I could feel it every time it swooped back around, rushing through me, hard enough to leave my heart pounding and goosebumps flooding my skin. It had me writhing against the bed, breathing hard and then crying out, half in pleasure, half in shock. Because the loop was raging harder than I’d ever felt it, and moving faster, so quickly that it almost seemed like Pritkin was forcing it into my body with every thrust.

We were generating so much magic that I was afraid it would incinerate us all if it got away from him. But it didn’t get away, and after a moment, I realized why. Because all that power…

Was going straight into the battle with Zeus. It wasn’t burning us, because it was burning him, and he was… not happy. I switched to my mental vision and could actually see the result of his rage pulsing down the link between us, being met by our own, and flaring up into a firestorm of magic on the metaphysical plane that left me gasping and swearing and tearing my vision away, because I couldn’t bear to look at it.

Which left me looking at the two men surrounding me instead, which… was disturbing for a different reason.

Because the hands on my body were no longer white.

Mircea was gripping my arms, cradling me against him, with one hand sliding down to my elbow and back up again, over and over, in a soothing rhythm. It was sun bronzed and shapely, with well-tended nails, and was wearing his heavy gold signet ring. The jewelry was solid, with a metal coolness as it pressed against my overheated skin, and felt every bit as real as the long, dark hair spilling over my shoulders.

I made a breathless sound, half pleading, half shocked, and wished I could see his face. I’d no sooner had the thought than my mental vision skewed, showing me a dark head bent over me and a half-obscured visage, but what I could see had color, too: the lashes black against his cheek, the skin flushed with power, the lips stained bright red. And the one eye that I could see glowing cinnamon amber, and brightening further with every pull of his mouth, with every helpless thrash I gave, with every heavy thrust from our third—

Who wasn’t looking so much like a statue anymore, either. Or, if he was, it was one liberally streaked with paint. I could still see the stark white in places on Pritkin’s powerful body, but there were also brightly colored brushstrokes everywhere, like a crazed artist had had a fit.