Doomsday Brethren, Book 04: Entice Me at Twilight

by Shayla Black

  “My deepest apologies, Miss Safford.” He looked directly at her with those dark eyes that made her shiver. Then he turned to Mason. “She’s your fiancée.”

  “A quarter-hour will change that.” Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare think differently. I know you too well.”

  Hurstgrove raised a haughty brow.

  “Leave Felicia alone, or I swear I will never speak to you again, Mother be damned,” Mason threatened.

  Was Mason implying that his half brother wanted her? Hurstgrove met her stare, his expression carefully blank. That’s exactly what Mason meant. Felicia’s stomach flipped again.

  Foolish. Why should she care if she was one of many who inspired his erection?

  “Don’t you have guests to greet?” Hurstgrove suggested, his tone silky, lethal.

  “Indeed. Clean up and get to the sanctuary. We’ll discuss your abominable behavior later,” Mason vowed, then offered her his arm.

  Felicia took it, dragging her gaze away from His Grace and chastising herself. She had more than enough problems without her thoughts lingering on the unsettling duke.

  Gaze firmly forward, she walked down the stairs with Mason. True, they shouldn’t be seen together before the wedding, but finding someplace quiet to discuss their future was more imperative than convention, especially with so little time left to decide what to do.

  As they reached the corridor at the bottom of the stairs, a half-dozen women, all dressed to kill, screeched at the sight of the Simon Northam. They sprinted up the stairs, tearing past her and Mason, their short skirts and long curls swishing.

  As she rounded the corner, Felicia glanced over her shoulder. Lace, giggles, and feminine fawning surrounded His Grace. And he didn’t look as if he was trying terribly hard to escape. In fact, he wrapped an arm around the nearest girl, put his lips against her ear, and spoke.

  Would he have sex with one—or all of them—tonight? At the thought, something ugly and painful jabbed her. Did the man simply roll about the sheets with anyone possessing estrogen?

  That answer wasn’t much of a mystery, unlike his demand for the guest list. Regardless of why he wanted it, Felicia knew that having Hurstgrove here would be trouble.

  After Bram arranged a distraction, enabling Duke to lose the gaggle of ever-present “ladies” looking for a trophy husband, the Doomsday Brethren leader yanked him back into his bedroom and slammed the door. Beside him stood Marrok and Ice, whose expressions ranged from disinterest to mild puzzlement. Finally, Ice shrugged and turned his attention to magically repairing their clothes—or trying to.

  “Bugger!” Ice cursed as the tear in his shirt widened to reveal one enormous shoulder. “Where is my mate when I need her?”

  “Aye,” Marrok concurred with a laugh. “Sabelle can mend my trousers. You, I trust not.”

  “Sod it.” Ice shrugged. “I’m not here to impress the humans.”

  “You’ll scare them, more like,” Bram drawled, then turned to Duke. “We need to work around Mason’s enmity for you and deal with the crisis at hand.”

  “Indeed.” Duke paced his large room, moonlight glowing through the balcony’s French doors. He tamped down the urge to chase after the bride and press his lips to hers. “I have Felicia’s lists. Let’s hope they’re complete.”

  Duke strode across the hardwood floors and their thick decorative rugs. When he reached his massive desk, he yanked open a heavy drawer and rummaged around for a pen. Hearing the tick-tock of time slipping away and knowing that Mathias was likely hot on their heels, he stared hard at the guest list, checking off the names of all new human acquaintances over the past week.

  He thrust it at Bram. “We’ll split into pairs. One will shake hands while the other observes. In theory, the moment we come into contact with the Untouchable, our signatures should reflect that, yes? And Marrok’s mating to Olivia should give him enough of a signature to be impacted, despite the fact he’s human.”

  “Absolutely. You take Ice, and I’ll go with Marrok. You obviously know your way around the house better, so you and Ice head to the kitchens and anywhere else the wedding staff might be. Marrok and I can follow the path of guests to the wedding and shake hands with those attending, including the bride—”

  “Don’t touch her.” Duke tried to swallow down a seething rage at the thought of any male experimenting on Felicia. Based on the other wizards’ surprise, he failed miserably.

  Bram swore, then exchanged a glance with Ice. “You’re possessive of your brother’s fiancée.”

  God, he hated being so transparent. “Protective. I won’t touch her, either.”

  “Someone must, in order to rule her out.” Bram pointed out. “Mating ensures that Marrok has no designs on any woman other than Olivia. Besides, she would string him up by the balls if he did. Same with Ice, only in this case, I’d help Sabelle since she’s my sister.”

  “Never happen,” Ice assured Bram. “Sabelle is my world.”

  Ice could be a right scary bastard, but no one could deny how much he loved his mate.

  “Though I’ve no idea where Emma is, I am still mated.”

  And like every other mated wizard, Bram had no desire nor the ability to bed another female. Duke often felt sorry for the poor sod. His woman had answered his Call in order to steal the Doomsday Diary, the most powerful book in their realm. Then she’d abandoned him after a single night, sneaking away with the book while he slept. In the nearly two months since, they’d recovered the book but found not one clue to her whereabouts.

  Bram smiled grimly. “So you see, Felicia is safe from any lascivious intent on our part. I’m not certain that’s the case with you. Besides, she’s already touched you. Your signature is already altered. What if another touch doesn’t show?”

  In his head, Duke knew that. It didn’t make looking at another man being close to or touching Felicia any easier. Even watching her walk away on Mason’s arm had been torture. “Let me be the one. Let me try. Please.”

  “He’s got it bad,” Ice muttered.

  Duke swallowed—and didn’t say a word. Why refute the truth?

  “All right, then,” Bram relented, clearly against his better judgment. “Marrok and I will find the people on the guest list you’ve marked. Thankfully, that’s a mere handful. You deal with the workers and Felicia. Meet us in the chapel in ten minutes.”

  Though he disliked it, Duke didn’t have any more appealing options. He must find the Untouchable and whisk him or her away before Mathias and the Anarki descended.

  “I should call off the wedding entirely, for safety’s sake.” Duke liked that idea—a great deal.

  “Can’t,” Bram argued. “If you do, people will leave, and you’ll never find the Untouchable. As soon as we discern their identity, then we’ll halt the wedding and send everyone home.”

  “Indeed.” Then reality hit him. How could he do that without disappointing his mother? Mason would hate him even more. And the stunning Felicia? He grimaced.

  Did he have a choice?

  Bram clapped him on the back. “I know this is difficult, but it’s for the best.”

  Right. Then why did he have this knotted feeling in his gut that his life was about to change forever?

  Knowing the die had been cast, Duke turned and left his bedroom. At the bottom of the stairs, Ice fell in step at his shoulder, wearing an expression that said poor bastard. Duke did his best to ignore it.

  Quickly, he hunted up the florist, the cake decorator, and the wedding planner, all of whom his mother had insisted he meet in the past few days, hinting that she hoped he might require their services soon. One by one, he quickly reacquainted himself with them, ostensibly to ensure everything went smoothly. After he touched each individual, Ice simply shook his head. Within minutes, they’d run through most of their list and come up empty-handed.

  “It must be one of the guests,” Ice declared as they left the kitchen.

  “Or the minister.” Or worse, the bride.
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br />   The thought of Felicia in the middle of this war made Duke sick as hell. Please God, anyone else …

  Exiting the kitchen, they headed for the chapel, his guts in knots. Duke had walked perhaps twenty meters down the corridor when the flock of young beauties darted for him again. He groaned. Not now …

  Through the window behind him, a flashbulb went off. Paparazzi, damn them. Duke had little doubt these images would appear on some tabloid or another come morning.

  At his side, Ice chuckled. “Right hell to be so popular. Are these the same girls who surrounded you earlier?”

  “I think so.” He hadn’t looked that closely.

  Searching for a gentle but insistent way to throw them off, Duke said, “Ladies, there will be plenty of time after the—”

  One pressed her lips to his, cutting him off in mid-sentence. Another stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle, then whispered exactly what she’d like to do to him if only they had a bit of privacy. She wasn’t shy. The rest swarmed around, not allowing him an inch of air.

  Bloody hell! Not that he hadn’t experienced such unladylike behavior before, but at his brother’s wedding, steps outside the chapel?

  As he tried to jerk free, someone shoved the women aside with a feminine growl, then grabbed him by the arm and whirled him around. Felicia, in white lace, surrounded by a halo of golden curls. And she looked furious.

  “Are you mad or simply unable to control your libido for a few minutes? I’m attempting to have an important conversation, and your behavior is disruptive. I don’t know how your mother or brother abide this. Mason says you’re forty-three; you act sixteen.”

  She sent a severe scowl to the women still hovering about, trying to gain his attention. “You all have seats somewhere. Find them!”

  The women backed away—though not happily. At the moment, Duke could have kissed her for freeing him. Hell, he wanted to kiss her anyway. Deeply. Lips, tongues, clothes dropping to the floor as he lowered her to the bed …

  No, I must not think that about Mason’s bride.

  “You will not embarrass Mason or your mother this way,” Felicia vowed in a low-voiced breath. “This stops now, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

  Too bad Duke was too distracted by the fact that, this close, he could see the glistening of Felicia’s pouty red lips under their gloss … and right down the front of her gown to the sweet swells of her breasts. Heat ripped through his blood. Need compelled him. Grab her. Take her. Possess her. The words were a chant in his brain, loud and getting louder until he could scarcely remember why he was resisting.

  Honor. Family harmony.

  Damn it. He sighed.

  Felicia gripped his elbow tighter and pursed her plump lips in displeasure. Bloody hell, she smelled like gardenia and woman. Duke only got harder. Blast it, he hoped his dinner jacket covered that. Somehow, he had to keep his hands to himself because her light floral-musky scent was driving him mad.

  “Are you listening?” she demanded.

  At his side, Ice cleared his throat and cast a sidelong glance at Felicia, then a meaningful glance at Duke’s magical signature. “We have a winner.”

  CHAPTER 3

  FELICIA GLARED AT HURSTGROVE, trying to rein in her temper. A sharp rebuke sat on the tip of her tongue. She pursed her lips together to hold it in, refusing to create an even bigger scene.

  God, but the man got under her skin. Moments ago, she and Mason had been in a quiet corner, and she’d been desperately trying to decide her future. Marry Mason … or not? She’d been interrupted by Hurstgrove’s antics. Even the friends he’d brought along caused gasps and raised brows. His blond chum had been intimidating enough, but she certainly would never have pictured His Grace running about with a tattooed, stubble-headed giant who looked more at home in back alleys. What the devil was going on?

  Hurstgrove stared back. Blood flooded her cheeks, and her chest rose harshly with each agitated breath. Unfortunately, her reaction wasn’t entirely fueled by anger. Though she released his arm, she still couldn’t manage to cool her sizzling blood.

  “You’re certain?” His Grace demanded of the other man, his mouth tight.

  The scary one crossed enormous arms over his chest, making one shoulder bulge through his filthy, torn sweater. “Yes. Sorry.”

  Hurstgrove clenched his fists and swore. Something grim and furious crossed his angular face.

  Felicia blinked, stared. Were they both touched in the head?

  “I’ve no notion what you’re on about with this ‘winner’ comment, but could you give us some privacy, please?” She glared at the black-clad ruffian.

  The burly man shot Hurstgrove a look she couldn’t decipher. “Duke?”

  Felicia frowned. Cheeky form of address.

  “It’s what my friends call me. A joke,” Hurstgrove explained, shoving his hands in his pockets. He tapped his toe in agitation. “Give us a minute, Ice.”

  “You have less than that. The clock is ticking,” he said, backing away.

  Felicia was inclined to like Ice a bit more when he shooed the hovering flock of women toward the chapel, leaving her and Hurstgrove alone.

  Grabbing hold of both her temper and her wayward response to him, she paced into the shadows of the corridor, out of sight of any passing wedding guest. He followed. As soon as he hovered above her, all wide shoulders and dark stare, she drew in a shaky breath. Why had she imagined shuttling into a dark corner with Hurstgrove was wise?

  She fought against the edgy awareness that cramped her belly. “Cease this appalling behavior. As if arriving late after a brawl wasn’t rude enough, your friends are wreaking havoc. I was attempting to sort through my future and—”

  “With the ceremony due to start any moment?” Hurstgrove looked at his watch.

  She bristled. Her indecision about marrying Mason was none of his affair. “Your mother and Mason are now attempting to deal with your friends, one of whom is a veritable giant wearing a sword. At a wedding! He’s forcing people to shake his hand.”

  His Grace grimaced. “Felicia—”

  “And you allowed those women to … molest you a few dozen meters from the altar.” The sight had burned itself into her brain, hurting when she knew it shouldn’t. And that only made her more angry. “It’s unforgivable.”

  He frowned. “I have never touched any of those women in my life.”

  She detected no acrid scent, and felt no unsettled stomach. So, he told the truth—this once. Small comfort. “Hardly noteworthy, given your generally deplorable behavior.”

  “I apologize, but I must talk to you about—”

  “When I’m finished.” She poked a finger in his chest. “The paparazzi are peeking through the windows and having a grand time photographing the shocked expressions of your mother’s friends. She’s quite beside herself. I know everyone bows and scrapes to you, and women throw themselves at your feet. Don’t expect either from me.”

  Her face turned even more grim. “It’s not my aim to upset you. This is … necessary.”

  A fresh wave of anger crashed through Felicia, and she welcomed it, hoping it would hold her awareness of him at bay. “Are you so arrogant that you must have attention? Do you need the cameras, the women, and the notoriety to feel fulfilled, Your Grace?”

  “What?” He recoiled, looking perplexed, then furious. “No. I’m trying to tell you something but … bloody hell. I’ve gone about this the wrong way. Sorry.”

  “Indeed.”

  He shrugged. “I’m only human.”

  Felicia opened her mouth to argue with him. Then a familiar, biting scent burned her nostrils. An instant later, her stomach turned, and she put a hand over her queasy belly to steady herself.

  Hurstgrove lied—and the stench hadn’t presented itself until his last three words.

  Not human? Impossible. Felicia’s mind raced. He looked like any other attractive man, though younger than his forty-three years suggested. Perhaps the whole evening—h
aving Mason reveal his true feelings and His Grace making a scene—had thrown her senses off?

  “What did you say?” she demanded.

  “I’m only human. I make mistakes.”

  Immediately, Felicia’s nostrils burned wildly again. Her stomach pitched as if she were in a rowboat in the midst of a hurricane. Gasping, she stared at him, wide eyed.

  The Duke of Hurstgrove was not human. What, then, was he?

  The horror on her face must have shown, because he grabbed her shoulders, his touch feverishly warm. A flurry of tingles barraged her. “What’s the matter? Are you nervous? Faint?” Understanding dawned, and he backed away. “No, you’re frightened.”

  Of you.

  If she admitted that, how would he react? What was such an intimidating non-human capable of? If he knew that she’d figured out his secret, what would he do to her?

  Heart pounding so hard she couldn’t hear her own voice, Felicia muttered, “I-I must … repair my lipstick.”

  Before he could respond, she tore from his grasp and ran.

  As she disappeared up the stairs, Ice, who had been loitering outside the chapel, sauntered across the marble tiles toward Duke. “Apologizing, are you? Not a particularly effective tactic to tell the woman she’s in danger.”

  Duke snorted. “You would have grabbed her and run without any thought of alienating your family, causing a scandal, or scaring the hell out of her.”

  The other wizard shrugged. “I don’t have any family to alienate, I don’t give a damn if I cause a scandal, and I’d rather have my woman frightened than dead.”

  “She’s not mine.”

  A sly smile crept across his face. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

  “Piss off. I can’t do what you would have done. My situation is more complicated.”

  Ice didn’t say a word, just took a long look around him at the marble tile, perfectly plastered walls, and muraled ceilings. The original estate had been built by one of Duke’s ancestors in the mid-sixteenth century. Over the years, the house had been expanded, altered, sections demolished and rebuilt. The chapel was part of that original structure, now overlooking the lush gardens his mother took great pains to oversee. The rest of the house maintained that stiff, museum-quality look. Duke had considered turning the estate over to the National Trust, but his mother loved living here.