by Angel Payne
Cassian’s jaw firms. “Over the back garden wall.”
“What the—”
“Over the—”
“How the—”
Mallory, Prim, and Kate cut short their triplicate of shock as I wrench free from his hold—yearning to pummel him once again. Much harder. “You did what?”
“He got it done.” Doyle chuffs. “Nice.”
“Shut. Up.” Maybe I will start by smacking on him. The idea still appeals, even when I wheel back to Cassian, and fight not to sway at the new hit of his golden beauty. The effect is given a punch of holy-shit-wow by the rugged mess of his hair, the tawny grit of his stubble, and the smudges of dirt up and down his clothes. Now, I even notice the small tear in one of his pants legs, and the blood on the knee beneath. Dammit. I need to throttle him. I long to kiss him. And more.
“Sorry, armeau.” But he does not mean a syllable of it. At least not for the stupidity for which I stand here seething at him. He is even more brazen when stomping further into the room. “Shutting up is not on the action plan for anyone today.”
Doyle powers the television all the way down. Straightens into a battle stance that matches Cassian’s…too damn perfectly. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“What?” I rush forward. Once more, my glare is a frantic metronome from one to the other of them. “What is he talking about?”
*
Cassian
I inhale. Exhale. It all feels like fire in my lungs, without a chance of escape. Doesn’t matter. I don’t even want one—though answering her has just turned into hell’s own battle because of it.
Challenge accepted. With pleasure.
A minute ago, the task wouldn’t have been so daunting. But those sixty seconds ago, all I functioned on was the adrenaline that got me over the back wall, riding an inner locomotive of pissed off and determined. It was stoked to life during the minutes I sat in Doyle’s truck, trying to get a step ahead of this mess by Googling myself on my phone. Sure enough, gossip blog posts flared up the feed, with the promise of assorted hashtags and memes to follow.
I’d pounded the dashboard, thinking of Ella’s reaction to the shit storm—Kate had beat me back here, meaning someone was already aware of it—and in frustration, hated myself for not being the one by her side instead. Despising those goddamn reporters for delaying me from getting here sooner. Making me sneak into my own home…
It had been just a taste.
A tiny bite of the outrage upon which my psyche has just gorged, walking in at the end of Chantal Dunne’s “news” report—a story TGN has clearly ordered their vulture editors to hold on to, waiting for the most succulent moment to stab into the meat. And the fact that the meat is still alive? Writhes and twists with every one of their slices, her generous face crunching, her sweet body tensing, her pain like a panicked creature in the very air, struggling beneath their ruthless blade?
That’s not their concern. It never is.
Which has turned them into my concern.
Blazing my course brutally clear.
Unsnap my sheath. And show them the size of my knife.
I power the resolution to my gaze then my grip, clutching Ella back against me—hating myself once more for a move as asshole as TGN’s. But there’s a difference to my action. My knife is pointed out, not in. And I’m sure as hell ready to start using it.
“Dammit, Ella.” I rasp it against her forehead. “I’m so sorry…about all of this.”
Her body sags enough that I know she won’t resist again—thank fuck—though she tugs her head back enough to pierce me with all the crystalline facets of her brilliant gaze. “Because you were the one responsible for any of it?”
“Because I was the one responsible for all of it.” Despite the press of our bodies, I hold her tighter. Pain races up my arm but the agony’s worth it. The completion I feel with her near… God help me. Even with our clothes on, the mesh of our forms feels like a union…a oneness I’ve never had with anyone. No, not even Lily. The constant poison in Lily’s body killed off that possibility.
“All right.” Ella draws out both words while arching a dubious brow. “So you were the one who held those photographers at gunpoint, forcing them to follow us all over town?”
I twist my lips. “I’m the big game their news director wanted to bag, making him pull out the gun.”
“Damned expensive gun.”
Kate’s comment earns her Doyle’s defined nod. “The pictures in Times Square were a freebie—but paying off the restaurant staff and the boat dock crews…” He snorts and shakes his head. “Hell, even having tip-off assets inside the damn hospital…”
“Fuck.”
It spews before I can stop it, though nothing would’ve changed it with any forethought. I’m torn between grabbing Ella closer and fully pushing her away. Goddamn. Will I protect her best by giving her up?
Not. An. Option.
“Cassian Cameron Jonathan. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lady in your arms.”
“And an army of media after my balls, Mother.” At once, my body tautens as if the statement isn’t just allegory. My tension spears into Ella, turning her into a stiff plank too. To Doyle I command, “Call the office of Presbyterian’s CEO, and set up a meeting. That ER will be investigated, and I will have the snitch fired.” I leave out the part about hoping it’s that asshole Yago. “After that, pull Daniel Boulud’s number from my database too. I think he’s traveling right now, but he’ll take my call. I didn’t just pay for a great Beaujolais and roasted duck last week. The discretion of his staff—”
“Hasn’t been an issue before.” Doyle steps around the couch, calmly assuming what I like to call his “bodyguard battle stance.” He’s never used it on me before, though. It’s…weird. “Nor should we assume it’s an issue now. More likely, the rat at the restaurant was a new hire at the valet stand, not properly trained yet. Those are independent companies who hire a lot of college kids.”
“So you’re saying my privacy was sold for someone’s weed money?”
“No. I’m saying somebody wasn’t given proper training, and—”
“And I don’t give a shit.” My roar makes everyone step back but him. Yeah, even Ella—which fires up my self-hatred all over again. Fucking. Great. It’s not even noon, and so far today I’ve not-so-subtly insulted a few medical professionals, called my dead brother a selfish asshole, and watched the woman I love be turned into a trending hashtag under #billionaire bang toys.
And now get to watch that woman look at me like the proverbial second head has sprouted from my neck. And maybe it has. Since I unlocked the door to that damn turret and climbed into that room again, it feels like another person has clamored to burst free from me—a goddamn beast, prowling that cage along with Lily’s restless ghost, only one message imprinted on its mind.
You didn’t do enough.
You didn’t protect her.
You didn’t make the hard choices that would’ve saved her.
I breathe hard, listening to every heaving breath and snarling word from the monster now. If that means he’s had to manifest into another head off my neck, then so be it. My regular one will be happy to channel the message too, just so everyone hears it—especially me.
“I want heads on platters, Doyle. Is that fucking clear? I’ll have a stack of pink slips on my desk by next Monday—and right next to them, apology letters addressed personally to Mishella.”
Doyle stiffens. Draws back a harsh breath, teeth locked—but in the moment I’m sure he’ll haul a crossbow out of his jeans, I am cut down by harsher opposition.
The breathtaking blonde at my side.
“By all the bloody powers in heaven.” Mishella reclaims the step I blew her back by, delivering a new slap to the center of my chest—only this time, she’s not I’m-grateful-you’re-alive pissed. This is I-may-just-kill-you-myself pissed. “You are joking…yes?”
I slash a glare down. Jolt one brow up. “I’ve neve
r been more serious in my fucking life.”
Her nose scrunches. Her lips part, unveiling the tight lock of her teeth. “No,” she seethes. “You are not.”
Rough inhalation. A forest fire raging in my bloodstream. “Mishella. For Christ’s sake—”
“No.” She whomps my chest again. “No, Cassian—for my sake—you need to take a giant chilled pickle and—”
“Chill pill?” Kate supplies the guess.
“That too,” Ella snaps. “I really do not care how it happens—but you make it fucking so, Mr. Court.” She halts, letting the stunning impact of the dictate in. And this time, it is stunning. I’m close to certain nobody in this room has heard that special English word from her before, except me—and I can count the occasions I have on one hand, since I remember them clearly. The f word is a delicious damn thing when the woman’s begging me to actually do it to her…
Memories that turn it into fifteen kinds of hot temptation now.
Yeah. It’s official. I’m whipped for this woman.
No damn use fighting it.
Instead, I suck back more air. Hold up both hands—in grudging surrender.
“All right. Fine. I’m listening, armeau.”
Rough air puffs Doyle’s lips. “Annnd hell really has frozen over.”
“Shut up,” I snarl.
Ella steps between my arms. Slides her hands up to my sternum, my shoulders, the sides of my face. Though I swallow hard, half the stress drains from my body. I’m not sure that it hasn’t gone away…simply that now, it’s understood. In her sorceress eyes and magical touch, I feel that. I know it.
“I have…an interesting idea,” she finally murmurs.
One side of my mouth quirks—as one half of my soul willingly dances its way over to her. “Heads on pikes instead of pink slips on my desk? Ow.” At least her dual tweaks on my ears distract from the hot needles in my hand. Even if they didn’t, the cyan glow of her eyes would be worth it.
“Instead of retaliation…why should we not try recompensation?”
“Huh?” Doyle mutters.
“Recompen—what?” Kate is louder about her confusion.
Ella circles both hands to my nape. Sets her chin so our gazes fully meet. “Why do we not give them what they want, Cassian? Work with them, not against them. Together.”
I dig the fingers of my good hand into the top of her arm. “You’re serious.”
She presses closer. With her head rocked back, still meeting every burning scrutiny of my gaze with gorgeous serenity of her own, she whispers. “Yes. I am.”
“In that case, you’re also crazy.”
She rises slowly on tiptoe, taking my bottom lip between both her own. So damn soft. So fucking sexy. “Probably.”
I dip my head, unable to resist the perfect taste of her…the incredible, insane waltz to which her soul has invited mine. “In that case, Miss Santelle…you’re also on.”
NINE
*
Mishella
My consciousness crawls out of the haze of sleep, into the strange place a brain goes when awakened by thoughts or circumstances beyond its norm.
In this case, both are true.
Before my eyes are open, I know I am not in my usual bed at Temptation. The body heat and soft snores of the man wrapped against me, smelling like cedar soap and sandalwood shampoo, supplies that clue before my eyes are open. I crack my gaze open by a little, smile by a little more, then burrow closer to Cassian, wondering how I gave this up for six long weeks. Being in this bed has not been the same as waking up in this bed, even if this still does not officially qualify as such an occasion. We have only been asleep for a few hours, after all…
What time is it?
Trying to gauge the hour by the light through the windows is fruitless. Summer showers were predicted and have arrived, spattering drops against the window beyond the Roman shades, and turning his bedroom into a collection of misty brown and gray. I peer around, conducting a slow study of the space that has become so familiar. The stark lines of the modern furnishings are mellowed by fixtures in graceful curls, cushions in soft fabrics, and the clothes Cassian tossed before taking thirty seconds of a shower—the door repaired by Hodge before we were even finished at the hospital—then falling into bed, his pain meds having finally kicked in.
I sigh quietly…and wish the same peace would make its way to my mind.
Instead, my thoughts are awake and ablaze in flashing, rioting colors.
Green. Gold. Red.
Green. Gold. Red.
Go. Slow. Stop.
Then again and again and again, taunting stoplights on the street race inside my mind. I need to go. Just let me floor it…
I push out a small huff, though it softens to a smile the moment a memory takes over. My first hour in the city. Cassian and I still on our way home in the Jag. The streets whizzing by, a kaleidoscope of amazing sights, sounds, color, humanity. And the streetlights, enrapturing me…
So when the lights turn red, everyone just stops? What if someone does not agree to that?
My smile grows, as I recall Cassian’s reaction. He’d given that special laugh, from deep in his chest…as if I had just given him the largest delight of our journey. Now, I know that I likely did—and that this man sat there, entertaining the possibility of being that one to not agree. That if he so wished, every light on our route would have indeed been green.
Cassian Court.
The man who has brought endless possibility to my life.
To my heart.
The confession is not new—though the fit of it in my psyche is. It presses a fascinating weight to my chest as I circle my stare back to him.
Unbelievable.
He takes my breath away even when lost to sleep, though it is in different ways than his “Mr. Court” mode. Stripped out of dark Prada and custom Ferragamo, the Bluetooth gone from his ear, he is like a massive lion freed from the zoo, allowed to laze in all his tawny glory…and latent danger.
I love him.
And there it is. The largest part of the danger. I love him—to frightening reaches of my heart and terrifying corners of my soul. But it took him lying in the Bryant Park bushes, bleeding from the three bullets in his body because of defending me, for fate to clonk me over the head with that truth, as well as its peculiar gift of an aftermath.
Hiding does not take away the fear.
And only makes the vulnerability worse.
I refuse to accept weakness about something that has brought me such strength—someone I want to give strength to. No moment coalesced those conclusions more than standing with Cassian in the living room this morning, and embracing him in the spirit of that bright, amazing courage.
You’re serious.
Yes. I am.
In that case, you’re also crazy.
A new smile lifts my lips from the memory. “I am crazy about you, Cassian Court.”
I confess it as quietly as I can but the vibrations tickle the valley between his biceps. His snore cuts short. “Huh?” he mumbles, inciting my tiny giggle. The boyish sound, together with the dark gold waves tousling his forehead, make me brush a kiss across the spot I have tantalized.
“Go back to sleep, beastie.”
Though his eyes do not open, a scowl compresses his face. A growl works up his throat. “The fuck, woman? Beastie?”
I laugh again. “It is an endearment.”
“Hmmph. You mean like ‘stud muffin’ or ‘schnookums’?”
I trace a finger along the plateau of his collarbone then the perfect hill of his shoulder. “I mean like ‘beastie’—as in, you remind me of a lazing lion.” I explore the sleek lines of muscle down his arm, reveling in how they tighten slightly beneath my touch. “You are beautiful…but sort of lethal.”
His sulk changes. His eyes form assessing slits. “Sort of?”
“Well, you will not be chomping off anyone’s head in the near future.”
“And that’s good?”
&
nbsp; The incredulity in his tone makes me slap his bicep. He snickers, still watching me from a narrowed but smoldering gaze. By the powers. In Vy’s terminology, the man is wicked hot.
“For the record, Mr. Court, that is very good.”
He slides a sensual smirk. Clearly, the painkillers are still working, and I am glad—perhaps even tempted to take advantage of his diminished guard and dig in about where he disappeared in Doyle’s truck this morning—but he still looks in need of more slumber, and that is more important than prying about what cannot be changed.
“Well, I hope all those spared skulls are grateful.” He resettles, pushing his head closer to mine on the pillow. “And in my not-so-humble opinion, should still be writing you letters.”
“Letters?” I retort. “What on Earth for?”
“Thank-you notes.” The sheets rustle as he slides his lower body closer, hooking an ankle around one of mine. “They owe you. For taming the lion.”
I teasingly purse my lips. “That was the lion’s choice, not mine.”
“Bullshit.” He growls low, nudging my nose with his. “The lion knows who holds his balls in her hand.”
“Your balls are nowhere near my hand.”
“That can be rectified.”
Another laugh spills free. “Now I think the lion’s painkillers are talking.”
His leg yanks on mine. Aligns our bodies even tighter, slotting the bulge between his thighs into the cushion between mine. I shudder through a gasp. He savors it with a stare as mysterious as rainforest depths, capturing his lower lip beneath his teeth. So hot. “I’m not completely numb, favori.”
“Oh…my,” I whisper. “Well, clearly…ahhhh!” The cry bursts out as his fingers slip in, grazing one of my nipples through my bra.
“What are you still doing in this?” He slides that touch down, pushing at the waistline of my panties. “And these?”
By the Creator’s angels. His caresses make me feel like crystal artwork, a treasure adored. My lungs hitch. My blood trembles in every inch of my veins. “The lion tamer has to have a costume.”
