Obsidian Fire (Raven Queen's Harem Part 4)

by Angel Lawson

  The shaman is right. The war isn’t over no matter how much I want it to be.

  I kick over a trashcan and face the wall as the door opens once again.

  “Get out. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  After a moment the door closes and I exhale, trying to clear my mind. I’m just so fucking angry and so unbelievably scared. Not just for me but for the other Guardians and for Morgan the most.

  I hear a footstep and spin, fists clenched and ready. The real Morgan stands before me, hands up in peace, looking just as beautiful in tight jeans and a hoodie as she does in a fancy dress. I take a step back.

  Her eyes dart to the destruction I’ve caused in the room and down to my bleeding hand. “You’re hurt,” she says, closing the distance between us.

  “It’s nothing,” I grunt, wiping my knuckles on my pants. “You should leave.”

  “I’m not leaving, Dylan.” She reaches for me and I flinch. Adrenaline still runs through my veins and one false move and I may snap her like a twig.

  Again, my fears are festering and open tonight. I look away from her face but can smell her hair and feel her heat.

  “If you won’t leave, then I will.” I start to move around her but her hand clamps on my arm.

  “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.” I glance at her hand and think of how easily I could get away, but then my eyes skim up her body to her face and I know that’s nothing but a damned lie. “Tonight is the night you stop running from me. You stop being afraid of me.”

  I laugh. “And how do you propose doing that?”

  She pushes up on her toes but I’m already leaning down, drawn to her like a magnet. “You’re my mate, Dylan, no more running. No more excuses. It’s time to get that bitch out of your head and your hands on my body.”

  The internal fight is strong. So strong, and I’ve resisted for so long, but the image of that Raven overhead broke something in me. If the sign is true then I don’t have long to wait.

  I place my hands on her hips and give in.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morgan

  Dylan’s lips are hot and his chest is sweaty, fresh wounds marking his skin. He kisses me eagerly and I want it this way, raw and unrelenting. He’s worked so hard to bring himself to my level that I now realize that will never happen. Dylan is a warrior. A fighter. He carries the burdens of the past and future on his shoulders.

  He guides me to the wall, my back pressing against the hard surface. With one hand against the wall and the other skimming my side, I tug at the waistband of his pants. I’m relieved there’s no hesitation—no fighting back. He keeps kissing me while he slips off his pants, then the skintight boxers he wears underneath. There’s no denying his arousal. Standing back, his eyes follow my hand as I unzip the hoodie and he brushes it off my shoulders. He dips his head, first kissing between my breasts, then sinking his teeth into the soft flesh in the crook of my neck. My nipples harden and I release a hiss of pleasure.

  “Don’t stop,” I tell him, even though nothing implies that he will. Every inch of my skin tingles in anticipation.

  “I’ve waited an eternity to prove my worth as your mate,” he declares. “I couldn’t stop now if the gods themselves ripped me from this realm.”

  My stomach tightens when his cock brushes against me. The spot between my legs dampens as he twists his fingers under my panties, the fabric ripping in a hard yank. Our bodies bump and again he claws to get the bra off my back, impatient with any barrier between us. The elastic snaps under the pressure and the scrap of lace falls to the floor with the rest of our clothing. When we’re both bare and his mouth has found mine again, he lifts me under the legs, pushing me against the wall.

  His cock slides between my legs—not in me—not yet. I’m thankful for his strength, the way he can hold me up, the way I can feel his body. I like the way it feels to press against his lower belly. The way his skin rubs against mine. I like the sticky tip of his cock against my backside. I press against him. My breasts, my clit, my ass.

  I’m assured by the low groan in his throat that he likes it too.

  Biting his bottom lip, he growls in return, but I only want proof this is real—not another dream or slip from reality. No magic. Just us. The pain does nothing but spur him on. The noise is deep and trembles in his chest. With strong hands he positions me the way he wants me, the way that it feels so, so good.

  I’m slippery wet. He’s hard with want. Just before he enters me, he pulls back and stares at me with eyes that cut to my soul. I toy with his hard, brown nipple and he swallows hard.

  “Take me,” I whisper against his lips. “Fuck me.”

  His eyes are pinned to mine and he licks his lips. In a reverent tone he says, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  I throw my arms over his neck as he enters. I feel him in every inch of my body. I feel his passion. His loyalty. Digging my nails into his back, I hold on for dear life when he begins to move. Dylan isn’t just mating with me. He’s exorcising demons.

  He isn’t gentle. He isn’t slow. There’s no patience or courtesy like with the others. No, Dylan fucks me righteously, hips thrusting so hard my breath comes in shallow gasps. I weave a hand into his hair and force his mouth against mine. His jaw tenses and I feel rather than hear the words coming off his lips.

  “Oh god,” I cry.

  His moves grow frantic, the coil in my lower belly tightens and twists, bringing me to a shuddering, panting halt. Me, not him, because as my walls quiver and I groan my ecstasy, he pounds into me with unrelenting need.

  My knees bend and I’m almost curved against the wall, when he comes to a fast and sudden halt, dropping his forehead to mine and spilling everything he has into me in several exaggerated thrusts.

  I brush the hair off his forehead and he looks at me with dazed eyes. “Better?” I ask. He’s still in me. Warm. Bonded.

  He blinks and a slow, relieved grin graces his beautiful face. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s better.”

  As much as I hate it, I separate from him, enough to get down on wobbly legs. He’s barely moved, keeping close, and I touch him on the stomach. “I need you to tell me what that was all about.”

  “I know. I will.”

  “You can’t protect me forever.” I look up at his face.

  “I can,” he says. “And I will, but you’re right, we need to talk. All of us.”

  He wraps me in his arms, the anger and angst he’s been carrying a fraction of what it’s been over the past few weeks. I know we need to leave the room and find the other Guardians, but right now I want to just have a final moment of peace. From the weight of Dylan’s arms around me, I know he feels it too.

  *

  We take the long way back to The Nead, walking hand in hand down the long, busy streets of New York and then cutting through the park. The rage that consumed him back at the fight seems to have dissipated, although it’s replaced with something different.

  It’s nearly dawn and the house is quiet when we walk up the front steps. I’m not ready for whatever it is that Dylan has to say to me and the other Guardians. When we reach the landing between the floors of my suite and his, I lift my chin and say, “Come to my room.”

  I’m surprised when he says yes with a kiss and allows me to lead him to my bedroom by hand.

  This time we take it slower. We’re both clean from the showers at the gym. The blood has washed away and Dylan smells fresh, like soap. His blue eyes pulse with energy as he takes his time unzipping my hoodie, brushing his fingers over the swell of my breasts. He kisses down my body and I lean back on the soft cushion of my bed, lifting my hips so he can remove my jeans. From there I watch him lift his shirt over his head, revealing the impressive stack of muscles that line his stomach. When he lowers his pants I don’t hesitate to reach for him, taking the hard but soft rod of velvet in my hand.

  His stomach caves at my touch and he climbs over my body. Warm to warm. Wet to wet. His tongue tastes minty and the pads of his sk
illed fingers feel rough. When he rolls on his back and adjusts me over his hips my whole body goes on alert. I ride him slowly, rolling my hips at my own pace. I plan to make it last as long as I can because when we get out of the bed, I have a feeling our lives will no longer be the same.

  *

  He’s gone when I wake. His side of the bed cool is to the touch, but there’s a note that simply says to meet downstairs at nine.

  I check the clock. It says 8:54.

  Scrambling, I race to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I’m dressed in the clothing from last night when I walk into the library. Everyone is waiting, except…

  “Where’s Bunny?” I ask.

  “I tried his room. It was locked,” Sam says, making space for me on the couch. I walk past Dylan and catch his scent. My knees weaken and I think about his face, hours ago, lost in ecstasy. When our eyes meet I have no doubt he’s thinking of the same thing. I realize that I’ve had sex with every man in this room. I should be scandalized by this. I’m not.

  “Can we meet without him?” I direct this question to Dylan.

  “We’ll have to,” he replies, shutting the door and walking to a leather armchair. I’m surprised when he sits down. Dylan rarely sits at these meetings. “We’re running out of time.”

  “What’s going on?” Clinton asks from his spot across from me. Damien sits in the chair next to him.

  “You all witnessed my fight last night. The shaman plucked a fear out of my head I hadn’t been able to recognize on my own.” He glances at me. “Well, not all of it. I’ve conquered a few demons since then.”

  “This is about the Morrigan, isn’t it? She said something to you,” Damien says. He leans forward in his seat. “What was it?”

  “Wait,” I say before anyone goes further. “The fights aren’t ’real’, how could she say something to you?”

  “It’s real enough,” Sam says from beside me. “It’s a magic that channels energy from an alternate universe. Like how your weapon showed up in the fight against Hildi. It’s real, but not real.”

  A rock forms in my stomach. “So you’re saying that was the real Morrigan?”

  Dylan swallows and nods. “Some part of her, yes.”

  “So she isn’t dead.”

  “No.”

  I start to stand but Sam tugs me back. I yank my arm away, glaring down at him. “You said she was gone?”

  “We said she split from you. There was no evidence she’d been eliminated entirely.”

  I shake my head, refusing to believe what they’re saying. “That’s rubbish. I’m evidence. I’m not hearing her voice anymore, or having mood swings or you know, off on a horny bender of sexual energy swapping like before.”

  “To be fair,” Clinton says, “I think your sexual appetite is being satisfied on a more consistent basis now that you’ve declared your mates.”

  “What about the voices? They’re gone. In fact, I’m creatively dry. Whatever the Morrigan was feeding me for my book has stopped completely.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Dylan says. “The Morrigan was split from you. In the myths there are often three incarnations. You may just be one.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  I don’t like the set of his jaw when he replies, “Because she told me the Darkness was still in this world. People are going to die—if they haven’t already.”

  “I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “That you know of,” Damien points out.

  “Are you saying you suck so much as Guardians you’ve let me wander around the city infecting people? Because that sounds like more your problem than mine.”

  “We may have been a little lax,” Dylan admits. “But not anymore. Not until we figure this out.”

  “What you’re saying is that you don’t trust me.”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we don’t exactly know what is going on. I did warn you it was possible to have fallout from using dark magic,” he says, holding my angry stare.

  “So you don’t trust me and it’s my fault.” I’m being irrational. I know this, but that’s the thing about irrationality. It doesn’t make sense. I move to leave the room and feel Dylan’s large hand wraps around my arm. “What?”

  “We don’t blame you. But it’s our job to stay on top of this. We’ve all been a little distracted.”

  I jerk away and head to the door. “Don’t worry,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m just going to my room. I can’t kill anyone up there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clinton

  “Let her go,” I say to the other three. “Give her a minute to calm down.”

  Dylan rubs his face and sits in the chair. “I knew she wouldn’t take it well, but I didn’t think she’d flip out like this.”

  “Really?” Sam says. “You didn’t think she’d be upset to learn that more people are going to die and that the big spell we performed was a dud?”

  “It wasn’t a dud,” I chime in. “We accomplished what we wanted—to get the Darkness out of Morgan so she wasn’t killing people anymore. She’s not.”

  Damien raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty fucking sure.”

  “Then who is the Morrigan talking about?”

  “We need to check the hospitals,” Sam says.

  “Or the morgue,” Damien adds. “If we find the victims we can find who’s doing it.”

  Dylan stretches his legs. “At least we know that the Morrigan herself is in the Otherside—she revealed that in the ring. And if we assume it isn’t Morgan…”

  “Then there’s a third,” I say. “We’ll have to find her. Shouldn’t be too hard in a city the size of New York.”

  Sam hops up and walks around the room. “So what do we do about Morgan? How do we find out where she stands in all this?”

  “We test her,” Dylan says. “Like before. If she’s carrying part of the Darkness inside of her or some sort of mystical power, we’ll know.”

  I can’t help but ask, “Will we?”

  No one answers that question. After a moment I add, “So really, where’s Bunny? It’s not like him to miss a meeting.”

  Damien chimes in. “I haven’t seen him since the fight. He disappeared after Dylan’s round.”

  “Like I said, I checked his room. He didn’t answer and the door was locked,” Sam says. “But if his paintings look anything like my photos he probably already knew this was coming.”

  “You knew?” Dylan asks.

  “Not specifically, but yeah, I knew something was off. I guess I just hoped I was wrong.”

  Damien rubs his chin. “Well, find him and we need to get a look at his most recent work.” He looks at Sam. “Yours, too.”

  Sam nods. “Sounds good.”

  I look around the room. “And Morgan?”

  Dylan grimaces. “We’ll give her until tomorrow to rest. After that we’ve got to know what she can do.”

  “And what if she can’t do anything? What if she’s just a mortal?” Damien asks.

  I glance at Dylan, who looks as concerned as I feel. “Then we’re probably fucked.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan

  Where there was warmth is a snap of cold, sharp and freezing across her brow. Maverick takes in her surroundings. Stone walls and floors. A torch-lit hallway. A moment ago she was in the forest behind her family home, fighting the gray cat and killing the prince. Now she’s somewhere far away and unfamiliar.

  She looks at her hands. Blood has stained her palms. The dagger from before is gone but a longer, more deadly blade hangs from her hip.

  “Where the hell am I?” she says aloud.

  No voice replies but she feels something—the deep thrum of magic.

  Maverick notices her clothing has changed. She’s no longer in the school outfit she’d worn into the woods. Her pants are a form-fitting black leather. Sturdy boots cover her feet. Her top is dark and made of thick hide. She rea
lizes quickly that she must have been injured. Maybe killed, and this is nothing but a hallucination.

  She takes a shaky step down the hall, figuring the only way out is to either wake up or figure out where she is. In the distance a loud explosion rocks the foundation. Cannon fire? Maverick isn’t in the suburbs of Georgia anymore. She continues walking.

  Footsteps echo in the distance and she presses herself in a shadow against the cold wall. At the nearest intersection a group of soldiers runs past, dressed in the darkest of blacks. A blood red patch rests on their breast. She’s too far to make out the design.

  Once she’s sure they’re gone she turns the way they’ve come from and works her way through the twists and turns of the hallways. She has no idea where she’s going but a tug in the pit of her stomach guides her. Left, then right, then right again. There’s no hesitation at the turns. Instinct leads her.

  That is until she gets to a split in the hallway. Three different directions off the main hall. Her brain tells her to move forward but her heart tugs her to the left. Another sound bounces off the stone walls and she chooses the path ahead before she’s noticed.

  The corridor grows larger, taller and wider with each step. The décor is grand. Tapestries line the walls, each depicting a different bloody battle. Maverick pauses in front of one. In a rich black thread a raven flies across the sky.

  There’s little doubt what and who lies at the end of the hall. She takes a deep, nerve-settling breath.

  The grand, arched doors are wide open. They’re made of a thick, impenetrable iron. The activities in the room keep eyes directed away from her and she slowly inches her way into the crowded chamber.

  Spectators press their backs against the edges of the room. The ceiling is high and vaulted. The center focus of the room is a throne and the undeniable queen perched in its seat. Two enormous banners hang from the rafters—ravens, naturally. Both carry skulls in their talons.