Chapter Text
Magnus didn’t adhere to a set schedule, precisely. Once a month usually did the trick, set early in the lunar cycle to give the werewolves a break. He spent a week or so planning, ensuring everyone who was someone received an invitation. Then, when it was perfectly midnight, his wards encouraged the Mundanes to leave Pandemonium. Laughing and happy, each human staggered out the door guided by a vague sense that they had something else to do.
For every Mundane who stumbled home tonight, two Downworlders swept in to take their place.
Usually, Magnus mused, the ratio was one-to-one. A pleased smile tucked itself into the corner of his mouth. Word had obviously gotten around that tonight’s court was special. Sacred. Magnus recognized warlocks he hadn’t seen leave their lairs in decades. Seelies who’d spent the last century in their realm mixed with vampires who’d been sleeping away their ennui, dead to the world for months or years. He even caught the telling snarl of a werewolf more used to her fur than her skin. The recluses of the Shadow World, old and powerful and barely attached to reality, and they had all come to honor Magnus this night.
As they should, Magnus thought, and painted his nails with a snap. He splayed his fingers and admired the glittering gold. Perfect.
He waited twenty minutes past twelve to make his entrance. Standing in the quiet dark of his office, he listened to the clock tick. He breathed in time with the second hand, letting the passing minutes settle his racing heart. At the final tock, magic blazed in his palms.
Prying apart there and here with a raised hand, Magnus rent a hole in space. Flaring washes of blue and purple leapt around the ragged edge, licking playfully at his skin. Magnus pet the begging magic indulgently, loving the eager hum that radiated against his fingers. His magic was as excited, as happy, as he was.
“Not long now,” he promised. His magic jumped and skipped, kissing his heels as Magnus stepped through the portal.
Sound slammed into his ears. The nightlife’s cacophony—pounding EDM and yelled conversations. He breathed in smoky haze. Neon pink and acid green splashed his face. Strobe lights, spinning and twirling like ecstatic dancers. He tweaked his glamour, protecting his sensitive vision from the lights but, with a confidence in his true eyes that still felt new and special and beloved, dropping the rest.
His cat’s eyes stared into the lights. The crowd howled from below his dais.
Magnus grinned. Bared his teeth. Same difference. He pressed smacking kisses to his palms and threw them to his people, relishing in the laughter and cheers and kisses returned to him. His magic waxed with the crowd’s energy, thrumming under his skin like a livewire. He was lit up from the inside, his skin useless to contain his jubilant magic, not when his people called it forward to join in their merriment. Blue light danced up his arms and threw sparks into the air. The drunkest in the crowd reached up, waving their arms to try and catch the embers.
Magnus laughed. He shot another sparkling stream into the crowd, sharing in their glee.
Waving and showboating, he waited until the bass dropped. When it did, he sunk onto his throne. The Italian leather caught him seamlessly, making it easy to sprawl. His legs fell open and the lights flared and the crowd screamed.
Chucking, Magnus blew another kiss into the darkness beyond the lights. His people cried and writhed and pulsed, caught in a spell that he didn’t need magic to cast.
His station did a lot of the work, Magnus recognized. Power attracted worship. But tonight’s rapture was driven more by a recognition of his devotion than of the title he’d been vested with. He could taste the quality, feel it in the magic filling the air. His people were genuine in their happiness, in their approval. They knew Magnus’s plans, his intentions, and they celebrated his choice with abandon.
Magnus revelled in every good wish, his heart molten with a happiness greater than he had words for. It had been a long time coming, this happiness. Nearly half a millennium, maybe more; his time in Edom with his father had stretched horribly, preternaturally long. The years he’d been orphaned and starving had at least felt similarly. And the years spent losing lovers. The years consumed by atrocities.
Tonight, those memories were far away. Magnus sat back against his throne and let joy push them aside. It was easier to do than ever before. Riding the high, Magnus crossed one leg over the other and smirked. The thigh-high slits in his pants parted with the movement, revealing both skin and his stilettos. The crowd shrieked and clapped, drawing a grin out of Magnus. A man in the crowd actually dropped his drink.
Magnus laughed. He swirled his fingers, summoning a new drink for the unfortunate soul. He’d taken extraordinary care with his outfit tonight. His shirt was only the barest suggestion thereof, wispy and unbuttoned to his ribs. Gold chains and diamonds dripped down his chest. His gold wedding band stood out on his otherwise naked hands, kept company only by his husband’s dominating family ring.
Magnus regarded the ring’s silver face. He must be worthy to conduct it, this most public and most private of ceremonies. For his husband, his Alexander, he could be nothing less.
Idly, he poked at his magic. It writhed against his inquiry, wild with strength and intention, and growing.
No, Magnus surmised. Not long at all, now.
Satisfied, Magnus turned his attention back to his court. He clocked each shadowy face, noting the Downworld Cabinet’s Luke, Raphael, and Meliorn among the many attendees. Like a rising tide, the dance floor had swelled past capacity. The glamours hiding the bloodwine and potions offered at the bar had long-since collapsed. Minute by minute, even the most reluctant let their human visages slip. Flashing eyes, fangs, and marks of all kinds popped in the lightning strike of the lights.
Shamelessly drunken Seelies conjured flower petals into the air, filling the club with floral breezes. Warlocks cast charms at each other, sparkly and petty and flirtatious. Music pulsed. The vibration stayed in his legs even as Magnus tuned the noise-cancelling wards woven around his dais to dull the sound. He lay his arms along the back of the couch and let the beat sink into his chest. Pleasure buzzed in the air, relaxing him by proxy. He magic’d a drink for himself. A couple long sips of dry martini settled him further, making it easy to reach out with his magic and welcome each of his people personally.
The werewolves felt it like wind over their skin, a hello as warm as sunlight. The vampires could taste his magic, sweet and smoky and indulgent. The Seelies responded with their own magic, a different frequency than his but Magnus still picked up their genial greetings.
The warlocks, though. They replied in kind. Magic young and old sang against his, a mosaic of happiness and excitement. Magnus let it roll over him, breathing the magic in until each expression felt like a shade of his own joy. The terror and rage that belonged to the hunted, that prey’s fear that had once tainted his every exchange with his people, was gone.
Magnus sipped his drink, aware that his expression had gone to mush. He couldn’t help it. This change was his husband’s work.
The Council had done their part, of course: forming arguments, sharpening rhetoric, and striving endlessly to hammer their separate races’ diverse needs into one coherent strategy. But at the end of the night, the Clave would only listen to a Nephilim. Almost entirely alone, Alexander had beat, blackmailed, bribed, and brokered until an Alliance both the Downworld and the Clave could sign in good faith was born.
Alexander came away from the negotiations too many pounds underweight and with a staunch refusal to take any credit. Magnus, after some careful thought, had decided to let him deflect. He’d lean back against the nearest wall and enjoy the pretty blush that blossomed over Alexander’s skin when someone brought up his achievements. But Magnus dissuaded no one and neither did the Council. Consequently, the Shadow World was finally seeing the man that Magnus knew Alexander was born to be. The protector, the guardian—the leader.
Magnus’s Alexander.
As though triggered by his musings, his wards pinged. It wasn’t a chime he heard so much as a tension easing in his heart. He glanced around, smiling, looking for the focus of his thoughts.
Magnus wove wards like a tapestry, winding each thread of power around and around until the picture, the goal of his ward, was clear. When he knew truly and without question that Alexander was becoming the cornerstone of his new reality, he’d taken a whole day and night to reweave his most important wards. His home, his club. He’d fabricated a reason to update the New York Institute’s wards, better protecting the places that Alexander frequented most. The wards formed shamelessly around Alexander now, following a pattern wherein Alexander was essential. He must be protected, hidden from the enemy, safe.
As Alexander set foot in Pandemonium, the seat of Magnus’s court, the picture completed itself.
Pleasure rolled through Magnus, warm and beautiful. He felt his eyes dilate. A purr caught on his throat. All his senses were hair-trigger tonight, put on edge by pooling magic and raw anticipation. He needed to focus.
He needed Alexander.
He followed the wards’ threads to him, not with eyes that could be tricked but with his magic. He spread his legs wide again and perched his elbows on his knees, uncaring of his people heaving below him. The onlookers shrieked, ever attentive, but they dimmed to nothing while Magnus hunted his quarry. He leaned forward, not looking but seeing, and—Hello, darling. Aren’t you a prize worth taking?
In a room filled by predators, Alexander still moved like a hunter. Studied, controlled, driven. He stalked through Pandemonium with his hands loose by his sides, his steps light on the balls of his feet. Magnus had seen him go instantly from this easy walk to a killing blow. He was six feet and four inches tall, weighing two hundred pounds of solid muscle and hard Nephilim bone, but Alexander could move like a scythe through the air.
Magnus tried not to let on how uncomfortably tight Alexander’s battle prowess made his pants. He had a terrible suspicion that Alexander already knew. He’d been killing demons way too smugly lately. Smirking at Magnus from on high, his eyes sparkling from behind his drawn bow. An angel with an attitude dancing up fire escapes and slick alley walls like he’d been born to reach untouchable places. His ass flexing deliciously in his hunting leathers the entire time.
It was Magnus’s civic duty to push him against the nearest wall, kiss the smirk off his lips and make him whine. He’d hold his pretty face against the brick and hiss all the things Alexander made him think into his ear. Press his tortured cock into Alexander’s swaggering ass, force his hardness against Alexander’s softness. Wait until he begged to go any further. Then Magnus would push him through a portal and fall on top of him in their bed, have Alexander undressed and subdued before he could get his breath back. Put his hands all over him, slip his fingers in him, until there was no mistaking to whom Alexander belonged.
And Alexander, oh. He took it so sweetly. Big hazel eyes stared up at him, his pink mouth caught open. His hunter was always so surprised to be put on his back. But then he would melt into Magnus’s touch, his breath hitching as he lost his clothes. His body would stay so very still. He’d wait hours if Magnus wanted him to, listening devotedly for Magnus’s word. But Magnus rarely had the patience. He never did on the nights Alexander spent teasing him with bow and blade.
His cock twitched, half-hard and growing. Magnus rolled his hips, enjoying the languid tension building in his belly. He sighed. The leather was tight against his naked flesh, a delightful friction, but he wanted more. He wanted Alexander.
Tonight, Magnus didn’t have to restrain himself. He didn’t need to wait until no one was looking. In his court, he could take what he wanted the moment he wanted it—and tonight more than any other.
So he grinned, showing all his teeth, and let the crowd scream for him. For the savage joy that one man among them roused in him. Then he locked his eyes on Alexander and ignored the rest.
He was clad in black leathers, the buckles dull and matte so that they wouldn’t catch the light. Shadows clung to his steps, hiding him from unwanted eyes. Oily black ichor glittered against the darkness. He must not have waited even a single moment to come to Magnus’s side.
Gratification flooded him. Alexander made such a vision as the Shadowhunter in divine pursuit. His hands twitched with the need to take.
For a fraction of a second, Alexander paused. His head went up, instinct demanding that he scan his surroundings. Before the second reached completion, his gaze snapped to Magnus.
Magnus watched his breath catch with greedy eyes. The cold neutrality that Alexander wore as his default expression melted, the layers of disinterest and distain falling away. His jaw flexed, the merciless cut of it softened by the way he bit his bottom lip. A tiny smile broke shyly across his face.
Magnus’s nails cut into the creamy Italian leather. He wanted to eat him alive.
Roses bloomed over Alexander’s cheeks. Magnus’s face was wrought in naked desire and Alexander knew it was only for him. Magnus smirked slowly. His husband was always so tough until Magnus caught him. Until Magnus looked.
Whatever modesty struck Alexander, though, didn’t make him hesitate. His boots ate up the distance between them, his posture gentling evermore the nearer to Magnus he drew. Tension uncoiled with every step until he seemed nearly to float. His proud head bowed when he reached the foot of the stairs leading to Magnus’s dais, the seat Magnus took for his throne.
Magnus reclined back in the leather, anticipation burning in his belly. He let it rage across his face, allowing all the onlookers to see his lust for the man at the foot of the stairs. He stretched out a hand and crooked his finger, blue fire lighting up the braziers that lined the steps.
The gesture was many things: a tease of his power and a welcome to Alexander, but also a call to order. It was almost time to start. Magnus’s magic cried for it, teetering on the precipice of his restraint. Almost there, Magnus assured it. Just a bit more to do.
He watched Alexander take a deep breath, his leather jacket rising and falling. His shoulders eased from their militant tightness, the relaxation rolling down his spine. Alexander had no magic of his own to greet Magnus with, but this transition from heavenly soldier to gentle lover was more than magical. It was a gift, a proof of trust difficult in the making. It was the difference between Alec and Alexander, and it made all the difference in the world.
Below, the Downworld whooped and clapped and danced. It was proof of their support, an overwhelming celebration of Alexander’s choice to be here. To join them. It was the opposite of Nephilim approval, with its restrained nods and genteel willingness to die for a beloved commander. But Alexander relaxed into the chaos, his smile growing a little bigger with every clap and cheer. Accepting his roll with all the grace of his lineage; an angel within Magnus’s grasp.
Magnus wanted to dash down the stairs and press kisses all over Alexander’s face. But he had no right to kisses yet. He was Consular High Warlock of the Americas and he could take what he wanted, but Consular Warlock was a station born from the old days. The war days. For Magnus to leave his throne to embrace any person was inappropriate. But a Nephilim? Unthinkable.
Magnus must wait for the offering.
Whoever so reigns over the users of magic in a given land, the King of them so being, will grant on themself the blessing of a spouse. By their own free and agent will, this spouse will serve as helpmate, counsel, and love of the King. Consort will be their name among us, the children born of the blood of demons, and they will submit to the will of our King and through them, our will.
Alexander had cradled those words in gentle hands. The book was hundreds of years old, the leather and vellum preserved by magic. In it were sacred commandments, laws and observances that governed not just warlocks but the entire Downworld. It defined the role of the Warlock-Kings, today called Consular High Warlocks.
Magnus’s role.
He’d kept his true title hidden from Alexander for a long time, unwilling to drag him into another conflict with the Clave. Because certainly the Clave would love it if the Consular Warlocks conveniently went missing. Magnus didn’t believe that Alexander would ever spill his secrets—for all the harsh thoughts the Soul Sword fiasco had woken in Magnus, he’d never accused Alexander of being loose-lipped. If anything, he’d been spiteful about how well Alexander kept the Clave’s secrets. But Magnus knew the Clave, and he knew the untold damage the Clave could do trying to make Alexander talk. Magnus had refused to put him in such a position. Especially when so much else had already seemed determined to rip them apart.
But then Alexander had stormed Edom, his hands lit with yellow magic.
After, Magnus had lain in their bed with his eyes closed. He’d felt his magic pulse in his veins and fallen asleep to the rhythm of Alexander’s breathing. When he’d opened them again, his hand lay over Alexander’s chest. The noontime sunlight had gleamed off the Lightwood family ring on his finger. And Magnus had known that if they were going build a life together despite Heaven and Hell, Alexander needed to know everything about him.
He’d half-expected him to throw the book away. Alexander was liberal, even radical, compared to other Nephilim, but he was still a product of his culture. His proud, warrior culture. The Consort’s station, built on principles of power in submission and service, was anathema to Johnathan Shadowhunter’s spartan ideology.
Alexander’s reverence had refuted Magnus’s every worry. He’d held the book with total awe, his fingertips just kissing the pages. When he’d looked up at Magnus, his eyes had been both soft and totally unsurprised.
“You knew,” Magnus had breathed. “You knew my true title. All this time?” He’d felt outside of his body.
Alexander had sighed. He’d looked back to the book. “I was pretty sure. You’re the most powerful warlock I’ve ever heard of and, well. I could tell there were times you didn’t want me around. That you were hiding things.”
Magnus had cringed. He’d thought he’d been so clever, running the continents while Alexander was on patrol or overcome with meetings. But of course Alexander had noticed. “You never asked what I was doing.”
Alexander had shrugged. He’d turned to a new page. Magnus stole a peak. It was one of the most famous images from the book. A Warlock-King sat on her throne, her Consort leaning up against her legs. The Consort’s head was on the Warlock’s knee, letting his wife stroke his hair. “I thought you’d tell me when you wanted me to know,” he’d said. His eyes didn’t leave the book. His tone was almost idle. Almost.
Magnus had looked away, unable to meet what was missing in Alexander’s voice. “I always wanted you to know,” he’d insisted, the words a rapid tearing past his lips. “I just didn’t want you to have to choose your loyalties.” He’d taken a shuddering breath, forcing his eyes to meet Alexander’s downturned face. The truth stung as he ripped it out from behind his hardest walls. “I didn’t want you to leave.”
He’d watched Alexander stroke his thumb lovingly over the illustration, growing jealous of the paper. Finally, Alexander had looked up and locked wet eyes with Magnus. “You would have to send me away first.”
Magnus’s heart heaved. “Never.” He’d taken a deep breath. His whole world had felt so delicate. He’d stared at the man he’d given the power to break it. “Will you accept?”
Alexander had put the book down and stepped into Magnus’s space. He’d stood so close that Magnus could feel the heat radiating off Alexander’s skin. Sandalwood and citrus filled his nose and Magnus drank it in.
Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Alexander had leaned close and kissed Magnus’s cheek. “Ask me.”
Magnus’s breath had shuddered in his lungs, fear and desire at war. Carefully, he’d brought his hands up to Alexander’s face. His skin felt so warm and delicate under Magnus’s palms, so soft against his fingertips. Alexander’s eyes had fluttered shut, like Magnus’s touch was all he’d ever needed to find peace. “Alexander Gideon Lightwood,” Magnus had murmured, beginning this ancient ritual that they would tonight complete, “Will you honour me with your devotion…?”
Tonight, all the Downworld would hear Alexander’s answer. Magnus already knew, of course. He had swallowed every breathy “Yes” Alexander had panted into his ear. Held Alexander’s wrists down as he pounded into his body, his teeth locked in his neck, punctuating each thrust with a new bruise. They’d fucked until dawn, until golden light had spilled over Alexander’s naked back. His spend had look like pearls in the sunlight, white and luminescent against Alexander’s skin.
Biting his glossed lips to smother a moan, Magnus forced himself to let the memory go. He would return to it later, luxuriate in the private blessings Alexander had passed over him. Maybe he’d have Alexander kneel while he did so. Watch as Magnus stroked himself and recounted every glorious detail. He would look so beautiful. He always looked so beautiful, kneeling between Magnus’s knees.
Magnus willed his hands to unclench. Later, he assured himself. He needed to focus. He had a ritual to achieve.
A future to claim.
He looked to Alexander. He’d crested the stairs; his confident strides had carried him quickly up them. The magic sparking across Magnus’s arms increased, hot and eager. It bit and struggled against his command to wait. The crowd’s excited shrieks did nothing to help his control, rising to a deafening roar when Alexander finally came to a stop in front of him.
Oh, my love, Magnus thought helplessly. To anyone else, Alexander must still look like a proper Shadowhunter. His feet were shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped behind his back, spine straight. But Alexander had shirked so much of his armour already. His lethal glare, that hunter’s tension, and his barely leashed temper were all defused. Magnus looked at him and saw the most darling recruit in a set of toy soldiers. All that was left for Magnus to do was help him the rest of the way down.
Magnus smirked. No hardship, there. His court was already doing half the work.
Though he’d smiled to the crowd, Alexander was still not entirely used to the regard Magnus’s people—their people—had for him. His eyes glimmered, wide and damp, glittering alexandrite set in inky dark lashes. His breath came quicker than a few stairs merited. His face blushed red and his mouth opened breathlessly. Pandemonium’s entire loving attention pressed on Alexander now and, where Magnus would preen, Alexander bowed. His soldier’s comportment lessened the longer he spent under the attention of these people who wanted him to ease, to enjoy. To love.
His Alexander was always so eager to please. So beautiful. One day, Alexander’s confidence would grow strong enough that the court’s eager eyes wouldn’t shake him so much. Until then, Magnus would take no greater joy than in soothing his quivering lip.
His fingers twitched. They craved to brush over Alexander’s mouth. He’d slip his thumb inside, pet the hot wet velvet of Alexander’s tongue until his boy settled. He was so close to doing it. In minutes, now, it would be his right. But Magnus had to get them there, first.
His consciously relaxed his shoulders. The music faded away. His voice fell low and susurrus. “Speak, Inquisitor Lightwood-Bane,” Magnus bade. Wicked laughter danced in his words.
Inquisitor Lightwood-Bane. No one else’s appointment could have soothed the Downworld or the riotous Nephilim youth. Now Penhallow’s favourite to succeed her, Alexander was on the precipice of total power in the Clave. Magnus called his husband’s name and knew full well that tonight was not just his marriage to Alexander by Downworld custom, but a marriage between the Downworld and the Clave that none, not even Magnus, had ever seen coming.
Magnus tilted his head, considering. Alexander’s total faith that their relationship would survive their peoples’ penchant to war with each other had been omnipresent. Maybe one person had predicted this union, then.
Alexander’s posture gave no indication of his schemes, real or imagined. He cast his eyes down respectfully and answered Magnus with a solemn tongue. “I seek permission from the Consular High Warlock of the Americas to stow my weaponry and title.” His lashes fluttered as he took a breath. “I seek to join him at his side and under his protection.”
Magnus’s wards caught Alexander’s velveteen voice and flung it across the building. To a one, the Downworld stilled and held their breath. They waited to see how a proud Nephilim leader would prove his request. How he would show obeisance to a Consular Warlock. When Alexander’s hand tightened on the strap of his quiver, the crowd bobbed and babbled.
Magnus turned a feral glare on the assembly, silencing them mid-noise. He refused to have this moment ruined by their commotion. He turned back to Alexander, who he found frozen and watching him. Waiting for a cue, Magnus realized. Waiting for Magnus to show him the way.
He let the purr building in his chest rumble out softly, an assurance only for Alexander. It was an inhuman mark that Magnus had hidden for as long as his cat eyes, but the sound had soothed his husband since Magnus had let it slip during their first night together.
Now, as had happened then, Alexander’s shoulders relaxed and melted back into that gentle posture that Magnus so loved. That’s it, my darling, Magnus encouraged, letting his face reflect his thoughts, you’re almost there.
Through his lashes, Alexander saw what Magnus wanted him to. A little smile flickering on his lips, Alexander began again to move. Slowly, letting all and sundry predict his plans, he circled his free hand gracefully at his side and summoned his bow to his palm. He slipped his quiver off his back and passed the strap to his bow-laden hand, then unsheathed his Seraph blade and stele. He held all four weapons out to Magnus, his wrists up in offering.
By a scant inch, Magnus resisted the instinct to snatch. The howling demon prince that lived in his darkest heart, praised and reared for centuries by Asmodeus, wanted to steal Alexander’s offered weapons and lock them away. Alexander’s gifted vulnerability was like blood in the water. That Alexander used his bow by Magnus’s permission already chuffed the beast, but to possess all of Alexander’s weapons? Every inch of blessed adamas and angelic grace that Alexander could possibly use to separate himself from Magnus? Sweat broke over his skin.
The arms of the Clave’s High Inquisitor, offered to a Consular Warlock’s command, and Magnus didn’t care for them at all. He sought Alexander. The trappings of that priceless treasure were inconsequential.
“Granted,” Magnus whispered. If he did not whisper, he would scream. “Come, Alexander, and be welcome.” His voice carried through his club, every Downworlder made aware that Alexander had been accepted into Magnus’s court. Been granted haven under his protection.
A pin’s drop would have echoed in the club. The ritual was not over yet.
With a wave of his hand, Alexander’s weapons dissolved in blue sparks. They reformed safely on their hooks in the loft, but the effect was dramatic. Shadowhunters committed suicide rather than be disarmed. But Alexander smiled like Magnus had given him Raziel’s own blessing. He inclined his head. “You honour me, Consular Warlock.”
Magnus couldn’t look away. Alexander’s slick bottom lip curved around the words, red and shiny from Alexander’s endless biting on it. Take, take, take pulsed through his body, beating with his heart. He’s here, he can’t run, he’s yours, take him!
He clung to his control with bloodied nails. “Will you honour me more greatly still?” Magnus asked. His voice was hoarse like Edom’s smoke and ash lived in his lungs.
His question hung in the hot air. Every soul in the club breathed in the magic of it, the magic that Magnus had ordered into his command with the words. It rumbled, a sound none could hear but was known in the body. Hearts missed beats, skin tingled. Wolves snarled and vampires snapped their fangs, Seelies sighing and warlocks crackling with magic.
Magnus seized the rising tide and harnessed it, drew it unto himself. He held the wave back from cresting, waiting for the right moment to shape and craft it, to bind it to a purpose with his will. He waited for Alexander.
Alexander mesmerized him, destroyed and remade him. He tempted Magnus’s composure away with every gesture. He fixated on Alexander’s beatific face, cast down once more; his curly dark hair catching the flashing lights; the pale sliver of his neck. Magnus wanted to sink his teeth into his skin for eternity.
He locked eyes with his husband. Alexander’s chest rose and fell too fast. A tantalizing bead of sweat crept down his neck, disappearing into his collar. His cheeks were feverish. Bright eyes met Magnus’s, pleading for Magnus to stay with him, to hold his gaze through the next part.
As if Magnus would ever refuse him.
A final tension, a last cord, snapped within Alexander. His expression eased. His teeth finally let go of his lip. His hands relaxed, falling away from behind his back. His joints softened. Inhumanly elegant, almost trance-like, Alexander sunk to his knees.
Magnus bit his tongue to silence his gasp. It felt like all his blood had evaporated, replaced with molten desire. So, so good, sayang, Magnus thought, silently begging Alexander to understand the praises he could not yet speak aloud. Beautiful, perfect boy. You’re so close. So, so close.
A silken pillow materialized to meet Alexander’s knees, Magnus’s besotted magic acting on its own.
Drenched in that magic, a magic that only thickened and rose the longer he knelt, Alexander needed a whole minute to find his voice. Watching him struggle, his throat fluttering and swallowing, sunk Magnus’s nails through the couch’s leather veneer.
The next words—the next actions—were old ritual. Millenia old. All that magic, the magic Magnus had taken from the air and borrowed from his court and dredged up from his own fathomless well, pulsed in his fingertips. He was holding it back with the thought of Alexander, the knowledge that he needed Alexander’s knowing consent to proceed. Alexander needed to give him what came next with specificity.
Alexander knew the words. Magnus had taught him, pressed him naked into their golden bed and fucked the words into Alexander’s body. He’d spent long hours with Alexander bound in his magic, teased to the edge of madness, and promised release only if he could remember the words. Soothed Alexander when he failed, given him redemption until, even drooling and bleeding and almost purple-cocked with desperation, Alexander could sob out the words.
“I grant you anything,” Alexander finally heaved. His chest stuttered with a distressed little cry. Only a fine ring of lucid brown showed against his black pupils. “Always.”
Magnus’s most ancient, most evil instincts thrashed. The vicious satisfaction ripping through his blood tore past his lips in an animal growl. Alexander whined, high and plaintive, pacifying. It was barely enough to gentle Magnus’s desire into something human.
Exhaling carefully, he reached out a hand. He could touch Alexander, now. Alexander had granted him the right. Anything. Always. He couldn’t rescind. He would never have the chance.
Magnus would never allow it.
“And how, Alexander Gideon,” Magnus said, rough and bestial. “Would you like to honour me?” His grip firmed around delicate bone as he tilted Alexander’s face up, cradling his jaw in his palm. Magic poured out of his hand, sinking eagerly into Alexander’s skin. It could never be removed. It would live in Alexander’s body like a pulsing beacon, both a warning and a claim. The blindest Mundane would know this boy was not theirs. Instinctively, they would know that worlds would end before Alexander did. Magnus promised.
Alexander needed to take another heaving breath before he could find his voice. Tears clumped up his lashes and threatened to spill. Then, “I offer you my body,” Alexander said. “My mind, my soul, and my heart, until such time that the last spell breaks.”
His nails bit into Alexander’s jaw. He would leave red crescents in Alexander’s skin when he pulled away. “Do you?” No one else could question a Consort’s vows, so the Consular Warlock, the voice of his people, must.
“I do,” Alexander insisted. His wet eyes pleaded the truth. Magnus brushed his thumb over Alexander’s cheek in recognition.
His throat working, struggling to cooperate, Alexander continued. “I offer not just to love you, but to love your people, our people, so long as my heart beats.”
“You will?” Magnus asked. His nails hadn’t given up their place in Alexander’s skin. It must hurt to deliver his vows, but Magnus couldn’t make himself let Alexander go. He never could.
The tears clinging to Alexander’s lashes tipped over. “I will,” he swore.
Magnus could tell Alexander wanted to say more. Alexander was a quiet man until he wasn’t, until politics or passion demanded his voice. And then he spoke so many beautiful words, words that Magnus practiced in his mind until they were engraved there. But this ritual was old, demanding old words. Alexander’s adherence meant more right now than his own words could. It was respect for a culture denied it for far too long. The action was a vow, as much as the words themselves were vows, that Alexander would not just honour the Downworld but join in it wholly.
“I offer,” Alexander said, beginning his final promise. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, the magic laying so densely over his body that it was hard to breathe through. His panting was audible. Magnus savored every sound. “I offer to be yours,” Alexander finally managed. Another tear leaked over his cheek. “Forever, until your final day.”
Magnus’s eyes closed. His stunned, astounded heart seized. All the times Alexander had said these words to him—stuttering, shaking, moaning, begging—while they practiced, and still Magnus was unprepared for the true moment of them. Until your final day, Alexander promised. Swore. Vowed.
Alexander had promised him forever on their Nephilim wedding day, the noon sun painting his face with stained-glass rainbows, flower petals drifting down from the ceiling, their marriage sworn on gold bands bearing Wedded Union. But it was the only forever a Nephilim could promise. A few finite years on this earth, tinged with impending death and mourning. A promise to find each other again in Heaven. As if Heaven would ever be brave enough to let Magnus past the gates.
This promise was not a Nephilim’s forever. It was more. It was eternity. And Magnus, greedy, grasping Magnus, took it into his soul and locked it behind all the walls he’d ever built.
As those doors slammed shut, his heart beat again. Grasping tendrils of Magnus’s magic slipped out of his palms, licking toward Alexander. They lathed at any slip of skin they could reach, slipping under the hem of Alexander’s jacket and past his collar to lavish attention on his neck. They purged the ichor from his leathers, furious that some lesser creature had dared to touch Alexander even in death.
Alexander’s breath hitched. A quiet whimper slipped past those red, red lips. His head fell back, bearing his throat to Magnus’s adoring magic.
Magnus followed his magic with his hands. Alexander had kneeled right between his feet, his sweet darling, so it was terribly easy to reach forward and knot his hands in Alexander’s curls. His boy sobbed, so desperate for Magnus’s touch that he heeded the merest suggestion of guidance. They were kissing before Magnus knew he’d moved. The wet slide of Alexander’s mouth over his was like water in a desert, the one thing Magnus had ever needed.
Alexander’s hands landed hesitantly on his knees, obviously unsure if he was allowed to touch, to take for himself. Magnus fixed the conflict for him, freeing Alexander’s hair to grasp his wrists and push his hands up his thighs. His hands slid up the slits in Magnus’s pants, his hot palms trailing fire over Magnus’s skin. Magnus growled against Alexander’s lips, hands fisting in his leather jacket.
Alexander sighed into his mouth. He explored upward until he was clutching Magnus’s ass, moaning when his palms found their prize. His kiss turned dirty, his tongue swiping hotly over the roof of Magnus’s mouth.
Sensation burst across Magnus’s brain. His gut spasmed, punching a gasp out past his lips. His aching cock burned against his thigh. He grinned into the kiss, then bit Alexander’s lip. Alexander moaned. Magnus stole the opportunity to suck hard on his lip, then broke the kiss before Alexander could respond. They fell apart panting, breathless, loud in the club’s unnatural silence.
Alexander’s wide, anxious eyes stared at him.
Magnus smiled. Tonight, he would shatter every insecurity Alexander possessed. Catching Alexander by his curls again, he dragged his head forward and whispered in his ear. “I accept, Consort.”