A Queen's Pride

by N. D. Jones

  “You taste so fuckin’ good.”

  She grabbed his dick, stroked fast and hard the way they both enjoyed.

  “Fuck, yeah, like that.” Cade bucked into her hand, biting her breasts each time she circled and squeezed the pink head of his dick. “Shit. Shit. Come here.”

  Holding her by her wrist, he dragged her from the bathroom, pushed her onto the bed, and pinned her under him, his dick inside of her before she could lift her legs and open wide.

  Savannah moaned, Cade’s deep, hard thrusts exactly what she needed to take her mind off things better left in the past. She and Javier hadn’t been good for each other for years. But she always returned home to him and he invariably forgave her transgressions.

  A part of Savannah hated him for that, just as a part of Javier hated himself for loving a lying, cheating bitch. He’d called her that more times than she’d allowed Cade to fuck her. As big as Cade’s dick was and how well he used it, Savannah would work damn hard to even the score.

  He hit the right spot inside her, and moans rumbled up and out. The man knew how to make her tingle and squirm and squirt a river for him. Shit. Why in the hell had it taken her so long to get onboard with what he’d been offering since before the clusterfuck that had been Sanctum Hotel?

  Grabbing a fistful of Cade’s black hair, Savannah yanked him down to her breasts. He had the most amazing mouth, second only to the dick pounding into her.

  “Yes, yes.” Arching her back and slamming her pelvis into his, she took from him as much as he demanded of her.

  Savannah would shower before she jumped in her car and headed home. Javier would still be out, so she’d have time to take another shower, using the white jasmine bodywash Javier liked to smell on her. She would cook them dinner, watch him lock the house down and check his half dozen guns, and then go to bed alone because Javier would stay awake half the night waiting for the “spawn of the devil” to return.

  If the little bitch hadn’t come for them already, she wouldn’t. The first few weeks after the felidae had left Minra, Savannah had been as paranoid as Javier. But she couldn’t live in a state of constant fear. It wasn’t healthy, and she was tired of being a prisoner in her own home.

  Cade on his knees, holding her legs up and at the ankles, he kept her open wide for him, his hips in constant, hard motion. “So wet, baby. So wet.”

  Cade hit that sweet spot inside her again, and Savannah’s eyes fluttered shut. Damn but he knew his way around a woman’s body. Whenever she was with him, he left her wanting more. During those times, Javier would benefit from the work Cade had put in earlier in the day.

  Cade slammed into her again, and Savannah smiled at the thought of having Javier’s big, strong body under hers after having spent an indulgent afternoon with Cade. Javier’s paranoia may have been a pain in the ass, but his concern over her safety translated spectacularly into the bedroom.

  Cade’s sweat dripped onto her belly . . . her breasts. Yes, he should be sweaty. Savannah certainly was. More sweat splashed onto her hot flesh. His hands fell away from her legs, and she pouted.

  “You want to switch positions already?”

  Cade didn’t answer or move.

  Savannah guessed he did want to switch. That was fine. He liked doggie style, and so did she. She opened her eyes, her mouth already forming the words to let him know she was cool with changing positions.

  Cade dripped onto Savannah.

  Not sweat. Oh, god, not sweat.

  Blood. So much blood. But only from a single wound—a hole in his chest. A hole through which a clawed, bloody hand penetrated, the same way Cade’s deflating dick still penetrated her.

  The hand withdrew from Cade’s body, while the other pushed him off the bed. Thud.

  Savannah wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to rub her eyes and will the terrifying sight away. But she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t act on the screams in her head.

  Not real. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Please, god, let this be a dream. A nightmare. Anything. Anything other than a woman with a lion’s head.

  It wasn’t a dream, but it damn sure was a living, snarling nightmare.

  Savannah’s shaky hand rose to her reconstructed jaw. The doctors had called her recovery “a miracle.” Her speech would never be the same, but she wasn’t mute, so she’d counted that as a win.

  The creature stared at her, golden eyes glowing with nothing she’d seen before outside of documentaries on predators—serial killers, rapists, and wild animals. The growling woman . . . thing combined the worst of humanity and animality.

  The clawed hand with pieces of Cade’s heart impaled on the ends pointed toward the floor. God help her, the creature opened its mouth and pointy teeth glistened but the voice that emerged was as gentle to the ears as cotton on satin.

  “First blood is always the tastiest, but rarely the most filling. My belly is empty, and Mr. Skullbow’s death was but an insignificant hors d’oeuvre unworthy of my claws.” The thing sniffed. “You smell of sin and fear.”

  Savannah scooted away from the lion-headed creature with the dulcet voice of a demented angel. When her back hit the headboard, she cast her eyes around the motel room. How in the hell had the thing gotten in there? Sure, fucking Cade was mind blowing but not so much that a trained soldier would miss a half-woman, half-lion thing enter her motel room. The door was closed—the metal chain still in place. There was only one window in the room—to her right with drawn curtains. The thing hadn’t come in that way, either. So how?

  Savannah shook her head. It didn’t matter. She was naked, unarmed, and the creature stood between her and the locked door.

  “Two Rogueshades. One room of lust and lies. I would say your husband would miss you, mourn your well-deserved death, but he won’t.”

  The hand free of blood and Cade’s innards reached for the blue comforter and yanked, pulling the sheet and Savannah to the edge of the bed.

  She scrambled backward, screaming when claws raked across her chest, slicing off breasts in one brutal swipe. Blood spurted, and Savannah couldn’t stop her screams.

  “He won’t miss you because Mr. Stormbane won’t live long enough to know of your wretched demise.”

  She didn’t see the second slice. Or the third. The fourth. The fifth. But she felt them. Pieces of her body fell to join Cade on the floor.

  “You’re soaked, though not in the way you seem to enjoy most.”

  She cried. Bled. Begged.

  “Speak my name.”

  Savannah shouldn’t have known the creature’s name. Yet the second the command roared out of its mouth the answer materialized in her pain-addled brain.

  “M-m-mistress of D-dread.”

  “I prefer Lady of Slaughter, but your response will do. Come now, Mrs. Nighthide, my stomach needs filling and you are but one meal I intend on devouring this day.”

  The lion-headed thing crouched over her. Sniffed. Growled. When it lunged at Savannah, rows of deadly teeth gleaming, another name formed in the space between life and death.

  Lady of Terror.

  Kabo Row

  Salty Night Bar and Lounge

  “Another round of Rotten Bloods?” Kendrick slammed his glass on the rickety table and snorted. “Rotten Blood—great drink, stupid name.”

  Lennox pushed to his feet. “I’ll get the next round.” He shoved Cree’s shoulder. “Your cheap ass can pay for the one after that.”

  “Why me? There’s five of us at this table?”

  Lennox shoved Cree again, harder than the first time. “Yeah, five people, and you’re the only one who never pulls out his wallet.”

  “You’re a freeloader,” Riggs added, his meaty hand wrapped around his glass, mustache wet from his drink. “A cheap-ass freeloader. Thanks for the first round, Widow Maker, but I don’t want another Rotten Blood. I want to try that new Burning Barrage beer.”

  “No problem, but watch it with the code names, man. After the year we’ve had with the media on a
hunt for members of London’s team, we gotta keep that shit low.”

  “Right, right. Government names only. Got you.” Riggs tipped his glass to Lennox. “A Burning Barrage. We’re celebrating.”

  “We damn sure are.” Zane’s chair scratched against the floor when he stood, unsurprising since the man topped two-fifty. As bald as a cue ball but without the smooth exterior, Zane stretched, burped, and farted, all at the same time. “I’ll assist with the drinks.”

  “You need to take your funky ass to the bathroom.” Kendrick waved a hand in front of his nose. “And lay off those Cognac Eye wings. You’re foul, bro.”

  “Shut the hell up. You had just as many wings as me.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t see me bringing them up from both ends.”

  “All right, all right. Shit. Is this a celebration or what? If it is, then we need more drinks.” Lennox pointed to the men around the table. “A Burning Barrage for Riggs, a Rotten Blood for Kendrick and me. What do you want, Cree?”

  “Honey Howler.”

  “Honey Howler?” Kendrick threw peanut shells across the table at Cree. “You pussy. That’s not a real drink.”

  “And Rotten Blood is? It sounds like a venereal disease.”

  Kendrick laughed. “Yeah, it kind of does. Fine, whatever.”

  “Come on, Zane. Let’s go before these assholes change their minds.”

  Music ricocheted off the walls—some heavy metal shit Kendrick could’ve done without. But Salty Night catered to its diverse customers, which meant a country boy like Kendrick had to sometimes put up with bands like Placebo Surrender who thought yelling was the same as singing. What did he expect, anyway? It was a Wednesday and the best bands performed on Friday and Saturday nights.

  He supposed they could’ve waited until the weekend to have their celebration. At least then he could’ve savored his drinks as well as the music because Taste of Perfection tore up the stage, leaving him horny and in search of a woman with a fat ass, big tits, and no aversion to screwing in the back of a minivan with car seats.

  But no, the celebration had to be then. He’d invited all the in-state Rogueshades from his last mission, but soldiers were more superstitious than athletes. Most had declined, giving bullshit reasons why they couldn’t, although more likely wouldn’t, drag their asses from their hiding holes. That was all good, though. Kendrick hadn’t lost his balls. They were right where they were supposed to be. When Royster and London finally managed to quell their detractors and the public moved on to another sensational story, Rogueshade would be back in business.

  He hadn’t been called Widow Maker in too long, and his wife refused to call him by his code name in bed. Her loss.

  “Okay, the heroes have returned.” Zane handed Cree and Riggs their drinks.

  “Thanks.” Kendrick took his drink from Lennox.

  The five friends smiled at each other, fresh drinks in hand and the scarred wooden table far too small to accommodate their long legs. But they made do.

  “Since you got us together,” Riggs said, “you do the honors.”

  Kendrick thought back to the night at Sanctum Hotel. These men, his brothers, had had his back. It hadn’t been their first mission together, but it had been their toughest.

  “This time last year, we kicked some serious felidae ass.”

  His friends stomped feet on the floor and pounded fists on the table.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, those Shona weren’t easy to take down. But we bagged and tagged them, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

  “That’s because ain’t no lion shifting motherfuckas tougher than us.” Riggs tossed back half his drink, hissing. “Shit, that’s strong.”

  Lennox punched Riggs in the arm. “You asshole, Kendrick wasn’t finished, and we’re supposed to drink at the same time.”

  “Oh, yeah, go on.”

  “Well, umm, I was pretty much finished. Just, we made it out alive. That’s worth celebrating.”

  “Hell yes it is.” Cree clinked glasses with Zane and Lennox, who flanked him. “I wasn’t trying to go out like the others. Here’s to the fallen.”

  Cheers and stomping followed but a little more subdued with the reminder of the dead Rogueshades. Kendrick may not have liked every soldier in London’s special ops unit, but they were human like him, and humans didn’t deserve to lose their lives to felidae.

  They ordered more rounds, and Kendrick was pretty sure Cree didn’t pay for any of them. After his sixth drink even Placebo Surrender sounded good to him. He staggered to his feet. The music and a sexy female in a tight-ass red dress called to him. Kendrick may have been a little drunk and lights in the bar set low, but he knew one fine piece of ass when he saw one.

  “I’ll be back, and Cree, if you touch my drink, I’ll break your fingers.”

  “I don’t want your damn drink. I can buy my own.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen the same day your wife finds your tiny dick under that gut you call a six-pack. Meaning never.”

  Cree threw up fingers at Kendrick. They could’ve been gang signs, for all he cared. He walked away from his friends and toward the seductress in red. Her long braids would be perfect for running his hands through, just as her ample hips would feel amazing pressed against his.

  She didn’t dance, although she stood on the dance floor, back to him.

  Kendrick approached, his breath hitching the closer he drew. He didn’t know what it was about the woman, but he couldn’t stop his legs from moving toward her.

  Kendrick didn’t make it a habit of picking up women and screwing them. It was just that, well, ever since Jackie had gotten sick things between them hadn’t been the same. Between chemo and the kids, his wife was too tired and too sick to take care of him the way she used to. Kendrick knew that made him a selfish bastard, but no one gave a shit about what he was going through. No one asked how he was doing or what they could do for him, not even the assholes he called friends. Everything was Jackie this and Jackie that. Well, fuck Jackie, and fuck cancer for slowly taking his wife from him. I’m tired of being fucked over. I’d rather do the fucking.

  Kendrick danced up to the temptress, pleased with his only slightly drunken two-step, and the fact that everyone who had been clustered around the woman had cleared a path. That’s right. Get out of my way. Shit, it’s been months since I got some. And she looks like she’d give it to me good and nasty.

  But . . . wait. Why isn’t anyone moving, and why did the music stop?

  Kendrick swung in the direction of the stage. Three guys and two girls, Placebo Surrender were still on the stage dressed in jeans and T-shirts, their normal gig gear. They were frozen in place.

  He laughed. I’m hallucinating. Those Rotten Bloods must’ve hit me harder than I thought. Kendrick laughed again. Maybe he should’ve had a weak Honey Howler like Cree. If he had, he wouldn’t be seeing things, like his friends jumping up and down and pointing at him.

  What were those assholes doing? See, he knew he was drunk because they yelled nonsense at him. He flipped them off.

  “What? I can’t hear you?” He could hear them just fine, since the band had obviously decided to take a break. Cupping his ear, he pretended to fall for their stupid joke. “Say what? Oh, okay. Yeah, there’s a lion behind me?” He grabbed his crotch. “I got your lion right here.”

  Warm breath blew on his nape, and Kendrick’s dick twitched. He hadn’t hallucinated the temptress in red. Good. He didn’t know why his friends had decided to yank his chain, but he was tired of playing their game.

  “You smell delicious.”

  That voice. Could a woman have a sexier sounding voice?

  “You don’t smell like rotten blood to me.”

  “What?”

  “Fresh. Ripe. Delicious.”

  Okay, sexy voice and nice ass aside, the chick was crazy. Kendrick didn’t do crazy bitches. But when her hot breath hit his nape again, doing wonderful things to his skin, he reconsidered his standards.

 
; Kendrick’s friends broke out in a run. Not toward him but . . . Damn, her breath was hot, hotter than it had been the first time.

  Before he got more than ten feet from their table, Zane jolted to a stop. Then Cree and Riggs. Lennox got a little further, but he too snapped to attention. His body lurched forward then backward, whiplash without a vehicle.

  Kendrick had to help them, but he was so hot. So damn hot. Was his neck on fire? His hair?

  “Fresh. Ripe. Delicious.”

  That voice. Against his ear. Owww, his ear burned. More than that. Drooping. Melting.

  “It is good to see you again, Mr. Widow Maker. It’s been too long. Have you missed me?”

  Each word was like a branding iron—burning and marking his skin.

  Kendrick watched, with wide eyes, his friends yanked into the air. They screamed, and so did he.

  A tongue licked his other ear, and his scream intensified. Acid? Whatever it was, his second ear burned like the first.

  “Fresh. Ripe. Delicious. Your blood is moving now. Fear has that effect on mortals. Your heart is racing, pumping even more blood. Each one of you has a different taste, which makes my meals all the more scrumptious.”

  Riggs fell, his body smashing through a table before slamming into the floor. He groaned but was soon wrenched back into the air.

  “Nighthide tasted of adultery. Skullbow of fornication. Swifttalon of cowardice. Darkpelt of envy. Thundersnarl was a rewarding blend of deceit and anger.”

  Kendrick swallowed. How many Rogueshades had she killed before coming after him and his friends?

  Zane dropped to the floor followed by Cree and Lennox. Then they were snatched back into the air, an invisible power controlling them like a marionette. The same power held him hostage because he damn sure couldn’t move. Unlike everyone else in the bar, who’d been turned into statue-like figures, Kendrick and his friends were the focus and at the mercy of the faceless female behind him.

  She kind of sounded like that little Shona princess but grown up and with a hard edge he’d stupidly mistaken for sex appeal.

  “I wonder what sin you and your friends will taste like.” Her belly rumbled. “Hmm, I’m still hungry. Famished, in fact.”