by Kelsey Vance
But I can't. Because I'm a thief, and he's a mark, and he doesn't know it.
I shove myself off the stool and stumble down the hallway to the stairs. There are many of them, too many—but I manage to haul myself up to the second floor and amble to my room for a long, cool shower.
After placing fresh bandages, I put my bra back on, then a tank top and shorts. Who knows what could happen during the night? I'd rather the girls not be bouncing around freely if I need to run or fight.
Wandering back into the bedroom, I grip the carved bedpost and swing lightly on it on my way to the door. The round knob at the top of the bedpost twists, and I stumble. I wasn't expecting it to give way. I peer at it, screwing it left and right, then left again. Round and round it goes, unscrewing, until the knob pops free.
Beneath it, in the bedpost, is a small hollow. And inside the hollow is an oddly shaped stone, bound by metal filaments to a long, thin chain.
The stone is half tomato-red, half snow-white, smoothly rounded like a river rock.
Breathe, Cilla, I tell myself. My heart is thumping loudly.
This is it. The Sedona Madstone. After all that searching, I found it. Here. In this guest room, in the bedpost.
Why, why, would old Kobe Ashton hide it here? He must have been crazy—or very, very clever, because no one who was looking for it would ever find it. And anyone coming upon it by accident would likely have no idea of its true power and value.
I don't have pockets, and it would look odd to carry my purse around with me. There's only one place to put it. I shove the Madstone into my bra, under the curve of my breast where any faint lump will be less noticeable.
I should go to Nali immediately and tell her that I have it. But we still wouldn't be able to leave until our reinforcements arrive from the Patronage. I can't give it to the siblings. If I do, they'll try to use it to break the barrier, which won't work—and then there will be the sticky matter of taking it from them when the Patronage team arrives. And of course I can't let the magical bastard beyond the wall get his hands on it.
So I'll keep it safe, until our backup arrives. No one needs to know that I have it.
Feeling strangely excited, flushed, and powerful, I open the bedroom door.
Ryden is walking down the hall, blanket in hand. Shirtless, of course.
"No cockroaches this time?" he says, grinning.
I can't restrain my answering smile. "Were you hanging out up here, hoping I'd scream in the shower again?"
"I was brushing my teeth. Though I did keep my ears open." He smirks. "A guy can hope, right?"
"So you were hoping I'd get scared out of my mind again so you could see me naked?"
"If there are other ways to see you naked, I'm game," he says softly.
My breath hitches in my lungs. "Aren't you too tired?" Stupid question, Cilla!
That smile of his—it's a panty-melter for sure. "Are you?"
Eyes locked to his, I shake my head.
This is happening. This is really happening.
Damn. I have the madstone in my bra.
"One second," I say, and I slip back into the bedroom and close the door. I replace the Madstone in its hollow and screw the knob back on tightly. I can get it later.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door again and catch Ryden's wrist. "Come in."
I lock the door behind him. And then I stand awkwardly, not sure where to look or what to do. My college boyfriend, Nate, used to grab my shoulders and smash my mouth with kisses while walking me to the bed. He'd throw me onto it, usually on my belly, and then plunge in, taking what he wanted. I'm easy to please, so I still managed to get my share of fun most of the time—but there wasn't much foreplay, or variety.
So when Ryden just stands there, watching me, I'm not sure what to do.
He senses my hesitation. "Are you sure you want this?"
My eyes travel the cut of him, his abdomen and chest and arms. Yes, I want this.
I move to him as he comes for me, and his arms slip around my waist, fingers gliding underneath the soft material of the tank top. In one swift move, he slides it up, over my head and away. He touches my bandaged ribs lightly.
"Are you okay to do this?"
"Yes," I say hoarsely. "Stop asking and just—"
He yanks me toward him, and my skin burns with soft fire against his, sensations surging low in my belly, his touch flooding my entire body with tingling, throbbing desire. His lips caress and crush, punishing and soothing by turns. I sweep my tongue through his mouth, pressing my hips to his, wanting to be in him, with him—wanting him inside me.
We break apart for bare seconds to shuck off the rest of our clothes. Even though he has seen me naked before, I fight the urge to hide parts of myself—the wide hips, the thick thighs, the nipples that aren't quite symmetrical. But he holds me at arm's length, devouring the sight of my body.
"Oh, hell," he whispers. "You're beautiful."
He cups my curves, traces the hollows and edges of me with his fingers. I can't bear it anymore. I need him. Right now.
"Come here." I take his wrists and draw him down onto the bed, over me.
"Do we need a—"
"No," I whisper. "I've taken precautions. Now stop talking and kiss me."
He does, and then he licks and teases other parts of me until I'm gasping. I pull him to the place where I want him, guiding him in, then gripping his shoulders as he begins to move. He closes his eyes, an expression of sheer bliss on his face.
And then— "Cilla, I feel like I don't know you well enough to be doing this."
"What?" I gasp. "Shut up."
He keeps moving, slow and steady. "I have some important questions."
"Damn you."
"What's your favorite color?"
"Blue."
"Favorite number?" he whispers, raw.
My eyes roll back, but I manage to gasp, "Three."
"Chicago or New York-style pizza?"
"Chicago."
"Stuffed crust?"
"Always."
"Yeah, you're mine." He leans forward and presses his lips to my mouth, firm, claiming, like he's sealing something between us, something permanent and oh damn I'm exploding into constellations, bursting apart, whirling stars in my brain, and then I'm back in my body, hearing his cry as he follows me. There's so much of him in me, around me, and yet I want more. I want his soul to sink into mine until we are one and the same. We came close to that, just now, but something was missing.
There's a part of me that I've reserved.
I can't trust him yet, not with everything. And he doesn't realize that he can't trust me.
He's looking into my eyes with such warmth that I shrink from the unreserved heat of his gaze. He moves off me, away from me, but he sweeps his hand over my thighs, my stomach. A crease forms between his brows. "Are you all right? Was it—"
"Perfect," I say.
"Cilla." He touches my face. "If it was perfect, why do you look sad?"
"You were right," I say. "You don't know me."
"I know enough. And I'm ready to learn more. All of it. Everything. What you got, girl? Lay it on me." He settles back against the pillows, grinning, the sheet pulled across his hips and those magnificent arms tucked behind his head.
"I don't know where to begin." There are too many secrets I have to keep.
"How about your family? Start there. You got a dad, a mom?"
I flinch without meaning to, and I try to cover the movement by drawing part of the sheet over myself. "I have two parents, yes. Both alive. My mother and I are estranged." I clear my throat, picking at a loose thread on the edge of the sheet. "She was—abusive, in a unique way. My dad actually kidnapped me to get me away from her."
Ryden's face sobers. "I'm so sorry. That must have been really rough."
"Rough." I chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah. Very much so. Anyway, I lived with him for two years before leaving for college."
"Was he kind to you?"
"He tried to be. My mother messed him up too, in a lot of ways. I don't think he could disentangle me from her in his mind, so we stayed out of each other's way and thanked our lucky stars we were free of her."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, "I'm not sure what to say, except I wish life had been easier on you."
"It got better, once I got into college. I found friends who understood me, and what I do—" I stop short and bite my lip.
"The organizing thing?" He quirks an eyebrow like he's trying to understand.
"Sort of. Anyway, I found people."
"A boyfriend?"
"Yes, I had a boyfriend. I liked him because he made me feel. I could feel frustration, anger, passion, lust, hurt, and I wanted it all. I didn't know or care if he was good for me or not. And then he cheated, and I forgave him. But when he did it again I decided I didn't need anyone. I'm enough, just me." I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, staring hard at the opposite wall of the room and willing my eyes to stay bone-dry. "But first, I made him regret what he did."
"I bet." Ryden's low chuckle surprises me. Would he be laughing if he knew exactly what I did to Nate? How I persuaded Nali to make a small tear in Nate's soul—just enough for him to wander the campus disconsolate, sobbing, clutching his chest, before holing up in his room to weep the days away. Nali repaired the rip after a few days, when my conscience got the better of me—but Nate was never quite the same again, and I've never entirely forgiven myself.
"What about you?" I challenge him. "How many girls have you been with? You clearly have experience."
"Well, yes."
My heart constricts with violent hatred for every woman he ever touched before me. "How many?"
"Three."
I nod, looking away. I wonder if he treated them the way he has treated me—with his signature blend of charming jock and sensitive gentleman. How long did it last before he decided to move on?
"The first girl was my high school sweetheart," Ryden says quietly. "We were together three years, and then we went to different colleges. Tried the long-distance thing, but—she brought someone else home for Christmas, and that was it."
I examine his face, the soft sadness in his eyes. "And the others?"
"College girlfriend who finally decided she was more lesbian than bi. Little blow to my self-esteem there." He grins wryly. "And then Hannah. Two years ago. She was—well, I thought she might be the one, you know? But she didn't want a guy who worked at a zoo, and when she found out I wasn't going to switch over to the corporate world like she wanted, that was it. She said I wasn't ambitious enough. Married one of my college buddies six months after we broke up."
He looks away, and the beauty of him and his wounded heart steals my words for a moment. I move closer, my fingers creeping over his ribs and stroking his chest. He sucks in a breath as I trace circles on his pecs.
"Did any of them know about the shifter thing?" I ask.
"No. I almost told Hannah, but I'm glad I didn't. Trusting someone with that knowledge of what I really am—it gives her power over me." His eyes meet mine, and I thrill to my very bones, because he trusts me. True, he didn't have much choice but to reveal his shifter form, the night the demons came. Still, it means something, that I'm the first girl he's told about that part of himself.
Sickness roils deep in my stomach, because I'm hiding part of myself. I haven't fully trusted him, the way he trusts me. But if he knew who I am, why I'm here—he'd probably turn panther, drag me outside, and bounce me off the barrier till I was charbroiled.
To distract myself, I swing astride him, rolling my hips a bit and drawing the outline of his abs with my fingertips.
"Power," I purr, swallowing the bitter taste of my guilt. "I like power." And it's the truth, because when his eyes widen and he looks at me with a kind of bewitched awe, I feel as if I could lift the entire barrier by myself.
Then an idea strikes, and I stop moving against him.
"Sorry," he says. "I'm not like the guys in romance novels. I need a little time between sessions. But I can do a repeat of the thing I did in the shed, if you want." He grins wickedly.
"No, no, it's not that." I slither off him. "I had a thought. Magic needs a power source."
"Yes, but how do you know that?"
"It's logical." I brush aside his question. "So whoever is holding the barrier in place must be using a lot of his personal power, or siphoning it from somewhere."
Ryden sits up straighter. "He didn't look especially tired when we saw him."
"No. So he's siphoning power from somewhere to keep this up."
"Probably an artifact or amulet. We know he's a collector."
So am I. And whatever the cowboy wielder has, whatever he's using to create this shield, I want it. Because in my mind a seed has been growing, a seed of discomfort, and maybe a hint of rebellion.
I'm not happy with where I am, and who I am. Meeting Ryden clarified it for me, somehow, and now I understand what I really want.
I want out of the Patronage.
But it's not as easy as writing a resignation letter. I know things about their systems, their people, how they operate, and they won't let me go easily. To really break free, I'll need power on my side, something to protect myself. Maybe whatever talismans or amulets that cowboy is using could help me. Maybe I can trade with him—give him the Madstone in exchange for magical protection. Of course, that means I'll have to keep the Madstone hidden from the Patronage team when they arrive. When they don't find it on the premises, I can get it away from here, stash it somewhere until the dust settles, and then bargain with it later.
It's betrayal, for sure—and not the kind I can ponder or plan for days. This, I have to decide soon. Very soon. I took the first step when I didn't tell Nali about the Madstone right away. The thought of keeping it for myself is frightening and exhilarating at the same time.
Glancing over at Ryden, I see that his eyes have slipped shut, and he's breathing slowly, his handsome face at peace. He fell asleep so fast—he was exhausted, as I am.
Quietly I slide from the sheets and dress again, retrieving the madstone from the bedpost and tucking it into my bra, as before. I lay my purse on the chair by the bedroom door, ready for me to snatch it on the way out. And then I curl up against Ryden and revel in the heat of his smooth skin against my body.
-9-
Surprise
An earsplitting sound wakes me—a ripping, crackling noise like a thousand firecrackers being set off all around the house.
I leap from the bed, snatching my bag. Ryden groans, hands over his ears. "What the hell?"
Pushing back the curtains, I peer outside. The inky black dome is splitting open, revealing a swatch of navy, star-flecked pre-dawn sky.
It's the team from Patronage. They're tearing down the shield.
"We're getting out of here," I say. "Get dressed."
"Getting out—what?"
But I'm already out the door, flying down the hall. Nali joins me and we hurry downstairs together, exchanging tense glances. I throw open the front door, and we descend the steps slowly, side by side.
The dome is already gone, remnants of its purple magic sputtering and sparking along the ring of blackened grass around the house. Three figures are stepping over the line of dying magic, and I suck in a breath as I recognize them.
Riff, Brenda and Iris. The Zenith Trio. They've been hunting and retrieving magical items together for a decade, and they're one of the best teams at the Patronage. They're also terrifying to anyone but the Sages. Behind them are three more men in jeans, with guns strapped to their hips—Patronage enforcers.
"Cilla," breathes Nali.
"I know," I whisper back. I feel like taking her hand, but that would be showing weakness before the Trio. Instead I swallow, tip my chin up, and force myself to walk with dignity.
On my way down the steps I see a furry shape out of the corner of my eye. Winchester, lying motionless on the grass. He must have barked too
persistently and annoyed one of them. I crush my fingers into fists, hoping that he's only unconscious, not dead.
Riff reaches us first, the faint starlight glowing silver on the curves of his dark, muscled arms. "You've made a right mess of this, you have," he says with that Cockney twang of his.
"It's deplorable, really." Iris's single red eye gleams balefully at us. She wears a silver patch over the empty right socket, her black hair hanging in silky sheets on either side of her face.
Brenda doesn't speak. She's pale as the moon, with ice-blue eyes and hair the color and texture of cornsilk. She never wears makeup—she doesn't need it, because the striking cut of her features gives her face a raw strength beyond beauty.
"You should have called us sooner," Iris continues.
"We couldn't," I say. "We didn't know where the zemis were. We sent the spirit as soon as we could."
"Did you get the Sedona Madstone?" Iris demands.
Before I can answer, Ryden speaks from behind me. "Cilla. What's going on?"
Iris frowns at the interruption. "Ms. Blythe, I asked you a question. Did you complete your mission?"
"No," I say softly. "We were not able to complete the mission. Someone else wanted the stone, and he interfered. He held us hostage in the house. We looked, but—we couldn't find it. We failed the Patronage."
"Amateurs," scoffs Iris. "We'll take a look ourselves."
"Like hell you will," says Oakland, and I turn. He's standing before the front door with Daera, looking incredibly pissed off. Daera's face is a blend of anger and triumph, because she was right—Nali and I weren't to be trusted.
I risk a single look at Ryden and immediately wish I hadn't. He's shocked, jaw slack, confusion and disbelief in his eyes. He looks so—stupid. I feel a sudden surge of irrational anger at him for being gullible, for letting me fool him.
"Secure the inhabitants, Priscilla," says Brenda, her voice barely audible.
"Yes, ma'am." I roll my shoulders and flex my fingers, sensing the push and pull of the forces around me again—familiar and reassuring. It takes a moment to tap into the one I need—the gravity tugging all of us down, holding us to earth. I siphon some of the force, centering it in three spots on the lawn. And then, with a twitch of my fingers, I send Daera flying head over heels to one of the spots. She lands on her side, swearing, but when she tries to rise, the gravity point I created keeps her pinned to the ground.
