Chapter 47 Two Idiots and a Succubus
Nyxara
I walked far enough that their voices finally faded into the relentless crash of the waves below.
The cold sea wind whipped at my hair, stinging my cheeks, dragging salt across my lips. I needed this—the space, the bite of the air, something sharp enough to cut through the chaos in my head.
Because seriously, what the hell was my life right now?
Two males. Both built like they’d been carved from nightmares and wet dreams in equal measure. Both taller than doorframes, broader than most wolves had any right to be. And both, apparently, utterly convinced that the entire universe should pause while they decided who got to stake a claim on me.
Back at camp, they were probably still circling each other like rival predators, posturing over whose turn it was to glare possessively in my direction.
Meanwhile, we had actual children to rescue tonight. Trafficked shifter kids locked in a warehouse run by humans who thought supernatural meant “profitable.” And here I was, playing referee to a testosterone-fueled standoff.
I stopped on a jagged rocky outcrop, boots crunching against shale, and stared down at the gray sea slamming itself against the cliffs. White foam exploded upward like frantic applause.
Then I laughed.
It started small—a huff, a snort—then burst out sharp and borderline hysterical, echoing off the rocks.
Azrael. The demon who’d spent centuries treating lust like a casual buffet—no strings, no feelings, just mutual feeding—had screamed that he loved me less than twenty-four hours ago. Voice raw, wings flared, looking like the confession had been ripped out of him against his will.
Eryx. The iron-willed beta who once stared at me like I was something he’d scrape off his boot. The same wolf who’d chased a lead alone, tumbled into a trap like a bad cosmic joke, nearly bled out in a pit… and woke up murmuring my name like even unconscious he couldn’t escape me.
And me?
I’d hauled his stupidly heavy wolf ass out of that hole, patched him up with shaking hands, let him collapse against my chest like the world’s most dramatic (and ridiculously warm) blanket. Then watched the two of them immediately start snarling over who’d done more to save whom.
I was either the luckiest succubus in existence or the punchline to the universe’s cruelest prank.
Probably both.
I stayed out longer than I should have. Long enough to do actual scouting—mapping guard posts in the distance, timing patrol rotations, noting blind spots in the floodlights. Anything to postpone returning to that overhang and whatever fresh hell awaited.
But the sun climbed higher, the cold burned off into a damp chill, and I couldn’t justify hiding forever.
When I finally stepped back into camp, the tension hit me like a wall.
Azrael perched on a boulder, sharpening a curved dagger with slow, deliberate strokes—schink… schink… schink—his dark eyes fixed on Eryx with murderous contemplation.
Eryx leaned against the rough stone wall opposite, arms folded over his bare, bandaged chest, golden gaze locked on Azrael with the same calm, predatory stillness. The bent spoon from his ration tin lay crushed in his fist like it had personally offended him.
Both heads snapped toward me the second my boot scuffed the ground.
Silence.
Thick, electric, ready to combust.
I dropped my pack with a thud, pulled out a canteen, and took a long drink just to have something to do with my hands.
“We move at dusk,” I said, voice steady despite everything. “Warehouse is half a mile north. Two guard towers, one main gate, service door east side—rusted lock, easy pick. Patrols swap every two hours on the dot. We go in quiet, locate the kids, signal extraction. No deviations.”
Azrael nodded first, professional as ever. “Towers are mine. Smoke, shadows, silenced throats if needed.”
Eryx dipped his chin. “Ground level’s mine. Brute force only if it goes loud.”
I pinned them both with a look. “No fighting each other. No unnecessary heroics. And absolutely no marking territory on me mid-mission. We get in, we get the kids, we get out. Clear?”
“Yes,” they answered together.
Then immediately glared at each other again.
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I pulled something.
Breakfast was self-heating canned stew that smelled like regret, protein, and desperation.
I handed the first tin to Azrael. He took it with a soft, “Thank you, love,” his fingers brushing mine deliberately, lingering just long enough to send heat curling up my arm. His tail flicked once—subtle, amused.
Then I turned and offered the second to Eryx.
Our hands met. Sparks—literal sparks, faint succubus magic crackling at the contact. His gold eyes locked on mine, warm and intense, gratitude and something far deeper swirling there.
“Thank you,” he rumbled, low and rough, meant only for me.
Azrael’s spoon scraped his tin loud enough to echo off stone. “Didn’t we both haul your furry carcass out of that pit? Joint effort, if memory serves.”
Eryx didn’t break eye contact with me. “I thank who I want to thank.”
I yanked my hand back like I’d been burned, popped my own tin, and dropped onto a flat rock between them. Referee in actual hell.
Azrael scooted closer immediately, thigh pressing firmly against mine. Under the overhang’s shadow, his tail slipped around my ankle—possessive, warm, hidden.
Eryx noticed. Of course he noticed.
He took a slow, deliberate bite, eyes flicking to the tail, then back to my face. Casually—too casually—he reached over and tucked a wind-whipped strand of hair behind my ear, fingers trailing lightly along my jaw.
“Wind’s picking up out there,” he murmured, voice like gravel and honey. “Don’t want it in your eyes when we’re moving tonight.”
Azrael’s tail tightened around my ankle, a silent warning.
Both touches branded me. My pulse stuttered. My hormones threw an outright rave.
My brain quietly filed for divorce and moved to another dimension.
Azrael leaned in, voice silky and pitched just loud enough for Eryx. “You missed a spot, love.” His thumb brushed slow and deliberate across my lower lip. “Sauce.”
There was no sauce. Not a drop.
Eryx’s spoon groaned as the metal bent further in his grip.
I shot to my feet. “I’m checking the gear.”
Sat right back down when I realized the gear bag was literally three feet away.
They both watched me, amusement and hunger warring in their eyes.
Azrael smirked. “Nervous, love?”
Eryx’s gaze darkened. “She’s fine.”
“She’s trapped between two males who’d kill to have her,” Azrael drawled, velvet over steel. “I’d be nervous too.”
Eryx leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low and dangerous. “One of us is willing to wait until she chooses. The other’s marking her like a teenager who just discovered scent glands.”
Azrael’s horns flared black, shadows coiling at his feet. “Waiting? Is that what we’re calling nearly biting her the morning after one frantic fuck?”
Eryx went predator-still.
Heat flooded me—anger, embarrassment, and a treacherous pulse of something else entirely.
“Enough,” I snapped, voice cutting like a blade. “Both of you. We have a job tonight. Kids’ lives on the line. If you can’t keep it together for a few hours, I’ll go in alone and you two can stay here measuring dicks.”
Silence again, heavier this time.
They shut up.
But the air crackled with unspoken promises and threats.
I finished my stew in tense quiet, hyper-aware of every shift of muscle, every stolen glance, every breath they took.
When I finally stood to pack, Azrael was there first—taking my empty tin, fingers brushing mine again, eyes soft for a heartbeat.
Eryx was there a second later—hand settling warm and steady on my lower back, grounding me like I’d asked him to.
I exhaled slowly, trapped between fire and storm.
And somewhere beneath the frustration, the fear for tonight, the weight of what we had to do…
A tiny, traitorous part of me wondered what it would feel like to stop choosing between them.
To let both storms break over me at once.
But that was a dangerous thought.
And we had children to save first.