by Donya Lynne
Nudging her aside, he opened the cabinet in front of her and reached over her shoulder for the can of Folgers as she pointedly leaned away from him as if he were covered in porcupine spines. She nearly tripped over her own feet as she took an abrupt step to the side.
“Here.” He handed her the canister, reached back in for the filters, tossed them on the counter by the coffee maker, and then turned for the fridge. “And I meant, what are you doing here . . . as in, in general? In this house? Or is English your second language, too?” He pulled out the milk then retrieved the Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch from the pantry.
“Cute,” she snapped, popping the top off the Folgers.
He tucked the cereal box under his arm. “Shouldn’t you be polishing your pitchfork or stealing babies or something?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and Trace flicked his gaze over his shoulder to find her staring at him as if he were some kind of horror movie monster.
“Well?” he prompted. “Why are you here, Cordray?” He shut the pantry door a little harder than he intended. “And don’t tell me it’s out of some newfound concern for me, because while I could use a good laugh, I’m not interested in wading through your bullshit right now.” He grabbed a bowl from the cabinet.
Her chin jutted out, and her eyes narrowed. “I came to get you,” she said as she dropped the open Folgers canister on the counter. Then she spun around, grabbed the carafe, and flipped on the faucet, avoiding eye contact. “Micah took you without my permission, and you’re supposed to be—”
“Chill out, sweetheart. You’ll get me soon enough.”
She jerked her head around and scowled at him. “You’re supposed—”
“Give it a rest, Queen Succubus. I’m not going to bail on my community service. You’ve got me by my short and curlies for the next three months. I know, I know. Jesus. I don’t have to like the situation I’m in to accept it, for God’s sake, because God knows I’d rather be anywhere but in your service.” The last he said with a roll of his eyes as he plopped onto a barstool, spoon in hand, ready to get cozy with his Peanut Butter Crunch—the food of the gods.
“Nice breakfast,” she said sarcastically with a nod at the Captain as he poured a heaping bowlful.
He scowled at her and pointedly poured more into his bowl just to piss her off.
“Aren’t you supposed to be making coffee?” He slammed the box on the counter beside him. “How about you focus on that and quit playing nutritionist. You might be my—ahem—boss for the next three months—and I use that term loosely, by the way—but I’m pretty sure I’m still allowed to eat whatever the fuck I want.”
She frowned and turned away, sweeping that intensely long hair over her shoulder. Trace’s eyes dropped to her ass again. He’d never noticed her heart-shaped ass behind all that Gothic clothing she usually wore, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off it. As he admired the perfection of her curves, his head absently tilted to one side as he held the milk carton at a shallow angle over his bowl, briefly forgotten, his gaze following her backside as she busied herself making coffee. Okay, so Cordray’s ass was nice. Real nice. Hypnotically nice. The kind of nice that makes a male think not-nice thoughts.
Thoughts he did not need to have about her.
He tore his gaze away. “What’s with the clothes?” He finally tipped the carton far enough to pour milk into his bowl. A few nuggets of peanut butter gold splashed over the edge, which he picked up and tossed back in. “Did your cave troll take the day off and forget to leave out your pointy hat and broom?”
Cordray shifted her weight from one leg to the other, making those glorious globes of flesh plump, one then the other. “Gee, that’s a good one, Trace. Did your ass give you that one, or are you just especially clever now that you’ve swapped spit with Micah?”
He chuckled and shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
Cordray looked over her shoulder and frowned. “You think that’s funny?”
Trace shrugged one shoulder and scooped up another heap of cereal. Something about Cordray was different. Softer maybe. But she still held an edge. A rusty, gnarled, jagged edge. But instead of being an axe, she was more like a chisel. It was as if her leather and usually extreme appearance acted as an energy source for her foul temperament and smart-assed mouth. But in real-people clothes, she wasn’t so tough.
Well, far be it for him not to take advantage of a gift from God. Maybe now he could gain the upper hand on this bitch. “I just think you sound like a jealous girlfriend.” He sneered and winked at her.
He got the exact reaction he wanted. Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together, and her mouth fell open.
“Not so tough without your armor, are you, sweetheart?” He spooned more of the Captain’s finest into his mouth, stared her down, chewed, swallowed, and grinned like the devil on Judgment Day. “Although . . .” His gaze pointedly dropped to her breasts, which were testing the tensile strength of Sam’s shirt. “Parts of you are a bit more appealing now than they usually are.”
Looked like her ass wasn’t the only thing her normal clothes played down. Cordray had enough up top to sprain his tongue if he were ever so inclined to poison himself by sucking her nipples.
Not that Cordray would ever let him get away with something like that, but the unbidden thought of shoving his face between her breasts sent an unexpected jolt of lust-filled electricity down his spine. What the fuck? He shook off the unusual sensation.
“You bastard.” Cordray hastily adjusted her hair to cover her chest as she turned away.
Thoughts of motorboating her boobs aside, this was fun. Finally, he had found Cordray’s weakness. Trace’s evening just got better and better. “How about you hurry up with that coffee, honey. I could use a cup myself.”
Something that looked like pain crossed Cordray’s features as she turned and headed out of the kitchen. “Make it yourself.” She disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom, where she slammed the door.
Good riddance.
Even so, it felt like some of the air had left the room with her. Her presence added a sense of exhilaration he could easily become addicted to. He frowned and lowered his head as he ate with a little less joy. He ended up throwing out the last few bites of his cereal before setting his empty bowl in the sink.
He eyed the Folgers and the carafe full of water. An uncomfortable sensation that resembled guilt settled over him. He had no reason to feel guilty over how he’d treated her. After all, this was Cordray. The goddess of the underworld. The bane of his existence.
“Fuck her,” he muttered as he turned to leave the kitchen.
He got two steps then stopped, shoulders rolling forward as he bowed his head and rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. Blowing out an exasperated breath, he turned and scowled at the abandoned coffee maker.
Fine. He could be nice. After all, everyone needed their coffee just after waking up. Even a witch like Cordray.
He crossed the kitchen, poured the water into the coffee maker, dumped three scoops of french roast into the filter, put everything in place, turned it on, and waited.
A few minutes later, he poured a cup, carried it down the hall, and knocked quietly on the bathroom door.
No reply.
He knocked again and huffed, shifting his weight to one foot and looking down at the floor.
“I made the coffee,” he said.
Still nothing.
How humiliating. He was actually trying to play nice with the spawn of Satan. Who would have thought he would ever stoop this low?
“Cordray?”
The door flew open, and Trace jerked his head up as he took a step back. Cordray had changed into her normal clothes, and she had braided and tied back her hair. Before Trace knew what was happening, she snatched the coffee, poured it down the drain, slammed the empty mug on the counter, and shoved her way past him.
“Fuck you and your coffee! I’d rather drink a cup of monkey piss.” She marched
toward the mud room.
Old Cordray was back. Yippee.
“I’m not sure I could get you any monkey piss, but . . .” Trace followed her, pointing toward the back door. “After last night’s rain, I’m sure I can find a puddle in the backyard and bring you back a mug of muddy water. Ungrateful hag.” He wasn’t ready to give up his earlier advantage just because she was back in her black leather armor. “I might even be able to find a couple of earthworms to make you feel like you’re drinking tequila.”
She snatched her coat off a hook and spun around. “You shouldn’t even be here! You should be—”
Trace threw his arms in the air. “I know, I know! God, you’re like a fucking broken record. Nag, nag, nag. Bitch, bitch, bitch.” He flapped his hand as if it were inside a puppet. “Always thinking about what you want. What you need.”
“Oh, I see. And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” She swung her arm around to indicate Micah’s house then got in his face and jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m here because of what I needed, right? Because there was nowhere else I wanted to be all day but inside this fucking house with fucking you and fucking Micah. Look in the mirror, asshole. I’m here right now because of what you needed. Because of what you wanted. So don’t you get all holier-than-thou with me, motherfucker.” Fire sparked inside her eyes as she snarled and got chest to chest with him. “You needed Micah to fuck you up. You needed to play whack-a-mo to keep your power from going all”—she raised her arms and wiggled her hands dramatically—“crazy shit on you. That was all you, pal. Not me.” She shoved past him and marched back through the kitchen. “I would be within my rights to take both you and Micah in and throw you in Bain’s dungeon for what you did.”
He wasn’t one to hit a girl, but right now, Cordray was pushing it. He followed her back into the living room. “You frigid cock blocker. You’re damn right I came here for me. Would you rather I go mutant on your ass? Huh? How would you like that? That would sure taint your image in the king’s eyes, wouldn’t it? His prized”—he looked her up and down, wrinkling his nose—“whatever you are. Little Miss Can-Do-No-Wrong-In-The-Eyes-Of-The-King lets a prisoner go mutant because she’s too far up her own ass to see he needs something she can’t give. How would the king like you then, honey?” He pushed himself farther into her personal space, but damn if she didn’t hold her ground, even though he could feel her wanting to retreat. “So how about you get out of my face and go get laid or something? Maybe then you’ll calm down. You need a good fuck like no one I’ve ever known!”
Her hand shot out and slapped him so hard he felt like his body wouldn’t catch up to his head for a week.
Damn!
And . . . wow!
Every thought in his head vanished.
He spun back around, eyes wide, mouth agape, with the most incredible burn of arousal he had ever felt tearing through his body.
She seemed to realize she had unleashed a demon and went deathly still except for her heavy breathing.
He was breathing hard, too, but for entirely different reasons. His gaze locked to hers, and he slowly ran his tongue over the seam of his mouth.
All he wanted was for her to hit him again. To feel her palm flash against his cheek and leave sacred, delicious pain in its wake. For her to shove him against the wall with enough force to bruise his back as she scratched her nails down his chest with enough viciousness to draw blood as she sank to her knees in front of him. What would that mouth—her teeth—feel like on his—?
“What the fuck is going on down here?”
Trace jerked away from Cordray and shot his head around to find Micah charging down the stairs with Sam on his heels, both of them haphazardly dressed. Micah was wearing the same pants he’d worn last night, with the button unfastened at his waist. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Sam had on flannel pajamas, which she had clearly just put on, since she was still buttoning the top.
Still somewhat dazed by what had just happened between him and Cordray, Trace’s mouth flapped open then shut. His voice had retreated into oblivion.
Micah jumped between them, shoving them apart. “You two could wake the dead.”
Trace’s voice finally returned, but as soon as he spoke, he wished he’d stayed mute. “She started it.” Yeah, like that was a mature response.
He looked away, but not before he caught the wary glance Sam exchanged with Micah.
“Seriously, Trace?” Micah said. “She started it? Are we in grade school here?”
Trace met Micah’s gaze and saw a shade of concern—and maybe worry—pass over his features.
“And you!” Micah turned toward Cordray, who looked as dazed as Trace felt. “I thought I told you to leave him alone.”
She snapped awake, and her eyes fired in Micah’s direction. “Fuck you, Micah. I did leave him alone. Get your goddamn facts straight before you pin your one-sided bullshit on me.”
“I would get my facts straight if I could see inside either one of your heads!” Every muscle in Micah’s body seemed to strain against his skin. “But both of you have such fucking thick walls up, I can’t—”
“Damn straight I’ve got my walls up around you, asshole!” Cordray’s face flamed red as she yelled at him. “Those are my memories, not yours!”
Sam stepped forward and tugged on Micah’s arm. “Baby, don’t. Come on, leave her alone.”
Micah took a deep breath then glanced over his shoulder at Sam. The look they exchanged made it appear they’d already talked about this. Whatever this was.
What gave here? What was Trace missing that everyone else seemed to be in on? He looked from Sam to Cordray to Micah and back to Sam, who smiled awkwardly at him and blinked several times before she let go of Micah’s arm and hustled toward the kitchen.
“Thank God,” she said. “Someone made coffee. How about we all come in and have breakfast. I can make waffles.” Good ol’ Sam, always trying to diffuse the tension.
Now that the magic from Cordray’s slap had dissipated, Trace scowled at his female nemesis. “I already ate.”
Cordray raised her chin and glared at him. “And I’m not hungry.”
Micah crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “Quit being idiots.” He lifted his chin and called into the kitchen. “Waffles sound fan-fucking-tastic, baby. I’m starved.”
Gathering herself, Cordray whipped her coat from the crook of her arm, punched her arms through the sleeves, and whipped the collar in place before crossing her arms over her breasts and tapping her foot. “I’m done waiting. Trace comes with me now, or I’ll have you both arrested for breaking the terms of his release.”
Trace started forward. “You bi—”
Micah planted his palm in the center of Trace’s chest before he could body slam Cordray into next month. “Cool it.” Micah’s voice betrayed his irritation, but he seemed to be exercising an enormous amount of patience as he turned toward Cordray. “Let’s calm down here. I need more time with him. He and I need to talk. There are”—his eyebrows bit into his eyelids—“things he and I need to discuss.”
The way Micah said things, Trace wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad.
Cordray’s eyes brightened as a measured smile spread over her mouth. “Aaaahhh, I see.” Her gaze bounced from Micah to Trace and back again. “This is about Brak.”
Fear jolted Trace’s heart. “Brak? What about him?” If something had happened to his brother now that he’d just learned he was still alive, Trace would lose it. “Is he okay? Is he safe?” Maybe a better question was how Micah even knew about Brak, seeing that Trace had never talked about him and Micah couldn’t see inside his head to find out about him on his own.
Micah gripped Trace’s arms. “Just . . . calm down, Trace.” To Cordray he said, “And you. Get. Out. Of my head.”
Trace resisted Micah’s hold and turned toward Cordray with a lot of you’d-better-not-be-behind-this and don’t-fuck-with-me pouring from his glare. After all, Cordray had made thr
eats against Brak when she visited Trace’s cell a week ago. When she saw inside Trace’s thoughts and learned that Brak’s ethereal form had been there.
“If you did anything to my brother,” he snarled at her, “I swear to God, I’ll—”
“Simmer down, buttercup.” She uncrossed her arms and leaned her hip against the back of a chair. “I haven’t touched your precious brother.”
Trace’s frown deepened, and he turned toward Micah. “What’s going on?” Irrational fear stabbed his gut as the memories he’d forced away barely forty-five minutes ago in the downstairs bathroom resurfaced.
Cordray slid back out of her coat. “Yes, Micah. Why don’t you share the good news with Trace?” She gave them both a sickly sweet smile then breezed by them in the direction of the kitchen. “You know, Sammy, I think I’ll be staying, after all.” She flipped her long braid aside as she threw a self-satisfied glance over her shoulder at him. “After all, I love waffles.”
Trace turned toward Micah, feeling helpless and agitated. “What’s going on?”
Micah blew out a heavy breath, his expression serious. “Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen. Have some breakfast. Then we can talk.” He tipped his head toward the sound of an iron skillet being set on the stove.
“No, not until you tell me what’s going on with my brother. How did you even find out about him? Did she tell you?” He scowled and gestured aggressively in the direction Cordray had gone. “What has she done? Did she hunt him down?” He was giving Cordray a lot of credit if he thought she’d been able to do in one week what he hadn’t been able to do in two hundred years, which should have been a clue he was thinking irrationally. “I swear if she’s done anything to hurt Brak—”
“Cool it, Trace.” Micah braced his arms, giving him a little shake to jar him back to reality. “Cordray hasn’t done anything to Brak. He’s fine.” Micah’s grip eased as he let go and took a step back.
“What do you mean, he’s fine? Have you seen him?”
Micah nodded reluctantly. “Brak’s here, buddy. He’s in Chicago.”
