It was almost like Magenta believed that it wasn't right that a mage was disciplined.
I could be strong with her by my side.
Lysander raised the whip above his head; his gaze met mine. Yet I'd suffered enough whippings to know that he should've slashed the implement down by now. So much for his boasting about being well-trained.
Why was he hesitating?
When Bask and Sleipnir both rose out of their seats like they planned to either tear the whip out of Lysander's hand or tear him in half (possibly both), vines grew out of their stools, tying them down. Magenta huffed in protest, swirling out her mists to snatch the end of the riding whip. Lysander's eyes widened, and he snarled, caught in a tug of war with Magenta.
Bacchus smiled. "If you don't complete the assignment, every student shall fall to The Frenzy. I haven't orchestrated an orgy in decades. Honestly, I'm kind of hoping that you go for the orgy. Then all you have to do is let go..."
"Desist," Lysander growled. "My princely personage shall not partake in such debauchery."
Magenta yanked, dragging Lysander sprawling against her. "I knew that you were a virgin!" Lysander pinked, and his jaw clenched. "Don't worry, my lovers showed me some wonderful tricks, and I'm most certainly not one anymore. As soon as we're able to take the stick out of your behind, then I'm certain that they'll show you as well."
"Take your hands off me." Lysander righted himself, batting Magenta away. He shook his whip at her like it was his wand or prick. "There shall be no orgies, taking of virginities, or other...things." His wings fluttered. Of course, he didn't yet know about the Stop Game. I had a feeling that Bask had plenty of things in store for Lysander. "Just let me beat the mage. I don't understand why you're so outraged. I've been disciplined in such a way since I was too small to fly."
For the first time, Magenta's expression softened, as she assessed Lysander. "I watched too many of the Rebels being beaten when I was a child. I swore that I wouldn't watch it happen again." Lysander blinked at her in confusion. "What was that charming speech you made about responsibility with Willoughby as the example...? I took it to heart, which means that as Prefect, I take responsibility for my whipping boy. Whip me."
No, no, no... This was Glow all over again, except without the fur, the collar or... Okay, she wasn't a werewolf slave but she was still about to take my punishment.
I wouldn't be able to bear that.
When Lysander's gaze faltered, shocked, she merely arched her brow.
"On Tyr's cock," Sleipnir growled, "if you even think of raising a hand against Magenta, then you'll discover what it feels like to be destroyed by a god."
I shivered. Wow, that'd even frightened my balls back into my body.
Lysander hurled the whip at Bacchus, who caught it. "Why do you all believe the worst of me? One most certainly would never strike a woman."
Thank Pan... I slumped in my seat.
Magenta snorted. "But you'd hit a defenseless man?"
I shifted, attempting to puff out my chest. Defenseless stung. I might not have the use of my hands, feet...okay, any of my body...but I still had my lies and the power of Confess.
Lysander shrugged. "Of course, if needs must."
What else had I expected from an Unseelie Fae? They probably taught How to be a Haughty Jerk classes in their nurseries.
Bacchus swished the whip through the air, transforming it back into her thyrsus. "Prepare yourself for The Frenzy..."
Midnight gasped, and Pocus wound around his legs comfortingly. I cringed, waiting to be overtaken by the desperate need to rip off Magenta's clothes and screw. Although, I always felt like that, which I put down to her gorgeousness, being locked alone since before puberty, and being a bloke.
"This is all your fault..." Lysander spat.
"What a truly mature fae you are," Magenta spat back.
Bacchus rapped the thyrsus against the floor, and I jumped. "There it is. Now you're ready for the lesson to begin."
I tilted my chin. "I believe I speak for all us...what?"
"Hexes or curses aren't created by the power of your magic but the strength of your intent. How much do you mean it? For that, you need an emotion, and love and hate are the most potent. Seriously, it all comes down to the connection between the one who casts and the victim. Mild dislike," Bacchus' lips curled, "will create nothing but a smoldering hex. For one that hits like dragon fire, you must have hate."
"Not a problem," Lysander sneered.
I glanced over at Midnight. His eyes were creased with concern. He knew as well as me that Bacchus had played the two Prefects against each other to fuel that hate.
I didn't fancy a hex as powerful as dragon fire blasted at my face.
"There's no such thing as a hex, which isn't directed at someone specific. They're darkly intimate." Bacchus' eyes became hooded. I hoped that wasn't her sex face. "Hexes are fury, hate, and revenge. They're from your imagination and soul. You can't lie to a hex." Bacchus's gaze darted between Magenta and Lysander. "Create a hex in your mind; it doesn't need to be voiced. Imagine your enemy..." By the way that Magenta and Lysander glared at each other, it was clear that they hadn’t had to think hard. "Then test it on your rival's whipping boy."
"I said that the mage wouldn't be harmed," Magenta gritted out.
Bacchus' eyes narrowed. "And I gave you the choice that you'd lose the Rebel Cup, and he'll die if you don't."
"It's not like you need it, but you have my permission. Both of you. Hex me up." I forced myself to smile at Magenta, as if getting hexed by a fae in front of the rest of the class was a refreshing start to the day like an extra shot of coffee. “It’s not as if the fae has enough darkness or imagination in him to scare me. The pampered prince probably thinks denying me golden spoons to eat off is a curse."
Lysander sidled closer to me, caging me in with his wings. Okay, not intimidating at all...if that means very intimidating. "Be assured that there are many deadly things held within my imagination. One could crush your curly head, explode your guts, or tear your magic from you like peeling your very essence from your Soul…"
"My Prince, don't," Midnight warned with more steel than I'd been expecting.
Lysander's sharp teeth glinted, as he smiled. "One merely stated that I could."
"You're lying," Bacchus snapped. "The hex must come from your truth, which is the line between love and hate. Hey, even I can feel it. Think of your enemy and then imagine what you wish most. The hex will do the rest."
I shook, and my shoulders were tight.
Not the Poison Ivy Penis Hex, not the Poison Ivy Penis...
Lysander leaned closer. His grin was malevolent. Then his eyes opened comically wide, and he stiffened, as if he'd accidentally cast the hex on himself, rather than me. Except, if the hex acted on the truth in your soul, almost like my own power of Confess, maybe that was how it worked.
As if he couldn't stop himself, Lysander leaned down, cupping my cheek with an aching tenderness. Then he kissed my cheek like he was a suitor in a romance novel.
I'd deny to my foxy deathbed both the way that my breath caught and my prick thickened against my thigh.
Lysander’s thumb caressed my skin like I was woven glass. When he ducked his head to touch his lips to mine, Magenta dragged him away from me. His gaze was dazed, as he stared at her.