by Donya Lynne
He mentally shook off the possibility. In his dreams, the female he imagined he would mate didn’t have tattoos all over her body and didn’t come prepackaged with the attitude of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Still, Cordray was a fine piece of female. She had all the right curves in all the right places. He didn’t have to like her to appreciate the package she came in.
“Come on, buddy,” Micah said, pulling him from his thoughts, “let’s get you to bed so you can rest.”
He let Micah help him up then followed him into the master bedroom, where Micah pulled a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from his bureau.
“Here.” Micah tossed the clothes at him. “You can wear these.”
Trace held up his hand and motioned toward the doorway leading to the stairs. “I’ve got my own bedroom, Micah.” He stayed at the house enough that he’d all but moved in. “I can go up and get my own clo—”
Micah softly slapped his cheek. “No arguing with me. Wear mine and get into bed.” Micah snapped his fingers and pointed to the massive, custom-made bed he normally shared with Sam.
“But—”
“Do I have to dress you myself and strap you down?” Micah grinned, crossed his arms, and propped his hip against the dresser. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“You’re impossible.” Trace dropped the T-shirt on the bed and unfolded the boxers.
“Sam says I’m incorrigible.”
“Same thing.”
“I know.” Micah chucked his chin toward the boxers. “Now, get dressed.”
“Shit, but you’re bossy.” He smirked and pulled the shorts on and snapped the elastic waistband around his waist.
“Yep. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Trace’s grin stretched even wider as he met Micah’s gaze. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” He picked up the T-shirt. “But this is your bed. Where are you going to sleep?”
Micah’s eyes flicked upward, indicating upstairs. “Sam set us up in one of the spare rooms.” The tone of his voice, as well as the erection straining his cargo pants, suggested that while Trace’s fun was winding down, Micah’s was only beginning.
“Gotcha.” Trace tugged the shirt over his torso. “Wish I could join you.”
Micah pushed away from the dresser and closed the distance between them. “Yeah, me too. I’d have invited you, but you need about a week of sleep, so . . .”
“Next time.”
“Absolutely.” Micah swiped his palm over Trace’s head. “We’ve missed you, but we can wait a couple more days.”
He’d missed their threesomes, too. Missed watching the two most beautiful people in the world make love to each other. He got a semi-boner just thinking about it, but Micah was right. He was exhausted. Hell, he was beyond exhausted. Totally depleted was more like it.
The comforter, blankets, and sheets were already pulled back, and Micah ushered him to lie down then pulled the blankets over him.
“I’ll be right back.” Micah disappeared inside the bathroom again as Trace sank into the warm, soft bed.
He hadn’t even had a pillow in King Bain’s dungeon. How thankful he was to finally be free, back where he belonged, with creature comforts like soft sheets, a pillow-top mattress, and indoor plumbing. Within seconds, sleep encroached, and his eyelids grew heavy.
Micah returned holding a glass of water. “Drink this.”
He helped Trace sit up and held the glass for him. Trace downed every drop. He hadn’t even realized how thirsty he was.
“You need more?”
Trace shook his head. “I’m good.” Even to himself, he sounded seriously out of it.
“You want to talk about what happened in there?” Micah bobbed his head toward the dungeon as he crawled onto the bed and lay down next to him. He propped himself on one elbow and gently stroked Trace’s bald head with his fingers.
Trace closed his eyes at the gentle touch. “It was . . . unexpected.”
“Good unexpected?” Micah said.
“Very good.”
“You liked it then?”
Trace nodded lazily.
“I thought you would.” Micah shifted, and Trace peeked out the corner of his eye to see that Micah was fully reclined on his side beside him, staring at him. “I loved seeing your reactions as I applied each coat of wax. The more I put on, the more relaxed you became. The deeper you fell into subspace.”
Trace rolled his head on the pillow and held Micah’s gaze for a long time. The longer they stared at one another, the louder the unspoken messages between them became.
He was grateful. So damn grateful. Micah didn’t have to take him in. He didn’t have to give Trace such a large part of himself and take his time away from Sam, but he had, and he did. And he seemed ready to continue doing so.
Frowning through his gratitude so that he didn’t actually shed tears, Trace turned his body into Micah’s and buried his face against his friend’s chest. “Thank you.” He had never felt as accepted by anyone as he did with Micah—not even with his own family—and never would have allowed anyone but Micah to see him like this. With Micah, he was vulnerable, even afraid, and that was okay. He could save his scary, tough face for the rest of the world.
He could save it for Cordray.
Micah wrapped him in his arms and rocked him. “You’re safe now,” he said softly. “You’re back home and you’re safe. You’re in my care now, Trace, and it’s my turn to look out for you for a change.”
Trace gripped him tightly and nodded against his chest, trying to contain the immense gratitude welling inside his chest.
“No more prison,” Micah said. “No more being away from Sam and me. We’re a family again, and you were so good tonight. So damn good. You made me feel like a true master.”
“And you made me feel . . .” What? What was the word to describe how Micah made him feel. “Normal.” Normal wasn’t something Trace had felt in a long time, if ever. He’d always been different.
Freak!
Until Micah and Sam had welcomed him into their lives, he had never truly felt normal. With them, he wasn’t a freak. He wasn’t a demon or a walking natural disaster. He was just . . . Trace.
And that was the greatest gift Micah could have given him.
* * *
Micah held his nearest and dearest friend like his life depended on it.
Trace made him feel powerful. He gave himself entirely to the process and sacrificed every ounce of control so that Micah could take it. A responsibility Micah didn’t take for granted. One slip with a candle—one mistake—and the tiny bubble of trust that had formed between them would shatter.
The enormous power exchange Trace had granted him was enough to send Micah on a head trip of his own, so aftercare was as much for him as it was for Trace. He needed this time of bonding and cooling off as much as Trace did.
Trace’s hold on him finally weakened, and Micah gently rolled him to his back and fluffed the pillow around his head. “Are you comfortable? Too warm? Too cold?”
Trace blinked drowsily. “I’m perfect.”
Micah rolled up his sleeve, revealing his wrist. “I made you a promise earlier.”
Hunger stirred in Trace’s pale-green irises as his eyes opened wider and met his.
Lifting his wrist toward Trace’s mouth, he shifted closer. “Take my blood.”
Trace licked his lips almost nervously but hesitated.
“I told you before we started I would give you my blood if you pleased me.” He held Trace’s gaze for several seconds then nodded before pressing his wrist to Trace’s lips and lowering his voice. “You pleased me. Very much.”
That was all it took, and Trace’s mouth opened to expose his fangs, so like Maddox’s. One set of uppers and one set of lowers. Tonight, after they’d all gotten some much-needed rest, he and Trace would talk about Maddox and Brak. They needed to figure out what to do about the situation, and Trace needed to see his father and brother. But right now Trace needed rest
above all else.
Fangs pierced his wrist, and an instant later venom euphoria took him. Under the onslaught of sensual overload, Micah lazed back on the bed, loose and flying high, moaning as thick arousal stabbed at the heart of him. Sam had better be ready for him, because he needed her. God, how he needed her. She would provide the rest of his aftercare, because after spending more than two hours with Trace, waxing him, cleaning him, and now feeding him, Micah was in a state unlike anything he had felt since his calling.
It seemed like five minutes before Trace released his arm, but Micah knew better than that. There was no way he had fed for five minutes. One or two, yes, but not five.
“Your blood is”—Trace licked his lips and rolled toward him—“strong.”
Micah didn’t push him away, still lost to euphoria. He welcomed Trace’s arm as it curled over him almost protectively. But wasn’t that at the heart of their relationship? Protection?
More than once, Trace had put himself at risk to keep Micah safe. Such as when Sam almost died after he changed her into his davala. And again two weeks ago, when Micah had made that insane outburst during Trace’s trial and the king’s guards jumped him. Trace refused to let anyone hurt him, and he became severely protective if Micah appeared to be in danger.
What they had was devotion. They were both unconditionally committed to one another. Trace had proven himself back in January, when he had helped Micah save Sam. Now, Micah couldn’t imagine his life without Trace, and he could sense Trace felt the same way. They were bonded more tightly than brothers, even when it came to Sam, because Trace was the only male on the planet Micah could even fathom letting participate in his intimate time with her.
Micah sank into Trace’s sheltering embrace and breathed. As with Sam, when he was with Trace, he could breathe so damn easily. “You make me feel safe,” he said softly, almost a murmur, as the euphoria finally began to dissipate.
“Ditto.” Trace’s cheek pressed against the back of Micah’s shoulder, and then he rolled away.
Micah rolled with him so they faced each other again, and he took hold of Trace’s wrist. The lacerations that had lined his forearm earlier were already healing now that Trace had fed, but a few of the particularly bad cuts lingered.
“Let me help you with these.” He pulled himself up and straddled Trace’s hips over the covers, lifting Trace’s arm to his lips.
The glands in his mouth released their venom as he held Trace’s expectant gaze, and then he languidly drew his tongue across one of the cuts. Trace’s eyes closed, and he sighed. Again, Micah positioned Trace’s arm and swirled the breadth of his tongue over another wound. He continued treating each remaining lesion until the last one silently vanished. Then he laid Trace’s arm carefully over his stomach.
“All better.” He bent forward so they were nose to nose and eye to eye when Trace opened his eyes again.
The two simply stared at each other, caught in the intimacy of the moment. Micah knew Trace could feel his erection, but he said nothing and gave no indication he did.
After several seconds, Micah leaned down and brushed his lips over Trace’s. “Welcome home.” Micah held his gaze for another long moment then slid off the bed and straightened the covers over Trace’s body, tucking him in. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”
Trace didn’t say a word, just nodded once and blinked as if he were coming out of a dream. Micah pulled the chair in the corner toward the bed and sat down, sprawled his legs to give his erection space, and got comfortable as Trace maintained eye contact with him from across the room.
Unspoken love and allegiance passed between them, but nothing more was said. In less than five minutes, Trace’s eyelids grew too heavy to stay open. He blinked wearily once . . . twice . . . and on the third, his eyes stayed closed. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, grew fuller, and his lips parted as he quickly fell into a deep sleep.
The weeks of incarceration, stress, and now his first session with Micah, had caught up to him.
Micah grinned, quietly got up, set out a change of clothes for when Trace woke this evening, and shut off the main light so that only the dim illumination from the night-light in the bathroom lit the room. Then he tiptoed up the stairs, unlocked and opened the door, and noiselessly shut it behind him.
Now, to Sam.
He started toward the kitchen, ready to dart upstairs and sink himself into Sam’s waiting heat, needing to feel her fire and—
He stutter-stepped to a halt as he caught the scent of a visitor. His upper lip curled. He knew that smell. As he entered the kitchen, he saw Cordray on the couch next to Sam, looking as cozy as a hyena robbing the lion of its prey, teacup in her hand, a smile on her face.
What was that bitch doing in his home? And why was Sam acting like her presence was no big thing?
Chapter 7
Cordray had been listening to Sam tell her about the night she met Micah and how she’d shot Apostle when the door to the basement opened. She and Sam both turned toward the kitchen, and a moment later, Micah appeared, looking and smelling as ready for sex as a two-cent whore.
Then his eyes met hers, and the mood instantly shifted.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said, his thick, black brows knitting together over the bridge of his nose.
Not to be intimidated, she set down her tea, stood, and crossed her arms. “You took Trace without my permission. I’m here to retrieve him.”
Sam bristled as she stood beside her, but not as if she were angry. More like she was concerned that World War III was about to go postal in her living room.
“Everybody just calm down,” Sam said, holding her hands up.
Micah ignored her and barged forward, getting in Cordray’s face. “Oh, so now you want to put Trace on your priority list, is that it? Where were you three hours ago?” He jabbed his finger toward her. “You were late, and my buddy needed me, so if you don’t like that I took him without your goddamn approval—”
“I can suck your ass,” Cordray finished for him. “Yeah, I got the message from the guard on duty. Now, if you and Trace are done swapping cock snot, I’d like to take him and get the hell out of here.”
Even as she said it, she knew moving Trace right now wouldn’t happen. She wasn’t so clueless that she didn’t understand how badly Trace needed to rest after his stay in her brother’s dungeon. But damn it, she should have been there on time. She should have been the one responsible for making sure he got out of that nasty place and safely into Micah’s hands to receive the care he needed. It hurt her heart that she had failed at something so important. Something that felt important.
“Damn straight, you can suck my ass.” Aggression blazed in his navy blue eyes as he took a menacing step forward.
“Stop!” Sam jumped between them. “Micah, back off. Cordray, let me handle this.”
Sam had no fear, jumping between two tigers about to shred each other.
Cordray took a deep breath and stepped back before turning away and squeezing her eyes closed. She’d seen inside Micah’s mind. She knew what he and Trace had done to one another. Or rather, what Micah had done to Trace. He’d made Trace come. He’d kissed him. They’d held each other like lovers in a bed the size of Chicago.
And knowing that hurt.
She didn’t want it to hurt. She didn’t want what Micah and Trace had done together to carve out her insides like she was a Thanksgiving turkey. But that didn’t stop the ache from gnawing at the inside of her chest.
Something about Trace threw everything inside her into upheaval, and tears stung her eyes at the idea that he and Micah were so close they could be as intimate as lovers.
And then there was Sam. She and Micah were so in tune with one another. Cordray stole a glance over her shoulder. Sam had pulled Micah aside, her fingers massaging the pulse point in his neck, their foreheads touching as she spoke soft, coaxing words to calm him.
At one time, she had had that. A long time ago, wit
h Gideon, before she had lost her sense of feeling, she had loved and been loved that deeply. And then it had all been stolen from her.
She turned away again, breathing through the emptiness, hugging herself as she willed her tears not to fall. Forever had passed since she’d last cried, which had been over losing Gideon.
Now she was crying over Trace. Damn him!
She cleared her throat and dropped her arms to her sides. “Go get him,” she said without turning around, forcing iron resolve into her voice. “Bring him to me now.”
“Trace is resting,” Micah said between clenched teeth. “And he will remain resting until he decides he wants to get up.”
“Well, I’m not leaving without him.” Cordray faced him and crossed her arms, doing her best to put on a steadfast front. She was good at putting on tough façades. After all, she’d been doing so for eight hundred years. Another five minutes shouldn’t be too hard.
“Then I hope you’re ready to get good and comfortable.” Micah took Sam’s hand and ushered her toward the stairs. “Because he stays until I say he’s ready to leave.”
“Fine.” Cordray jutted out her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’ll wait then.”
Sam held her tongue, although Cordray sensed she wanted to speak. Perhaps she remained quiet because she wanted to hurry Micah away before another outburst occurred.
“Don’t go downstairs,” Micah warned, pointing his finger at her as Sam tugged his arm. “I swear to God, Cordray, if you go near him and fuck with his head, I’ll beat your ass into next year. I don’t care how tight you are with King Bain. You’ve caused Trace enough problems. You don’t need to cause him any more, so just park your ass on the couch and don’t fucking move.”
Cordray threw eye daggers at him. If only Micah knew her true relationship to King Bain, he might not be so arrogant about threatening her.
Issuing a mock salute, Cordray stepped toward the couch and plopped down, keeping her gaze locked to Micah’s as Sam pulled him up the stairs. Only when he disappeared from view did Cordray allow herself to exhale. Her entire body slumped forward as she dropped her head into her hands. Her long hair hung over her face, the ends sweeping the floor.
