Hero's Haven

by Rebecca Zanetti

  A part of her hated how well he saw her. The other part, well now. That one wanted to tell him everything. Her fingers twitched with the need to pick up a paintbrush. “As we get close to some smaller towns, I want to pull off the Interstate and buy art supplies.” They wouldn’t find the best oils and canvases, but at this point, she didn’t care.

  “As you wish.” He increased his speed. “I need to eat again, too.” He looked her way and glanced at her healed neck. “So do you.”

  The spot where he’d bitten her still tingled, and it took every ounce of stubbornness she possessed not to touch it. Worse yet, she wanted him to bite her again. “We’ll find you a steak somewhere,” she muttered.

  His chuckle wasn’t comforting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The toothpaste beckoned to Quade from the bathroom countertop. Fresh mint. His stomach growled, and he toweled off after a long, hot shower, shaking out his hair. It fell just below his ears and was starting to curl. He’d shaved again, and his jaw still felt foreign to him. He reached for the tube and downed the lovely paste, humming as he did so. Then he tried to fold it up so it didn’t look like he’d just eaten half of it. He failed.

  Mint coated his throat and made his mouth tingle.

  He drew on a pair of dark jeans Haven had purchased for him in one of the small towns they’d passed through on the way to a place called Nevada. This motel was in a deserted area surrounded by scrub grass and tumbleweeds. The sign on the place didn’t have the M, so it was just an otel.

  The room had one bed, and he was at his limit of sharing rooms with her with just one bed. Although neither one of them had slept in a bed yet during their trip. They’d slept in vehicles the entire time. No wonder his neck ached.

  But that pain was nothing compared to the raw pulse of his mating mark. He stared down at it and glared. It was not just his vow that kept them from mating. She was still getting used to the idea of not being human. Becoming a mate would be too much.

  Especially for her.

  She seemed to have a need for control, and in his world, mates were protected. Things couldn’t have changed that much during the years he’d been away.

  He strode out of the bathroom. “I was thinking. Maybe we could contact my family the same way that little Hope contacted you? I think—” He stopped short at seeing Haven.

  She was on her third canvas, her brushstrokes wild and strong. Paint flecks covered her shirt and her chin. An old sheet she’d purchased from a secondhand store protected the dubious carpet, and two other paintings already rested against the far wall by the door. A half-finished bottle of whiskey sat on the narrow table next to her.

  He moved for the closest painting, which portrayed three stunning women, all different, wearing modern clothing and standing on what looked like a front porch. “Who are they?” he asked.

  Haven stopped mid-stroke and turned, pointing with a brush covered in deep purple. Her pupils were a little unfocused. “Promise Miller, Grace Cooper, and Faith Cooper.”

  The Cooper women had similar jawlines and noses. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.” Haven sighed and dipped the brush into another bottle. “They showed up at my place in Portland, and my guess is that they are part of my father’s church. He often gets members to do his bidding.”

  “Humph.” It was odd to think of a human hunting a demoness. Things had certainly changed. Quade moved to the next painting and saw a solitary figure surrounded by ice and fire. The landscape was unfamiliar and seemed far away. Dark tones and harsh brushstrokes lent an ominous feel to the entire canvas. “Who is this?” His voice roughened.

  “I wish I could tell you.” She kept painting, her movements rapid. “I just saw him and had to paint him.”

  Did she have some sort of psychic ability? She’d seen the women in real life, apparently, but not this male. “It’s Ulric,” Quade murmured. While the male’s face couldn’t be seen, Quade sensed his identity. Somehow. “Is he in this place right now, or did you envision this earlier?”

  “I don’t know.” Frustration colored her words. “I see and I paint. It’s that simple.”

  Nothing was that simple. Quade slipped his thumbs into his front pockets and prowled barefoot on the sheet to peer over her shoulder, careful not to disturb her. She smelled like spice, paint, and whiskey.

  His body chilled. The painting she was working on featured seven figures, and he was in the middle. His brother Ronan was next to him, with Ivar the Viking next. Benjamin Reese and Adare O’Cearbhaill were on his other side, both of whom were original members of the Seven. Next to them stood two younger hybrids whom he did not recognize. His brother, Jacer, and his old friend, Zylo Kyllwood, were nowhere to be seen.

  “I can’t stop painting these,” she said, drawing a deep background of black and blue.

  He breathed deep, trying to calm his emotions. Were Jacer and Zylo dead? Did Ivar tell him that once? He couldn’t remember. Or was this a vision of the future? Considering Ivar was in the painting, and Ivar had taken the place of his deceased brother years ago, Quade did not want the answer to that.

  Jacer and Zylo could not be dead. He hadn’t survived that hell world to be here without them. He reached for the whiskey, tipped back his head, and devoured all of it in long gulps. The burning liquid mixed with the mint in his belly, and he grimaced.

  She ceased painting and leaned back, stretching her neck. Then she partially turned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded like he’d eaten sharp claws. “I am…fine.” That was the word she’d used earlier. “Have you ever painted something that has not come true?”

  She shrugged, her gaze thoughtful. “I don’t know. I paint a lot of scenes I dream about, and I don’t know if they’re real places or not. Or if they were places or will be places. Same with people.” She scratched her cheek, leaving a streak of orange. “I drew that girl, Hope, fifteen years ago, and she wasn’t even born yet.” Her brows furrowed. “This is confusing me.”

  Him, too. He moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner. “Is there any chicken left?” He apparently required a lot of food to regain his muscle mass. When he didn’t find any chicken, he opened another bottle of whiskey and tipped it down.

  “No.” She set the brush down and moved for the laptop set on the bed, wobbling slightly. “That’s some strong stuff. I hadn’t realized until right now.” She pressed a hand to her head and then opened the laptop. “Let me check my bank account in Texas. I had to use a credit card at the last stop, so if we’re going to use an ATM, we should do it in the morning before leaving town.” She glanced up. “Um, the bad guys can possibly trace credit card and ATM usage. Cash is always best.”

  Trace? “How?”

  She bent her head and started typing. “I don’t know exactly how, except to say that every transaction leaves a trail. We need cash, so we’ll have to use an ATM.” Her eyebrows rose. “There’s an email from that gallery in Portland. Maybe I sold another painting?” Her voice rose with hope.

  He should probably figure out how to make cash in this new world.

  She gasped and sat back, her face turning pale. “Oh, God.”

  * * * *

  Haven’s chest started to ache as she read the email from the gallery owner. “The woman says that my mother has been trying to find me because she’s very ill.” She stared at the email address inserted as a contact point. If she clicked on it, could she be traced? She wasn’t sure how the Internet worked.

  Quade set a hand on her shoulder. “Click on it.”

  She swallowed and did so. “I don’t owe that woman anything.” Except Allison had taken care of Haven as best she could. She’d provided love and good food and even stories at night—and once she’d tried to defend Haven. When her father wasn’t around, her mother was nice, even kind. Haven sent an email asking for an update.

/>   There was no response. She sighed. “If they answer, we’ll figure out what to do.” She’d used a secondary email address, and it listed her home as being in North Carolina, so how could it be traced? She shut the laptop and turned to view the chaos of the room. Paint was splattered all over the sheet, but at least she’d protected the crappy furniture. Her head spun, and she pressed her palm against her forehead.

  Just how much had she drunk?

  She rarely drank alcohol, but today had seemed to call for it. She couldn’t get those kisses and that orgasm out of her mind. Her body had been on high alert, the I want another orgasm kind, all day. It was driving her crazy. Was there some biological bond between them because of that damn mating mark? There had to be a reason beyond the obvious—that he was the sexiest thing on two feet in any world.

  The wind rattled against the cheap windows and the wall heater hummed loudly, lending a sense of seclusion and intimacy to the room. Her mind wanted to shut down for a while, but her body was wide awake and ready to play.

  “What is that?” Quade asked, quick strides taking him to a canvas hidden behind the television console. Partially hidden.

  “Nothing.” Haven jumped up and tried to intercept him.

  He kept moving and grasped the edge of the painting, tugging it out. Paint smeared against the furniture, but the scene was clear enough. “It’s a graveyard,” he murmured, lifting it to see. “Who is Mary Agnes Lockship?”

  Dang it. The words were barely discernable. Her stomach tilted. “Me. That was my name before.”

  The atmosphere in the small room changed as tension spread through it, stopping her lungs. He gently, deliberately, set the canvas down and turned to face her.

  She took a step back out of instinct.

  With his legs braced, his scarred chest bare, and his eyes a glowing greenish-blue, he looked like a predator more dangerous than even those in her dreams. Muscles, hard-cut and strong, contoured his upper arms and roped neck. His chin was up, his chest out, and his lips in a firm line. “You are not dying.”

  “Everybody, even immortals, dies at some point,” she countered, her voice soft as she angled herself toward the door.

  He cocked his head. “Am I scaring you?”

  She swallowed, every sense heightened. Just the sight of him triggered a strong reaction inside her. Add in that gravelly voice and his deadly nature, and fear was certainly one of the emotions. Desire, the other, and that was scaring her even more. “I’m not frightened,” she lied.

  One of his dark eyebrows rose. “Why did you hide the painting?”

  Why? Pure instinct. “You seem to have some sort of misplaced idea that you’re responsible for me.” She hadn’t worked out the thought process before, and the words spilled out of her. “I figured you wouldn’t like the idea of failing if I died.”

  “You were correct.” He crossed his arms, bunching his biceps. “About all of that.”

  She licked her lips, and his eyes flared. “I’m not into the whole alpha male thing.” Not true. Her body was all in. She never should have drunk half a bottle of whiskey. Four steps forward, and she could have her mouth on that hot male skin. “Sorry.”

  “Alpha male thing?” He rubbed his cleanly shaven jaw. “Explain.”

  “That. That order,” she burst out. “I’m not into guys who think they’re in charge and are all grrrr.”

  He frowned. “I’m not all grrrr.”

  This was getting ridiculous.

  “But I am in charge.” His voice, although gravelly, was reasonable and not irritated. “Surely you understand that fact.”

  She shouldn’t say it. Nope. Not now. “Don’t call me Shirley.”

  He blinked. Once and again. “I was not—”

  She held up a hand. “I know. Old joke. Sorry.” The room spun just a little, and she settled her feet more securely in place. “Listen. We need to get a couple of things straight.”

  His frown deepened.

  God, that made him even more sexy. How was that possible? “Listen. I’m fairly certain that painting was symbolic. I’m Haven now, not Mary Agnes. So don’t worry. We’re in this together for the time being, and with the close quarters, things are getting out of hand. I don’t want to mate you, but if we continue like this, we should have an understanding.” She was rambling now. Turned on, irritated, emotional, and maybe a little scared.

  “What should I understand, Haven?” His eyes darkened to an even deeper green that was definitely not human.

  That voice. Low and dark and so gritty, her skin got flushed and sensitive. She cleared her throat. “You want me, I want you, and it’s getting more difficult to ignore that fact.” The orgasm the other day had been just the beginning, and she knew it. “In today’s society, it’s called sex with no strings.” Would he think she was some kind of slut for suggesting it? Women in his time probably still wore chastity belts.

  “No strings?” He took a step closer, bringing warmth and tension with him. “I had no intention of tying you up, sweetling.”

  Heat rolled through her body from head to toe, landing right in her center. “It’s an expression,” she babbled. “Means sex with no expectations.”

  He reached her then, sliding a hand through her hair to cup her jaw. “Ah, Haven. Not a chance. I have a multitude of expectations.”

  Then he kissed her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Even the torture in his former world didn’t hurt this much, Quade thought. His mate had just offered sex with no strings, and he wanted strings. A whole lot of them. Even so, he couldn’t help pressing his mouth to hers. She had no idea how expressive her beautiful eyes were, and he could relate to the turmoil in them.

  His body was on a slow flame that was burning from within and had been since the first time she’d touched him, back on his old world, when he thought she was an angel, come to take him home.

  She was no angel, but she was definitely his home. He sank into the kiss, and she sighed, opening her mouth to give him what he wanted. More. He tried to be gentle and tamp down the fury that had caught him at seeing a painting of her gravestone, but he was rougher than he intended when he lifted her against him, forcing her head back with his kiss.

  Her moan spurred him on. He walked her back to the bed and followed her down, his groan mixing with hers when he finally covered her. Her nails dug into his shoulders with a small bite that shot straight to his cock. He lifted up and paused as both of her eyes turned a translucent yellow, almost gold. He’d heard tales that a fairy’s could turn a third color, but he’d thought the rumors exaggerated.

  Not even close. She was stunning.

  She blinked and her smile was like the sun after a storm. “You have paint on your chin.”

  His jeans were too tight, and his body on fire, but he returned her smile. “So do you.”

  Purring, she caressed his shoulders and chest, tracing each of the four lines above his heart. “What kind of beast scarred you like this?” she whispered, her hardened nipples outlined beneath her light shirt.

  “One I hope you never imagine,” he said, palming the side of her smooth face and enjoying her soft skin. “The swipe should’ve taken out my heart, but with my bonded torso, it only scarred my skin. I was in a weakened state at the time.” He still did not feel at full power, but he was getting there.

  She leaned up and nipped his bottom lip, wiggling her butt and widening her legs. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Of no strings sex?” he asked, an unwilling smile tugging his lips this time.

  “Yes.” She smoothed her palms down his flanks and around his waist to his back, her touch sweet torture.

  “No.” He punctuated the word with a hard kiss. “I want strings.”

  A muted pink spiraled across her cheekbones. “Oh. Women in your day probably didn’t like sex, huh? Engaging in it before marriage was wr
ong?”

  He snorted. “Those rules and marriage itself are human constructs, not ours.” He’d lived four hundred years before going to the other world, and he certainly had never pretended to be a monk. He’d been with plenty of females as well as a couple of human women in his time. “You know you’re not a woman, right?”

  Her eyes flashed back to green and black. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not human. You’re a female Fae with a hint of demoness.” With her body beneath him, he was losing his train of thought. How quickly could he get her clothes off? Pretty damn fast, if he wanted.

  She swallowed. “You’re not a man?”

  “No. I’m a male.” There was nothing human in him. “Immortals are just different species from humans. Not better or worse. Just different.” How strange it must have been for her to be raised as a human when she wasn’t even close. “Regardless, what we’re doing means something to me, and I will not walk away afterward. Tell me now, and I will go for a run in the snow.” Though nothing would ease this craving he had for her. Only mating her.

  Her frown was adorable and made him want her even more. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been in a hell world for centuries upon centuries, and you haven’t had sex in that long, and you would blow me off?” She sounded more surprised than angry, and that was a good thing.

  He didn’t understand the idiom, but he caught the meaning behind it. “Haven,” he muttered.

  Her lips, slightly swollen from his kiss, pressed together. “You don’t want me?”

  Oh, for hell’s sake. For answer, he rolled his hips, pressing his fully engorged and aching cock against her sex.

  Her eyes morphed to the translucent yellow again and widened. Pink burst full on across her entire face this time. “Oh. You feel huge.”

  “I am,” he agreed.

  Her startled laugh wrapped around his heart and squeezed. “We have to work on this confidence issue you’re having,” she said dryly—if a bit breathlessly.