Biting off an oath, he gripped her hips, pulled her lower down on the couch, and thrust into her in a long, strong surge. He entered her, invaded her, filled the space that had been waiting for him, only for him. She hissed with pleasure, dug her fingers into his waist, his ass, ground herself against him as he hit the sweet spots inside and out.
He kissed her openmouthed, lips and tongue working her to a frenzy of moans and threats as she twisted against him, trying to get him to move when he just held himself there, rooted in place and huge within her. She arched. “Please. Oh, please.”
He chuckled low. “Made you beg.”
She would have cursed him, would have fought her way free just to prove that she could make him beg in return, but she lost those brief impulses the second he began to move. There were no pretty preliminaries, no warm-up moves. He set a hard, fast rhythm immediately, shocking her system and ripping a cry from her throat. His pelvis pinned her, his arms held her against the force of his thrusts, his mouth commanded hers. He possessed her, dominated her, took her. And she loved every second of it. “More,” she chanted into his mouth, “yes, there, more, harder.”
He shoved her higher on the couch, then rose over her, his body bowing with the force of his pounding tempo as she urged him, ordered him, clutched at him, and then arched and screamed as pleasure exploded inside her, shattering her and then sweeping the pieces along on a pulsing wave. He thrust into her twice more, invading and prolonging the pleasure, and then on the third he locked himself to her, seated himself deep within her, and cut loose. His arms tightened around her, binding them together as long shudders ran through his body, flexing his hips in an atavistic echo of what they had just done. He groaned, pressing his jaw to her temple, his mouth in her hair, his breath hot and fast as the pleasure peaked, crested, and then faded to an echo itself.
“Reese,” he whispered, the word full of awe.
She exhaled softly, trying not to let it matter too much too soon. “Jesus, to think we could have been doing that all along. And that’s Ms. Sex Goddess to you, buster.”
He chuckled and eased back to frame her face in his hands and look intently into her eyes. His were warm and wondrous, sending new warmth through her system. She felt slippery inside and out, and even though he was still lodged inside her, softening and slipping free, she felt a twinge of greedy need, a stirring of new interest. “What does that make me?” he asked on a purr.
“The guy who’s about to get his ass paid back for making me beg.”
Dez held out for longer than he would have expected, but eventually he begged, and was damn glad to have done so.
Then, later, after they had raided his fridge and cabinets for a truly random collection of calories not unlike what they had scrounged as kids, he liberated the scented candles from his meditation area—given the nature of the magic, the gods would understand—and used them to give the bedroom a soft, incense-laden glow as he worshipped her, slowly and thoroughly with his hands and lips, until they were both shaking with the need to join their bodies. And even then it was slow and thorough, and when the end came, it was different than it had been, different from anything he had ever experienced before, to the point that he couldn’t even give it a name. All he knew was that it was different. He was different.
Gods help them all.
Afterward she lay curled up against him, with her head on his chest, as he idly stroked her arm. His body was finally sated—for right then, at least—but his brain had unfortunately come back on line, insisting on churning over the events of the past day, the past week, the past year, his whole lifetime.
He told her about the vision he’d had by the pyre. “I wonder what things would have been like if Breese was the one who lived, not Keban.”
“Don’t think about it,” she said softly, touching his mouth. “What’s done is done. What matters now is what we do next.” In other words: Don’t bring down the room. Not tonight. So he kissed her palm and murmured something behind her muffling touch. She moved her hand. “What was that?”
He surged up, locked his lips to hers, and rolled her beneath him in one powerful move, surprised to find that he wasn’t wrung out, after all. She squirmed and beat playfully on his shoulders for a few seconds, then stilled, her hands relaxing to splay across his back, travel down, grab his ass, and pull him closer as their kisses sparked and new heat built. Pulling away slightly, he grinned down at her. “I said, ‘If what matters most is what I do next, then let’s get busy. I’m pretty sure I’ve got this part right.′ ”
She arched a brow in an “oh, really?” look. “You’re doing okay so far.”
He fell into the tease, finding her single small ticklish spot and playing his fingers over it until she shrieked and writhed beneath him. “Is that a dare?” he demanded. “I think that was a dare.” Then he pounced on her, laughing, and they wrestled like a couple of idiots, making way too much noise and not giving a crap because right then it was about the two of them, the heat they made together, and the way his name sounded in the back of her throat when she came.
Afterward, he finally slept.
In sleeping, he dreamed.
And in dreaming, he fell into the nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dez walked the streets as rumors flew, whispered sightings of the king returning from captivity, bent on revenge. Hood’s coming back, the shadows gibbered. He’s going to take his woman and kill the man who stole her.
That Reese had never been—would never be—Hood’s woman didn’t matter. All that mattered was reality as the cobra de rey saw it. He had the streets that firmly under his spell even after all the work Reese had done to break the gang’s hold, with Dez at her back, keeping her safe, protecting her. Despite what she seemed to think, that was all he was trying to do now—keep her safe. And after Hood was gone . . . Well, Dez’s plans weren’t set, but he was working up to a big score, something they could both be proud of and that would take the sad, worried shadows out of her eyes.
So he walked the streets, listening to the whispers and watching for his moment to finally take the bastard down, once and for all.
He hadn’t been able to repeat the crazy electric magic he’d wielded that night in the storm, but he was armed with more than just the guns on his hips and the knife on his belt. The small black statue tucked into an inner pocket reminded him of everything he had already survived, its solid presence giving him the confidence he had lacked. And the ring box concealed on the other side, right over his heart, reminded him what he was fighting for—his rightful place, his rightful mate.
As he skimmed past Warehouse Fifteen, he avoided the tunnels and stayed visible, out in the open, partly hunting, partly waiting to be found. “Come on, come on,” he muttered as he turned down the alley beside Seventeen. His gut said that the bastard was very close by. “What are you waiting for, you sons of—”
Figures exploded around him, four guys closing fast.
Adrenaline spiking, Dez spun, ducked a swinging pipe and jammed a shoulder into a hard gut, sending the guy flying back on his ass with a bunch of “motherfuckers” spewing out of his mouth. A strange, humming sense of power flared in his bloodstream, making things sharper—smells, sights, and sounds were all amplified. He felt the weight of his clothes, the faint drag where the black statuette outweighed the ring box, pulling his leather slightly askew as he spun past a knife slash and kicked a second guy’s leg out from underneath him, sending his knee sideways.
He recognized all four of the guys—they were part of Hood’s top muscle, his enforcers—but their guns were tucked, their weapons seriously old-school, heavy on the crowbars and chains. That said Hood wanted to take Dez himself, but wanted him tenderized a little first.
Fine. He could have it his fucking way.
Dez ducked the third guy a little too slow, let the meathead tag him with a glancing blow on the back of his skull, and reeled like a drunk. They closed on him, kicking and punching, and getting in a coupl
e of good whacks. He took the beating, held on to consciousness as they frisked him roughly, pulling the .44 and the carved stone knife he had paid an arm and a leg for, and was probably fake anyway. One guy pocketed the weapons, another took the statuette and the ring box. Dez forced himself to let them go—temporarily—memorizing which pocket they went into as the enforcers dragged him off the street and through a main door into Seventeen.
Hood was waiting for him in a pool of light that came down through a broken window high up on the wall, like he was trying to seem divine or some such shit. As far as Dez was concerned, he just looked like a thug, with prison tats on his knuckles and a fanged sneer creeping across his pasty-assed face as he watched his enforcers drag a woozy Dez over. Around the edges of the warehouse, shadows drifted and whispered, outer-ring gang members looking to get some attention, or maybe just a free show.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Mendez?” Hood licked his lips. “She back at the apartment getting all pretty for me?”
Rage poured fire into Dez’s veins, but he kept himself limp.
Hood scowled at his enforcers. “You weren’t supposed to kill him. Just quiet him down a little.”
“Got a soft head for such a big bastard,” one said with a shrug. He held out the statue and the ring box. “Had these on him.”
The fanged bastard’s face lit like it was Christmas. “No way.” He grabbed them, shoved the statue in his pocket and practically drooled over the ring, gloating before he even got the box open, saying it over and over again: “No fucking way!”
On one level, Dez was snarling with rage. Don’t you fucking touch it. But on another, he was cold and calculating, watching as a second enforcer crossed in front of him, reaching too eagerly into his coat and paying more attention to the thought of adding another present to Hood’s stocking than he was to his positioning.
“He had this on him too.” The guy pulled the carved stone knife, started to offer it to Hood.
Dez intercepted it. Moving faster than he ever had before, spurred by something he didn’t understand, he grabbed the knife, buried it in the enforcer’s throat, and yanked sideways hard and fast. Blood geysered, splattering him and getting in his mouth with a salty tang that just ramped the rage higher. He went down with the first guy, got his .44 back, and nailed two more of the enforcers while they were still gaping and going for their guns. Bullets killed far more neatly than the knife, he discovered at that moment, but there was no added buzz with so little blood. He skipped the fourth guy, ignored the shadows, and zeroed in on Hood.
Then he got the buzz, hard and hot, as he locked on his enemy. Kill, something whispered inside him as Hood spun and took off, his mouth splitting in a yell that Dez couldn’t hear over the voice inside his head, the one that was saying, Kill him and take what is rightfully yours.
Roaring, he lunged after Hood, taking him down with a tackle that sent them both sprawling. He recovered first and got a knee into the small of Hood’s back as the bastard scrambled and yelled, trying to get free, to get away, a schoolyard bully bolting when things weren’t going his way. Dez dug in the other man’s pocket and got the black statue, felt the kick of power and righteousness. Kill him now. He grabbed Hood’s forehead, bowed his head back with one hand and slashed his throat with the other. Then he held him there, the wound gaping, the arterial spurts jetting out and painting the warehouse floor as the bastard shuddered and went limp beneath him.
Dez smelled the blood, tasted it, felt it on his skin. It took him to another place, another time, and something whispered: head and heart. They were the seat of a mage’s power, the ultimate sacrifice to the gods.
Breathing fast now, barely aware that the shadows had closed in and two guys were holding them off, he flipped Hood over. The bastard was glassy-eyed. Dead. Dez took the knife to his jacket, his shirt, baring a caved-in chest that seemed too narrow for all the things Hood had done. Metal gleamed at the dead man’s throat, a thick chain that triggered a spurt of possessiveness, a sense of the inevitable.
But first . . . He knelt beside the body, lifted the knife, and—
“Dez!” The word was just a whisper, but it cracked through the warehouse like a bolt of lightning and nailed him right in the heart. He jerked away from the corpse and lurched to his feet. The room spun around him as he looked up.
Reese stood just inside the warehouse, haloed in the light that spilled in through the door she had left open at her back. She was holding her .38 at the ready, had more firepower slung across her back. She had come to back him up, but her eyes were wide, dark, and hurt as she took in the bodies, the enforcer, the gang shadows—fifty of them, a hundred, with hungry, calculating eyes—and him, covered with blood, holding a knife that dripped onto the floor.
In the distance, a police siren started up. She must have called them when she heard the shots.
Damn it. He had wanted to keep this under wraps, under the radar. But now . . . shit. He didn’t know what came next. This wasn’t how he had pictured it looking, how he had imagined it feeling. Part of him was sick as shit, puking in a corner of his mind, terrified that what he’d done was inside him. He wanted to go to her, grab her, and run like hell. But another part of him saw a door opening, a new opportunity presenting itself. Another way to get them up and out, and make sure she was safe from men like Hood.
But safe or not, her face was etched with horror.
He stretched out a bloodstained hand to her. “Reese—”
“Mendez.” A sinewy hand caught his arm in an iron grip. “Think about this.”
“Let the fuck go of—Zeke?” He wasn’t sure which was higher on the “does not compute” front, seeing the pawnbroker smack in the middle of Cobra business, or the fact that Zeke was packing a nine mil that was accented with pink mother of pearl. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Watching your back.” Zeke’s eyes flicked to the shadows; a shift of his gun hand sent two of the hungrier street rats scurrying back. But not for long. “Maybe I’m not out of things as far as I make it look. And maybe I’ve been seeing the direction you’ve been heading, and want in on it.”
“There’s nothing to be in on,” Dez said, aiming the words at Reese even as another part of him said, Yes. This is what was meant to be.
“You two want to fix up the neighborhood, right? This is your chance. You’ve got the balls and the connections. Take the chain, step up as the new rey, and you’ll have the resources you need. We’ll back you.” He indicated three other guys, armed, holding back the shadows. One was Afternoon Bob from the pawnshop. Dez didn’t know the other two.
Take the chain. The words whispered in his heart. His eyes dropped to the pendant hung around Hood’s neck: a silver cobra curled around a ruby the size of his thumb, its color that of blood.
“Dez.” Someone touched his arm. He flinched back and almost swung, but pulled the punch at the sound of Reese’s voice. He hadn’t sensed her approach, hadn’t heard the others gathering nearby, but when he looked up he saw that they weren’t shadows anymore. They were people—some street rats like him, others neighborhood kids. They stared avidly, some at him, some at Hood’s body. A few at Reese.
“Don’t you fucking look at her.” He bristled, grabbed the pendant, and made a move toward the nearest, growling low in his throat. Then he turned back to Reese. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the cops . . .” He trailed off, hearing himself.
Eyes wide and wet, poker face shaky, Reese glanced from his face to the knife, down to the four bodies, and then to the blood-smeared pendant that hung from his fingers. “We need to stay and tell Fallon what happened,” she said softly as the sirens got louder. “It’ll be okay. It was self-defense.” But the dull horror in her eyes said she had seen him attack Hood from behind, slaughter him like the animal he was.
Deep inside Dez, anger bloomed. “Of course it was self-defense. He was going to kill me, use you up, and then kill you.” He closed the distance between them, lowering his voice t
o rasp, “Trust me. This was the only way.”
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Okay. We can deal with this. We’ll tell them—”
“Nothing,” he interrupted before he even realized he was going to. He looked at the pendant clutched in his hand, at the faces that said silently, Will you lead us? Will you make us better? At least that was what ran through his head, humming through his veins like a song. That, and the sudden conviction that this was what he had been leading up to for so many years. Maybe even what Keban had been babbling about all along. His heart raced as the possibilities opened up in front of him.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m begging you—please don’t do this.”
Energy flared. Conviction. “It’s all for you.” Why didn’t she get that? “As cobra de rey, I can keep you safe. I can give you everything that you need.”
Her whiskey-amber eyes went stark in her face. “All I need is you to go back to the way you used to be.”
“I like myself better this way.” He looked around, saw the ring box, fished it out of a pool of blood.
Her eyes welled at the sight and she pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, and for a crazy second it was happening exactly as he used to dream it would when they finally got to this point: shock, tears, disbelief. But then instead of the blinding, blazing joy he had pictured, her face crumpled. “Jesus, Dez, what’s happening to you?”
He bared his teeth, aware that the cops were closing in, that Zeke, Bob, and the others were getting restless. “This is who I am, Reese. I’m not your cowboy and I’m not your backup. It’s my turn.” He looped the chain over his neck, felt it settle against his skin, warm from a dead man’s body.
“Dez, please.” Tears swam in her eyes.
His head spun with power, with the mad perfection of it all, as he held out the ring box. “Come with me.” He flipped the top, revealing the serpent. “I’ll make you a queen.” Then, seeing that he needed something more, he added, “I love you.”
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