it's what she wants. I won't do otherwise."

"She has to be with her own kind at a time like that!"

Tom held Greyback's eyes for a few seconds. Dropping his gaze to the desktop, he gave a half nod, clearly considering something. "There is an option you're overlooking then."

Fenrir's brow furrowed in question.

Rising slow from his chair, Tom straightened to his full height. Though he was tall, he wasn't as tall as the werewolf, but with Greyback's current, slightly hunched posture, they were eye level.

"You can be caged with her."

Oh, Tom didn't know if he felt pity or mild amusement at the horror that washed through Fenrir Greyback's expression at those words. All this over some metal bars and little brick and mortar?

Perhaps he was finally zeroing in on the werewolf's weakness.