Holy God. What was his problem? Desire never got the best of him. But looking at Grace revved sexual longing into overdrive. Which didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t high-energy, so he shouldn’t be fixating on her like—
Her energy flared, then exploded. The corresponding blaze filled out her aura. Nian flinched as the effervescent light expanded around her. The tip of the fire poker dipped an instant before she came out of her fighting stance, relaxing, daring to trust his word and...
Strike that last thought. Not high-energy, his ass.
The more relaxed she became, the brighter her connection to the Meridian burned. Which meant...improbable as it seemed...she was the rarest of the rare. A zinmera, a female able to alter her energy stream the same way chameleons changed colors, blending into the surrounding terrain, instinct urging her to camouflage herself as a low-energy female in the presence of his kind to avoid detection. Nian knew females of her caliber existed. He’d seen one as a boy, in his sire’s harem, but...
Nian shivered, fighting the prickle of sensation ghosting over his skin. No wonder he’d wanted her the second he saw her at the auction house. Without knowing it, his skill at illusion had sensed hers, making it impossible for him to ignore her, never mind leave her for another male to claim.
“What do you mean...next?” Back to being wary, her energy dimmed.
As her aura downgraded from brilliant to somber, relief arrived, unlocking his lungs, allowing Nian to take a deep breath. He fingered her driver’s license, then tossed it onto the tabletop beside the bag. “You can’t go home, Grace. The life you knew is over.”
“Wha—why?”
“The thugs who kidnapped you work for a lethal male. One who enjoys brutalizing females,” he said, deploying vicious honesty, leaving no room for doubt. “The moment you resurface...go back to work or your home...they will find and take you again. And the second time is never a charm, talmina. You will be used by multiple males, day after day until your life force ebbs, after which your body will be disposed of like trash.”
As intended, his graphic description hit her where it counted, driving home her peril.
Fear spiked in her scent a second before it flared in Grace’s eyes.
Nian clenched his teeth. Unfair. For her, not him. He hated to scare her, but one fact remained indisputable. Her terror gave him the upper hand. And he needed every advantage to win the silent war he waged with Rodin. If that included frightening Grace, so be it. He wanted her gone, to ensure she left Prague and never came back. Her exile equaled his salvation. The Archguard would be watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. And freeing Grace—leaving her untouched and alive—would amount to a serious one.
The action jeopardized his position. Rodin would believe him a weak fool, and the rest of the Archguard would follow suit.
“What am I supposed to do?” Her already pale face grew ashen. “I don’t have any money or anywhere else to go. I—”
“You will take the new identity I have secured for you and leave Europe.” He flicked at the duffel’s handles. “Inside this bag is everything you need...clothes, an untraceable cell phone, information for the bank account I set up for you in America. My servant, Lapier, will drive you to the airport where you will board a plane under your assumed name and never come back.”
“But—”
“Never, Grace,” he growled, the aggression in his tone making her jump. “You get low and you stay there. Nothing familiar. No calls to friends or family. No vacations that bring you home. Understood?”
“No.”
Well, at least she was honest. He couldn’t fault her for that.
“Do you wish to live, Grace?” When she whispered “yes” she nearly broke his heart. And all of a sudden, he wanted to keep her...to lock her away inside his mountain lair and make her his. The urge circled a moment, tempting him, stoking his imagination before Nian shoved it aside. He didn’t have time for nonsense. Or room in his life for a female. Zinmera or not, she needed to go...and do it now before he lost his head and decided to claim her in the way of his kind. “Then do as I say. Take the bag and go.”
She hesitated a second, then broke eye contact with him to set the poker down. A tremor in her hand, she leaned the makeshift weapon against the end of the couch and approached him on silent feet. Nian tensed, every nerve ending alive as Grace’s energy flared again, electrifying the air around him. Hunger dug a hole in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, the movement compulsive, belying his thirst for the female he yearned to draw close even as he pushed her away.
Grace reached for the bag. The need to know made him reach for her. As he curled his hand around her wrist, pleasure zapped him. She gasped. He growled and, with a gentle tug, brought her close. The work of a moment, he cupped the back of her head and set his mouth to her temple. Connected at three points—wrist, nape, and temple—he tapped into the Meridian and drank deep, drawing the nourishment he needed through her. His knees went weak as, drunk on sensation, she overloaded him with need, satisfying his hunger in ways he never imagined.
Invigorated. Captivated. Beyond denying his reaction, Nian drew more, increasing the powerful flow even as shame surfaced. He ignored it, glutting himself. Grace tensed and recoiled, fighting his hold. But it was too late. He’d already damned himself with the bounty of her taste. With the press of her lithe curves and the decadent scent of her skin.
Which forced him to let her go. In a hurry.
A mistake. He’d made a terrible miscalculation.
Grace didn’t belong to him. He didn’t want her to, either. His position—and the power play he was neck-deep in—demanded 100 percent of his attention. But the second she grabbed the bag and ran for the door, Nian mourned the loss of her warmth and raged against the emptiness it left inside him. A moment later he ridiculed himself for his reaction. Females were nothing but trouble, a pleasurable distraction meant to last a few hours, not a lifetime.
And he’d had enough for one night.
Now he must focus and get back in the game. The first order of business? Getting a message to Haider and Gage. He couldn’t connect to either warrior through mind-speak (the method of communication required proximity and magical consent by both parties), so...no question. An old-fashioned note would have to do. The Nightfuries needed to know about Rodin’s profitable yet oh so illegal business—and where that money was being funneled.
The intel was prime. And Nian planned to leverage the hell out of it. Crank it so hard he ended up getting what he wanted...a face-to-face meeting with the Nightfury commander.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Feeling lighter than she had in ages, J.J. hummed one of her new tunes, trying out different lyrics for the chorus, and pushed the door to the prison library open. As she stepped over the threshold, the smell of old paperbacks and furniture polish floated on the slow roll of air kicked out by the heat vents. Hmm, heaven. Her good mood quadrupled within moments, beating a happy tune inside her heart. She loved it here, in the peace and quiet, surrounded by stacks of books in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
The fact that judgment day loomed less than a month away didn’t hurt her state of mind, either. Soon. So very soon. Any day now, really, and she’d get another letter...be given the exact day and hour she would meet with the parole board. Couple that news with the fact the prison librarian had asked for her by name and...
Yup. On a scale of one to ten, today qualified as a solid eight. No doubt about it.
Now if only Daisy the Destroyer would leave her alone that eight might turn into a happy-go-lucky ten. But J.J. wasn’t that fortunate. The woman was dogging her again, mouthing off at mealtime, slinging insults, bumping her in line, trying to get a rise out of her. With a sigh, J.J. hung a left and headed toward the checkout desk, wondering what the heck Daisy thought she was doing.
The question reeked of redundancy.
Dum-dum Daisy didn’t have a clue...couldn’t figure out, never mind understand, why J.J. never ros
e to her bait. But then, thinking required a working brain. Something J.J. was pretty certain her nemesis didn’t own. Too many drugs before her prison stint, maybe. Or maybe she’d hit herself on the head one too many times while doing bicep curls out in the yard.
Ding-dong. Lights-out. Brain damage assured.
The mental snapshot made J.J. smile. Swallowing a laugh, she stopped in front of the head librarian’s desk and rang the bell. As the ding echoed, movement flashed behind the counter. A second later Mrs. Smithers popped up in front of her, round face red from exertion, plump frame encased in a neon-green T-shirt.
Accustomed to the librarian’s odd shirt collection, J.J. squinted, protecting her retinas from color overload, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Smithers.”
“Oh, hello, dear,” the librarian said, sweat beading on her upper lip. With a huff, she picked up the Vanity Fair magazine sitting on the countertop and fanned herself with it. “Menopause, dear. Avoid it as long as you can.”
“Good advice.”
“I think so. Now...” Mrs. Smithers trailed off as a fly buzzed into her field of vision. She swatted at it with the magazine, missing by a mile. Distracted by the uninvited guest in her library, she glanced around and muttered “infernal little bugger” a second before turning to refocus on J.J. “Now, what can I help you with, dear?”
J.J. blinked. “Ah, you asked me to come down?”
“Oh, right! Of course I did. Silly me.” The housefly flew past again. Mrs. Smithers’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. On the hunt, she abandoned the magazine, grabbed a copy of the Seattle Times, and rolled the newspaper. “We received a new shipment of books this morning, J.J. I need you to sort and catalog each one, then place them on the shelves.”
Excitement bumped J.J.’s internal scale, elevating her mood from an excellent eight to exuberant nine. A whole day spent in the library with books. Oh happy day. Could there be anything better? Well, other than a baby grand piano?
Nope. Not much better.
Unable to hold it in, J.J. grinned. “Thank you for thinking of me, Mrs. Smithers.”
“Off to work with you now, dear,” she said, a smile in her dark eyes even as she shooed her away. “You know the drill.”
Yes, she did. Every once in a while, Mrs. Smithers called her in. Sometimes it was to dust and clean. Sometimes to reorganize shelves or set up new displays. But her favorite all-time activity was sorting through the new orders that arrived at the prison. The librarian always gave her the pick of the litter, allowing her to take a book back to her cell before anyone else read it. Creased the spine. Or dirtied the pages with their fingertips. All right. So it wasn’t much, but a privilege was a privilege, no matter how small.
And honestly? On the inside, you took what you could get and thanked your lucky stars.
Retreating toward the back of the library, J.J. walked between two tall stacks. Silence reigned but wouldn’t for long. The other inmates would arrive soon, taking turns in the resource center, listening to music or reading in the hallowed corner of the prison. A sharp left and two doors later, J.J. crossed the threshold into Mrs. Smithers’s sorting room. Two large stainless steel tables with scuffed tops sat at its center, waiting patiently to be used. J.J. didn’t waste a moment. She attacked the first box, flipping the cardboard top open.
New releases emerged along with some solid classics.
Lost in the activity, she read title after title, loving the slide and rasp of the binding against her palms, organizing the books by author and category. As the tables filled up, she surveyed her handiwork.
The sharp click of a door closing dragged her attention away from the books.
With a frown, J.J. glanced over her shoulder and—
Froze.
Daisy stood inside the room, a vein pulsing at her temple, two of her thuggish friends by her side. But worse, with the door closed and the room situated at the back of the library, no one could see them. J.J.’s heart started to pound. Oh God. Oh crap in a dozen different languages. She was in serious trouble. The kind that got inmates killed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The elevator’s smooth descent into Black Diamond’s underground lair was torture—plain, simple anguish without end. Too bad Tania didn’t know how to stop the pain. Or stem the flow of worry killing her inside. Moment by moment, the pressure got worse, upping the ante, turning her head into a pressure cooker, making her want to scream. Explode. Yell at Mac for pushing her away in the psychological sphere.
She could feel it happening. Sensed his retreat and the growing distance between them, even though she stood right next to him. The elevator swayed. Her arm brushed against his, cranking her tighter, stretching the emotional bond she shared with him until it threatened to snap her in two. Tania closed her eyes and breathed deep, battling to stay calm.
Agony. It was pure agony. And 100 percent her fault.
She’d screwed up in a major way.
She should never have told Mac that she loved him. Her unwitting slip had sent him into a tailspin, one that included a fast exit and even quicker escape as he hustled out of his bedroom and down the main corridor. Which, yup, you guessed it. Put them in the elevator, heading toward the other Nightfury warriors, silence ringing between them, tension rising like a tidal wave, her panic at an all-time high.
Tears threatened, clogging the back of her throat. Tania swallowed, holding them back, and looked straight ahead. A double set of steel doors stared back, mocking her with the beauty of Mac’s reflection. God, what a joke. His silence. Her need. The awful feeling of isolation. Less than ten minutes ago, she’d been one half of a whole. Now she stood alone, cracked wide open, torn into tiny pieces with no hope of ever putting herself back together.
It was sad, really, how much she needed a hug right now.
But comfort wasn’t in the cards. The moment belonged to survival and developing a solid action plan. What should she do...ignore the problem or face it head-on? A chasm of indecision opened inside her, and as uncertainty wreaked havoc, her heart ached. Tania swallowed past the knot in her throat. Maybe she should say something. Talk. Explain. Take it back and tell him it had been a mistake, a slip of the tongue, a reaction born out of relief, but...
Stow that thought. Put it away forever. She couldn’t do it.
Lying wouldn’t help. Neither would clinging to him. Begging him to love her back probably wouldn’t work, either. And honestly? Acting like a lovesick ninny didn’t tick any of her boxes. In fact, the thought unchecked everything, then turned up its nose in disgust. She needed to be reasonable. Think logically and put her brain in gear. Some things, after all, were doomed to fail, weren’t meant to be...yada yada yada, whatever. The world was full of people who slept together, had a good time, then moved on. No sense getting bent out of shape about it. Right? Tania indulged in a mental nod. Exactly. No problem. If Mac wanted a fling with no strings attached, well then, she would just...
Kill him.
Poke his eyes out with the business end of a sharp stick or something.
Tania blinked. Oh thank God. She was back, reconnecting to the tough, in-your-face girl she knew and loved. So, yup. Forget about a fast escape for Mac. She would have her fairy tale and the love required to nurture it. If he thought for one moment she would roll over and die, he could go straight to—
The elevator pinged.
A second later the doors slid open to reveal another corridor. A quick snapshot provided Tania with the details. Less fancy than the one upstairs, the one she faced epitomized utilitarian: no art or curved moldings, no gleaming hardwood floors or expensive wall sconces. Nothing but an ocean of white walls, high ceilings, and polished concrete floors.
Rolling his shoulders, Mac put his combat boots to use. Nowhere near ready to let him go, Tania reached out, disrupting his getaway by grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. Leather creaked in protest. She held on tight, feeling him tense before he glanced at her, surprise in his eyes.
Her gaze clashed wit
h his. Tania dug deep and found her courage. It was now or never. And never was not acceptable when it came to her and Mac. “Listen...about before. I—”
“Bloody hell. ’Tis about time, lad.” The deep growl rumbled from the corridor. Less than a second later, the warrior who owned it stepped into view. Tania glared at him. Forge took one look at her face, blinked, then retreated, bumping into the wall opposite the open doors. “Apologies, lass. But honestly, an elevator isnae the best place for a heartfelt chat.”
Frustration surged, unleashing her temper. She glanced at Mac. “Can I kill him?”
Mac’s lips twitched. He shook his head.
“Maim him then?” she said. “Just a little?”
“For what...my timely intervention?” Amethyst eyes glinting with good humor, Forge raised a brow. “Overkill, if you ask me, lass.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
Mac grinned. “No killing...or maiming of Nightfuries allowed. House rules.”
“Figures.” Releasing her death grip on his jacket, she threw both warriors a dirty look. It was a conspiracy. Or a club, one called the get-your-butt-out-of-a-sling brotherhood. Flipping guys. With a grumble, Tania stepped into the corridor. The scrape of Mac’s footfalls sounded behind her, but unable to let it go, she spun and leveled her finger at him. “But don’t think for one minute you escaped. We will talk about it.”
Forge laughed. “Oh-ho. Watch out, lad.”
“Talk about what?” Myst asked, walking into the conversation from an open doorway farther down the corridor.
Tania took a breath, preparing to answer. Mac swatted the curve of her behind, landing a stinger with his palm. As she gasped in outrage, he caressed the abused area with one hand, cupped her nape with the other, and leaned in. His mouth brushed hers. Her heart hitched, pausing midthump as he pulled back to gauge her response.
Fury of Seduction Page 32
