This was Mother’s way of luring him into a senate seat and away from his calling as a warrior. Two birds with one perfect marble. She’d choose an appropriate mate and get him to quit being a warrior.
“I’m not going through with it.”
Mother’s features tightened.
He continued. “I’m not, so don’t even try to use your authority. And your interference might’ve endangered yet another person.”
Mother rose. Her boyfriend moved to her side, not touching her, but angling his body like a shield around her. “Of course I cannot make you, Julian. But do take a night to think it over. It really is a good match.” Her voice dropped low until she sounded almost vulnerable. “I want only what’s best for you, and your safety is my highest priority.”
She swept out of the room, Mateo dogging her heels.
She was scared for him. The attack had uprooted her world and she’d gone into mama-bear mode. She cared. Surprise shouldn’t be the first emotion he felt.
Trudging up the stairs, he passed his room and knocked on Felicia’s door. The need to explain hounded him.
She opened the door. Her guarded expression reminded him of when he’d first started his protection detail. When he’d said shitty things just to hurt her.
“I’m sorry for the way she treated you.”
As if reading his mind, she asked, “You’ll apologize for your mother saying exactly what you’ve said?”
His mother hadn’t lived through the effects of Felicia’s talk. “She didn’t lose her future mate because of it.”
Felicia sucked in a breath. “Like I said, I don’t have to suffer fools.” She stepped back to shut the door.
“I’m not syncing with her. Persephone.”
“Why don’t you find who spread the rumors about us and ask them to do it again? Then you can blame me again when you don’t sync.” She slammed the door.
He stared at the fine grains running through the wooden panel. Was she really telling the truth about the rumors? After the way he’d treated her, would he be able to admit that she was?
* * *
Sierra’s face was pressed into the couch cushion, her clothes ripped and hanging from her body, and her ass hovered in the air. She strained against the punishing grip holding her down from behind.
“Are you just going to play back there or are you actually going to fuck me?” Lust pounded through her.
Jameson’s rough laugh vibrated straight down to her bare sex. He thrust inside. She didn’t cry out, just bit into upholstered foam. There’d been no more foreplay than shoving and ripping clothing out of the way.
She’d called. He’d come over, his eyes blazing, but when he saw her wings out the air between them had become charged with an energy she’d never experienced. How he’d gazed at her wings. It made her feel cherished. He was a cheating liar. A philandering commitmentphobe. An untrustworthy opponent.
But he fucked dirty.
She didn’t need or want an everlasting promise from him, just hard sex. From a fallen. From a former angel who had already lived through what was destined to be her future. He was virile. Alive. The phantom of her life turned into a booty call.
And the human men she’d hooked up with in the last couple of days had been as lost in the sack as if she’d buried her clit in a haystack.
He buried his face in her feathers as he pounded away. He didn’t play with her clit or caress her breasts. His hands were buried wrist deep in her wings. The dude had a serious fetish, and from the way he stared at each shift and movement of her wings, he hadn’t acknowledged it.
She grunted as he yanked at the joints in her back until she straightened back into him. Wet slapping sounds filled the room with their grunts.
Her climax hovered at the surface.
“Come all you want,” he panted in her ear. “I’m not done until I’m good and ready.”
“Or until I morph my wings.”
He nipped at her ear. “Do that and I won’t tell you my story.”
She groaned and not just because he was an admirable size and their position only teased her clit without fulfilling it. Sex was a delay, a way to pretend that she wasn’t caught between being a traitor and helping the enemy in order to aid a teammate. For Jameson, her wings reminded him of all he’d lost and how little he wished to relive his past in order to find out what Stede was up to.
She was more than this. More than an angel who got used by males in power. She could go ahead and prove it at any time, but she writhed against him.
“Just get it over with,” she hissed, hating the naturally rebellious side of herself that she’d hidden her entire life. Sliding her hand down her belly, she glared over her shoulder.
“No rush, sweetheart. I haven’t done someone with wings for decades.”
She reached her clit and her eyelids fluttered. Yes. “Let me guess—it wasn’t your mate.”
Instead of getting offended, he just laughed. “Monogamy was never my strength.”
“Does your current girlfriend know that?” She set a steady pace, circling her nub. If it weren’t for his hands banded like steel around the base of her wings, she’d collapse forward.
He slammed into her. Little guilty?
She certainly felt like shit.
Her orgasm exploded behind her eyes. She cried out. This was all about scratching an itch. Two beings torn over a pair of wings, the symbol of the unattainable in each of their lives.
He released her to grip her hips. “Hold your wings back.”
She was still trembling with the aftereffects, but she managed to lift them a few inches.
“More.” Thrust. “More.”
She flared them wide and he hissed. The shadows that she hoped only she could see clung to her feathers, blocking out the sunlight steaming into the room.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushed one hand around to replace hers. “Naughty little angel tired of hiding her bad side?”
He’d figured it out. Damn him. She should’ve found a hole no one could locate and stayed there.
He thrummed her like a harp, her gasps and whimpers the notes. “Naughty little angel.”
She crashed into her next climax and he came at the same time. After his shudders passed, he hunched over her. Still breathing heavily, she shoved him off her and searched for her top. She found it and her pants flung across the room.
He was mid tuck, his gaze still on her wings, when he paused. “I need to use your shower.”
“Afraid what’s her name’s going to smell me on you?”
His smile was grim. Nope. He didn’t like cheating on this mystery human. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Tell me your story first.” Her pants were still hanging in her hands.
He straightened, his attention riveted behind her. She twitched her wings just for kicks. He jerked and grew hard—well, harder. “I need to be clean before I delve into those years. But you’re welcome to join me and ensure I don’t run off.”
Say no. Say no. Her body was already firing up for his type of rough and quick. She was sick of being used and tired of getting dragged into another world no matter how hard she fought.
But she’d learned that he had serious feelings for that girlfriend of his. Maybe she’d get him to say her name. All she needed was a name and she could uncover all kinds of info.
She flung her pants aside.
Chapter 11
“You’re kidding me.” Felicia crossed her arms and gave Jagger the most hostile glare possible. “We’ve been locked up in here, not allowed to help with Mission Stop Your Psycho Dad, but you get a pass so you can break up with a girl?”
Each side of his jaw flexed. She would be less vexed if he hadn’t combed his hair back and secured it in a queue. The long white traditional robe he wore was belted with a golden-filigree-lined belt. It was exactly what her father would’ve worn.
“I’m respectfully withdrawing my sync,” he said.
“Tell yo
urself whatever you want to feel better, killer.” She’d kept her distance from him in the week since his mother had visited. Rumor or no, she refused to give Jagger more ammo against her character.
Bryant had convinced him that rushing off to void the contract with Persephone would only insult her. Odessa had thought the female would dig her heels in if she sensed desperation. Apparently, Persephone was the stereotypical bored socialite and liked to stir up trouble.
Not that Felicia cared.
“I’d like to get out of the house too.”
Guilt slashed through his handsome face. “I’ll talk to him.”
“I could talk to Dionna. She hasn’t killed a demon in a fortnight and it shows.”
His eyes brightened but he didn’t crack a smile.
“Harlowe’s going with you?” She wanted to keep Harlowe here with her. The warrior talked defensive and offensive moves with her, and in Harlowe’s off time, she joined Felicia in the gym. Dionna rigidly adhered to Bryant’s orders.
“Bronx. It’d look better if I didn’t have a female with me when I went to break my end of the arrangement.”
“It’s fucked up that it’s your duty when you didn’t agree to a thing.” And until he did, she would stay far away from him. She didn’t need the kind of drama she’d gotten last time she’d flirted with him when he was attached to a female. “Kinda messed up that you can be married off”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that. As if the idea of sync mates isn’t crazy enough.”
“Tell me about it.” He turned to go, then stopped. “It feels odd, to go…”
Without her. Yeah, she knew what he meant. “You’ve gotta cut the cord some time. Go out and fly, little birdie.”
And didn’t that chafe? She would’ve gone with—best not to split up the team into so many different parties. Dionna with her. Bronx with him. Sierra on Earth for her intel gathering. Harlowe and Urban getting some much needed rest after the night shift. But without wings, she couldn’t fly to the other side of the elite neighborhood where Persephone lived.
His expression sobered. “You’re armed?”
She nodded and pointed to her hip where a knife was secured around her waist.
“Just one?”
“We’re indoors. Close-quarters fighting and all.” If she could consider his sprawling mansion cramped.
“What if you drop it?” He pointed to the weapons room as he walked out of the sitting area. “Grab whatever you want.”
Since she tried hard not to be an idiot, she conceded to his expertise. The room he kept his weapons in was small and plain, so unlike the rest of the house. What’s-her-name hadn’t stepped inside of here either.
There was no need to let Dionna know where she went. The warrior was everywhere and nowhere at once. Her expression was also set on perma-scowl and her answers were as short and sharp as the knives strapped to her legs. The female wasn’t meant to be a guard. She was a fighter to the bone.
“Blade, blade, gimme a blade.” After the skirmish in the Mist, Felicia had watched a few YouTube videos on knife fighting. Harlowe had given her a few pointers, and if she weren’t risking another make-out session on the mats, she’d ask Jagger about using her wings defensively.
Glancing down at her outfit, she considered grabbing more than one. She had plenty of hiding space. Yellow leggings and an oversized white T-shirt. Bronx had gone to her apartment and retrieved her clothing before the movers had gone in. He hadn’t made one single crack about her undergarments, but Jagger had stomped out of the room when Bronx had handed them to her. The memory made her smile.
Her hand hovered over a knife in a shoulder harness. No. She wanted to be comfortable. There. Two short blades on an adjustable belt. She swapped her one out for the two. Done.
Blowing out a breath, she left the room. Jagger was right. This was weird. It was the first time they’d been separated by more than the span of the house, which was considerable. Dionna was stalking the perimeter; otherwise she was alone.
And she wandered, steering clear of the gym—she didn’t need to remember the last time she’d been in there. She’d stuck to running the stairs and going through her exercise routines in her room. Places where she could focus on the moves and not what Jagger’s weight felt like between her legs.
Boredom was setting in. Again.
She missed her old job and the kids, but the hurt didn’t penetrate as deeply knowing they were safe. Sierra had checked on Claudia and Mrs. Washington. Both were doing well. The gnomes had been replaced, but Sierra had sent Urban to trash them and leave some ceramic fairies on her front step with a note about how they were good luck. Total bullshit, but gargoyles couldn’t stand elegant statues like those.
How easily she’d been wiped out of life. Both times—before and after the attack. Before the attack, she’d been on a level with Persephone. The desired one other angels envied. She’d roam the realm center that was situated around the angel fire fountain with her mother, admiring the beauty of the fire. It burned clean, and when it was pooled together like at the fountain, it was like liquid crystal, opaque with a hint of rainbow, like mother-of-pearl. While they’d lost many of their own to the fire, the fountain was the only source of angel fire in the three realms and it was their pride and joy.
She often wondered why there were no markers of angels’ passing, some sort of commemoration to the lives lived. Like her mother’s. But if Numen was good at one thing, it was ignoring those who’d died and why.
Guilt sapped her energy and dimmed the shine of the sun streaming through the house. Logically, she knew she had nothing to do with her mother’s suicide. But what if they hadn’t marveled over the plasma-like substance so many times? What if she had handled the trauma better—or had been able to heal? Then perhaps her mother wouldn’t have let the stress and anxiety eat away at her will to live, to stick around and deal with it all—to help her own daughters traverse the hardships caused by the attack.
She could go in circles and drive herself crazy thinking like that. Which was why she kept herself busy.
She entered the sitting area. A puzzle was half assembled on the end table. Two of the four cats sitting around a poker table had been formed. The corner of her mouth lifted as she recalled Jagger’s reaction.
What the hell is that? She could’ve been operating on an alien body the way he’d stared at her.
Why a puzzle had shocked him, she’d never know. He’d taken her wings in better stride.
Sitting on the edge of the couch that had been engineered with looks in mind more than comfort, she found another piece to lock into place. Then another.
A third cat was coming together when a chill raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
She looked up, her hand pausing over a section of a slitted eyeball. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to become quieter. She listened for Dionna, for birds, for anything.
Something was up. She rose and crept toward the bathroom. It had a window and was a small space. In the gym, she could take on two opponents. In real life, it was foolish to willingly put herself in that position. The bathroom was her designated panic room. It had a window she could escape through or defend and a door she could lock, plus the space didn’t allow for much of a wing span.
She heel-toed toward the hall. Should she pull her knife? Yes. And no. She was comfortable fighting with her body. This wasn’t a smaller sylph. If someone was after her, they’d be her size—or larger.
She was several yards away when she heard a grunt from outside. Dionna?
Another muffled shout caught her attention and she looked over her shoulder. Nothing had changed and she couldn’t hear a sound from within the house.
Turning back, icicles crystalized in her veins. A shadow fell across the width of the hall. It originated from an open door. The office.
She let out a whimper. Let him think she was really scared.
She did a shuffle, shuffle of her feet to make it sound like she was panicked too.
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A male turned the corner. Her heart nearly froze, but no, he wasn’t the faceless one from her nightmares. This male was taller, maybe close to Jagger’s age, and had russet-brown hair cropped close to his head. An ordinary male turned sinister by nothing more than the morbidly gleeful look in his eyes. He relished the thought of attacking her.
Widening her eyes, she opened her mouth like she was going to scream, then she charged him. Taking grim satisfaction from his stunned expression, she calculated the distance, then pivoted and kicked. He wasn’t expecting to be jumped. The kick took him off guard.
She kept her momentum going as her foot hit his solid belly. He grunted and stumbled back, but she found her footing and advanced. She pounded his gut with her fists, then an uppercut to his face.
His head jerked up and back. A snap of her arm and she smashed his trachea. He fell to the floor. Choking and squirming, the male’s hands were at his throat as he tried to get air. He’d pass out before he healed in time.
She raised a leg to stomp on his gut, but he snaked a hand out. She should’ve been ready for this bullshit after her sparring with Jagger, but one thing that was hard to fake in the gym was fighting dirty.
Twisting as she fell, she kicked with her other foot, not knowing where she hit, only that she made contact.
He was wheezing, still clutching his throat with one hand while trying to drag her closer with the other. His grip was punishing. She continued to lash out with her free foot and kick his head and shoulder, but he was too close. He’d rolled to his side, protecting his soft areas and damn, she should’ve neutralized him with a dick shot. Lunging up, she propelled her elbow down on his temple. His head rebounded off the marble floor.
Once he slipped into unconsciousness, she scooted back against the wall. Footsteps pounded across the floor. Dionna rounded the hall, hands at the ready, each holding a sai, looking more badass than Elektra. Blood glistened across both blades. If she’d been wearing a standard robe, it would’ve been drenched. Parts of her black pants and shirt shone like they were wet.
Wicked Fire: Angel Fire, book 2 Page 11
