by Eve Langlais
“It was one time, dammit! Even you have to admit that porterhouse was beautiful.”
And delicious. “I still think if you want followers, you should start a boy band,” she declared, just because she knew it drove him nuts.
“Do I look like the boy band type to you?” With his lanky build and dark hair, he kind of did.
“Just think of the groupie legion you could form, though.”
“Of teenage girls.”
“If you can get them some Valkyrie training, they’d be hormonal, Berzerker killing machines.”
“There is something inherently deviant about that plan.”
“Because it’s brilliant and a woman suggested it.” Isobel couldn’t help a smug lilt to her voice.
“Some days, I wonder about you, Isobel. Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. And only yours.” What a stupid question.
“What if my side did something you didn’t like?”
Sometimes, Chris seemed to forget whom she was related to. The mighty wizard Rasputin, her grandfather, had done some evil things in his lifetime. Truly wicked things. As had her sister Evangeline and mother, Marya. Despite not having done anything truly heinous herself, Isobel was a Rasputin, which meant she could handle blood and bodies.
She clasped Chris’s hand and stared earnestly at him. “Don’t forget, the side that wins will write the histories and justify the means to the end.”
He blinked, those long, luscious lashes sinful on his face. “For a second there, it sounded like you giving me permission to conquer the world.”
“If you want to rule it, then I will stand by your side.”
“With a knife to go in my back?”
She shook her head, not taking offense at what was a legitimate question.
Chris, for all his brashness, for all his talk of being the Antichrist, was also a man, one who worried about betrayal.
“I would never harm you. We are in this together.” She stood on tiptoe and placed her lips on his. A jolt of electricity went through them both. How long since she’d felt it? Since the wedding… Odd how it had reappeared now out of the blue.
“You’d let me destroy a nation?” he murmured against her lips.
“If you want to.” She wouldn’t stand in the way of his destiny. “But you’ll need allies. And you won’t find them working in the graveyard or hanging around the house. You need to get out, meet some people.”
“Apparently, I don’t need to leave the house because you managed to get a person of import to see me. Jesus himself.”
“Charlie,” Isobel corrected.
“Dumbest name ever. Dumbest idea ever. Do you know what Jesus could rake in using his real name? I mean, the merchandising opportunities alone.” He expounded on the benefits, his face animated, his hands moving as he talked, his thought process not always aligned with hers, but she could follow it. Even better, he didn’t balk at her mindset.
Raised by an evil sorcerer who’d fled Russia after numerous assassination attempts, she’d experienced an interesting upbringing. Some kids dissected frogs in school. She decapitated live ones to brew spells with her mother in the kitchen.
“He doesn’t need to exploit his name because Charlie doesn’t need money. He’s rich. And like I already said, it’s not because of his daddy,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“When you say rich, are we talking the real kind? Or that New Age bullshit where you say his wealth is in the quality of his friends and the connections he’s made doing good deeds?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Good deeds don’t pay. So, no. I mean real money. He’s a businessman on Earth, the head of a huge corporation.”
Chris snapped his fingers. “Let me guess, he’s one of those preachers we see on television. Which I have to say is brilliant. Millions of followers that he can call upon to form an instant army.”
She could see the gears in Chris’s head spinning, and she jammed them before they could really get going. “You are not going on television as the Antichrist to form a legion of darkness to take over the world.”
“Way to ruin my fun.”
“Your fun might plunge us into chaos before we’re ready.”
“Chaos is another word for excitement.”
“Exciting is knowing we’ve got the supplies to survive any siege we mount.” Having studied zombie apocalypse films, she knew they needed solar power, guns, and non-perishable food if they wanted to ensure that the end of the world didn’t kill them. Thus far, they had…nothing.
“Did you say ‘we?’” He arched a brow.
She gave him a peck on the lips. “Yes, we. We’re a team.”
“A team of two. I might need more than that to rule the world.”
True. Hence why she wasn’t worried about him annihilating humanity no matter what prophecy said. Free will still counted.
Chris could choose not to destroy the world. But, even if he did annihilate it, she’d still love him. The man might drive her bonkers at times, but despite that, he remained the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
And the sex was out of this world.
Mmm. Sex.
She ran her finger down his cheek and almost gave in to temptation. Quick, time to switch gears and veer her mind in another direction. Who wasn’t sexy? “Charlie.”
“What about him?” Chris asked, his hands on her hips, keeping her close.
“To correct your previous misassumption, Charlie is not a preacher. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t go to church at all. He’s a billionaire arms dealer,” she said as she shoved open the door, entering the house.
The door slammed shut, and she didn’t hear Chris behind her. Whirling, she saw him through the window, standing frozen on the other side of the portal.
She turned the knob and yanked it open, holding it lest the spring pull it shut again. “Earth to Christopher. Come in, Christopher.”
Chris thawed enough to murmur. “Jesus sells guns.”
“Guns and other weapons.”
“But isn’t that a sin? He’s enabling murder.”
“It’s not murder if he’s helping the infidels annihilate each other.”
“That’s fucking brilliant,” he exclaimed. “And annoying.”
“Why annoying?”
“Because I can’t fucking believe Jesus—”
“Charlie.”
“—is more awesome than me.”
“What are you talking about? You are plenty awesome.”
“For a gravedigger,” he grumbled, holding up his callused hands.
“I would have said hard worker.”
“Living job to job with no money in the bank and nothing to my name. At my current rate, I’ll never be able to give you what you deserve.”
“I don’t need wealth to be happy.”
He eyed her.
“I don’t,” she stressed. “I have you, which is all I really want. Although, I wouldn’t argue with the ability to buy more shoes.”
“I’m working on bringing more dough into the equation.”
“I know you are.”
“Don’t placate me.”
“Stop being so sensitive,” she retorted. “I didn’t marry you for money or power. I married you for love.”
“Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Neither does complaining.”
“Did you just call me a whiny-ass bitch?”
Her lips quirked. “Are you trying to pick a fight to avoid dinner?”
“Yes. It would help if you cooperated.”
He looked so adorably disgruntled that she couldn’t help but grab his cheeks and kiss him. “I am not canceling dinner.”
“Just because I’m agreeing to meet my stupid cousin, doesn’t mean I am groveling to my dad for a reunion.”
“I would never ask you to do that. If anything, that demon owes you an apology.”
“I want nothing from him.”
“Well, maybe I do,” Isobel sassed. “After all, it was hi
s fault we didn’t get married the first time.”
Their respective families had forced them into a blind wedding, letting her think that Chris didn’t care for her at all. She’d jilted him at the altar and then gave him a second chance if he could prove his love.
He’d turned out to be her hero, they’d wed, and now lived their happily—boring—ever after.
Okay, so she kind of understood why he drank in the garage. What she didn’t forgive were the nights he went out to play and came home reeking of zombies and violence.
Would it kill him to invite her, too?
Much like her husband, Isobel felt the pinch of domestic bliss. She just didn’t bitch and moan about it all the time. A Rasputin never revealed their emotions. Unless it involved scorn and anger. Evangeline, her sister, excelled at that.
“Hell will freeze over before I ask Lucifer for shit,” Chris grumbled.
“Um, you do realize it’s happened before. It could happen again.”
“Don’t remind me. I swear, if I hear one more time how Muriel saved fucking Hell, I’m gonna go postal.”
“It’s not her fault she’s the one your dad calls.”
“I’ll blame her if I damn well want to.”
“Fine, blame your half-sister for things she doesn’t control. What I’d like to know is why you’re ignoring Bambi, too. She called again.”
“Did you tell her I was busy?”
“I told her you were whacking off in the garage because you’re an oversexed perv like your dad.”
He blinked. He always did when she threw out ribald statements with a straight expression. Inside? She died of laughter.
“You’re not funny,” he grumbled, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“How long are you going to keep avoiding your family?”
“As long as I damned well please.”
“What about Lucinda’s birthday?” Muriel’s daughter, and his niece—cute as a button with her dimpled smile. She was also a holy terror with too much innate power that some likened to an atomic bomb in a pink bow.
“What about the birthday?”
“We were invited.”
“I’m busy.”
“I haven’t told you the date yet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Chris muttered.
His reaction to his siblings fascinated Isobel because she could see his longing for family; yet at the same time, he couldn’t help the jealousy. He struggled, especially with Muriel, who had been raised by Lucifer and was the one his dad called when trouble arose. The perfect child, as Chris sneered. The sister he wanted to love but hated too much.
As for Bambi, she’d not had it easy growing up. Perhaps that was why Chris related better to her. But ever since the wedding, he’d avoided his elder sibling. Isobel had yet to figure out why but planned to meddle if for no other reason than for something to dull the boredom of her HEA.
“When is Hay-zus coming?” he asked, stripping his shirt and pitching it in the direction of the laundry room across the kitchen.
“He is not tanned enough to pull off that version of his name,” she commented, stooping and grabbing his shirt to toss it right into the washer. “And I told him about six.”
“It’s five now. Plenty of time.” He waggled his brows and looked way sexier than that move warranted.
“It is not enough time. I’ve got to get dinner ready.”
He peeked at the stove. “Roast and potatoes are in the oven. You need thirty minutes for Yorkshires. That gives us half an hour. Which is about twenty-five minutes more than we need.”
Some might think her deprived because he’d only promised a five-minute wonder, but they’d obviously never slept with Chris. Better not either, or she’d kill them.
She didn’t need a ton of foreplay to get where she needed to be. Even the thought of sex with her husband wet her panties.
Her fresh panties. “I’m already showered and dressed.” She skimmed her hands down her flowered blouse tucked into slacks.
His arm curled around her waist and dragged her close, his bare chest a heated tease. “Is that a challenge? I’ll gladly take them off you.”
And not care what happened to her clothes in the process? “Don’t you dare. These are my favorite pants.” It had taken her an hour to iron them and get the perfect crease down the front of each leg.
“Then strip, wife. Strip for me.”
The rumbled demand brought a deep shudder, along with hot desire.
She shoved away from him and caught his gaze, stared at his dark eyes flecked with red. The planes of his face sharp, the new, short beard and mustache a hot addition. It brought him going down on her to a whole new level.
A flick of her fingers released a button from its loop. Then another. The fire in his gaze intensified and licked outward. Her lips parted as she bathed in the heat.
Her blouse fluttered to the floor, followed by her pants. He reached for her. She danced out of his way and bolted for the stairs to the second floor with him hot on her heels.
He caught her just inside the bathroom. Crushed her to him and kissed her, the hard press of his lips pure, decadent pleasure.
She wrapped herself around him, arms clamped behind his neck, legs wrapped around his shanks.
The rip of her panties brought a quiver. A gasp escaped her at the coldness of the granite counter under her ass.
A hand wrapped in her hair, dragging her back, exposing her to his gaze. To his touch…
The hot latch of his mouth on a breast, the cup of her brassiere shoved to the side had her moaning his name.
“Chris.”
He bit down on her nipple.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped.
But this was just the start. He played with her breasts, a master when it came to arousing her. His mouth sucking wetly, his bites just hard enough to tease, the way he made her feel pure excitement.
“Now.” Her pussy clenched and quivered. It needed something inside. Something hard.
His fingers brushed against her as he inserted his hand between their bodies to undo his pants. He didn’t strip them, merely shoved at them enough to expose himself.
The swollen tip of him rubbed against her. Right against her clit.
“Chris!” She put an edge on the word, needing him.
He gave it to her, slamming his shaft home, drawing a sharp cry. The sudden widening also triggered her pleasure. She tightened, and he withdrew and then wedged his way back in. She clawed at his shoulders as he pushed in again then pulled out. Toying with her orgasm. Extending it so that she couldn’t even get a sound past her tongue.
She totally blanked out, a disembodied spirit of contentment that was joined by another, the pair of them twining, perfectly matched.
Soul mates.
They came back to their bodies and reality. She leaned forward and kissed his chest. “Epic, babe. Really was, but I have to get ready. I’ll shower first.” She made to push away, but he pulled her close. Held her in a hug.
“I love you, Isobel. No matter what stupid thing I do, remember that.”
“Uh-oh. Is this your way of warning me you’re planning something stupid?”
“Have you met me? I don’t plan it; it usually just happens.”
That used to be true. But they’d had months of normalcy. Time to get over the action and adventure they’d gone through, much of it life-threatening.
She missed the adrenaline. Which was probably why she’d called Charlie and told him to come over.
Dinner could prove interesting. And if by some chance it wasn’t, then she could always tell Chris about the time at summer camp when she’d dated Charlie and used to sneak out of her cabin at night to meet him.
Am I insane? Why would I tell him that? Chris possessed a pretty big jealous streak. Telling him would…liven things up. And, surely, he wouldn’t kill family?
4
Kill me now.
Chris delayed as long as he could. Not out of cowardice but because he’d finall
y gotten past level thirteen hundred and something in Candy Crush. Damn those conveyor belts and chocolate pieces.
The peal of the doorbell startled him just as a bomb on his tiny screen exploded. It was followed by some woofing as Goshen pretended to be an actual dog.
No more hiding upstairs. He’d have to make an appearance.
Have to. What a joke. He didn’t have to do anything.
But Chris had waited too long to slip away unnoticed. If he went downstairs now, he’d have to meet his dumbass cousin. He should climb out a window and hang in the city for a few hours instead. Let Isobel entertain Jesus, who would surely bore her to tears. With Jesus as the son of his goody-two-shoes uncle—God, Elyon, whatever the fuck he called himself, who couldn’t be bothered to meet a nephew before declaring him evil—Chris would wager he’d be sleeping of boredom before dessert.
Leaving would spare him that torture, and if his wife didn’t like it, then she could kiss his ass. Not yet a hairy posterior, but he feared the future. He’d seen Lucifer’s butt, the strands dark and wiry, making the prospect frightening.
If ever there were a time to conjure a portal, it was now. He stretched out his hand and called to the Force.
Nothing.
He drew circles in the air. Danced in place. Glowered. Didn’t even manage the slightest ripple.
Disappointing but not unexpected. His magic betrayed him. But there was still a window. He contemplated his escape when he heard something.
A giggle.
The sound hadn’t come from him, and they’d gotten rid of all the ghosts when they moved in. He frowned as the sound occurred again. Was that his wife tittering downstairs? Their guest had arrived. Probably just being polite.
When she laughed again, he made his decision.
I’ll meet this damned cousin, but after, Isobel and I will be having a talk. It was up to Chris, not her, when and where and if he met his family.
Despite her instructions to dress nicely, he eschewed boots or socks, wore his comfiest pair of jeans with holes all over them and a grease stain on the thigh, and a tight T-shirt that delineated his chest. He might not have money, but he at least had a pumped body. Modesty was something for those less great than he.
Chris took the stairs down, debating anew whether he should escape when he heard a voice. A man’s voice. Deep and smooth like those radio guys at night.
