He clamped down hard on my neck and sucked the blood to the surface of my skin, surely leaving a massive mark. I arched my neck, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep the soft moan from rolling off my lips.
Then his weight was gone, leaving me cold and strangely bereft. He took one last lingering look at me still sprawled on the black marble desk, tightened his wings to his back, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out of the room with a resounding slam of the door behind him.
Heart pounding, blood pumping, skin aching for his touch despite my hateful thoughts of the damned man, I stared at the closed door, stunned stupid.
What the fuck?
Chapter 4
I bolted upright in bed, instantly flashing back to the night before.
“What the fuck?”
Throwing off the covers, I wrapped myself in a lavender silk robe and shuffled to the kitchen. Coffee percolated in the silver pot, the aroma waking my fuzzy senses.
I poured a cup and cradling it in my palms, ambled out to the balcony of my high-rise apartment. It was smallish by Morgon standards, but since the building housed both Morgons and humans, it met the minimal requirements for landing and take-off. Not that I needed it for myself of course. But my taste in men had recently taken a turn toward the flight-inclined.
I sat at the round patio table, gazing on the gray morning. Tapping my fingernail on the coffee mug, I stewed. I was pissed.
Who the hell did he think he was? Saying I was like some cat in heat, twitching my tail. “Ass,” I mumbled.
Physically holding me down and making me listen to his stream of insults. Well, except the part about being smart. I liked that. And I didn’t so mind the mention of me being beautiful. But then he put on that dominant display, making demands, acting like he knew me inside out. So what if I built a wall around my heart? Why the hell did he care? It was my heart. I could do as I damn well pleased.
Heat flushed my face, my anger simmering beneath the surface as I remembered his sly smile when he claimed I had daddy issues. Damn the man for cutting too close to the truth. And after all that rough handling and rubbing of bodies on the desk, he simply stood up and walked out the room like nothing. Completely unaffected. That had never happened before. Men didn’t walk away from me. They usually crawled after me while I did the walking away.
He hadn’t even kissed me.
Hmph. I sipped my coffee. Well, you blew your one chance, Mr. Nightwing.
A cool wind blew over the balcony, promising colder weather soon. I drained the last of my coffee. A wispy, scratchy sound drew my attention to the terrace floor.
There, sitting in the corner next to my sliding glass door, stood a bottle of Brevette. A note on a white card was tied with crimson ribbon to the bottle’s neck, twirling against the glass in the breeze. I lifted the bottle and took it inside.
In masculine handwriting and red ink, the card read: For your late nights.
I narrowed my eyes. If that man thought he could buy me off with expensive guilt-gifts, he was out of his mind. I knew how much a bottle of Brevette cost, more than a month of my salary. Still, I hated it when men did this shit. Acted like a complete ass and then in a moment of remorse sent you flowers or crap, as if that made everything all right. He could shove this bottle of Brevette up his ass!
Ugh! That man.
I showered and dressed in fuming anger, putting on my tightest pencil-skirt and a transparent, cream blouse with a lace tank underneath just for spite. He could get a nice, long look at what he wouldn’t be getting a chance at again.
Bastard.
Thirty minutes later, I stormed out of the elevator on the 77th floor of Nightwing Industries in my favorite heels, making a satisfying clipped echo on the tile. His receptionist, a petite, white-winged blonde, stood to stop me. I tossed my coat and bag to her with one hand, clutching the bottle of Brevette with the other. She clumsily caught them, watching me saunter past with a gaping mouth and saucer eyes.
Is this the kind of woman he preferred? All simpering and submissive? What a joke.
I slung open his door and slammed it shut behind me. Lorian sat in his cushy leather chair, looking out at the city. He swiveled the second I stepped in the room, taking in my attire and mood as I marched across the office. I plunked the bottle of Brevette on the desk and tossed the card at him. Sprawled in his usual position, lounging to one side of the chair with his elbow on the arm, long legs apart, the card landed on his black, button-up shirt. Those fey eyes never left me, totally unreadable.
“You can keep your fucking guilt-gifts, Nightwing. I’m not in a forgiving mood after the way you treated me last night.”
My blood boiled at this point, racing through my veins. I’d revved myself up to full throttle, wanting to scream, but somehow managed to keep my voice even, if grating.
Lorian took the card and stared at it. Ignored me. Silence. An electric spark flickered in the room, making the hairs on my nape stand up. Some Morgon trait I’d recently become aware of. I’m not sure why or what caused it, but there were times electric energy rolled off a Morgon in a tangible ripple—something passed down in their dragon DNA. I put one hand on my hip. “Are you listening to me?”
Obviously not. He scowled at the card, lifting it to his nose.
“What the hell? Why are you sniffing the card?”
He finally lifted his gaze. I flinched from the glint of fury. Very little moved me. But Lorian? Yeah, he could do it with one look of those primitive eyes.
He leaned forward in controlled movements, slow and smooth, taking the bottle in hand. “This didn’t come from me.”
I shifted my weight to the other leg, poking out my hip. “Yeah, right. After your comment last night about Brevette?”
He flipped the card, then froze, statue still.
“All I’m saying is I don’t need your damn gifts. I don’t want them. Nightwing, why the fuck are you sniffing the bottle?”
He stood so fast, I started and wobbled on my heels. He set the bottle down with a firm clunk. “I said”—a deep, throaty growl—“this didn’t come from me.”
He was serious.
“Oh. What’s with the sniffing then?”
“There should be some scent of the person who left it.”
“He was Morgon, not human.”
Through narrowed eyes, he examined me with such stillness, I got the chills.
“How do you know?”
“Because humans can’t fly. I found it on my balcony. I live on the 23rd floor and I always keep my doors locked.”
He turned toward the window. Morgons winged here and there, landing on nearby rooftops and upper-floor terraces for work. I’d never had the chance to see his wings in the light of day and so close. Jet black, they were sharp and angular, the bone-structure dense, the ridges waving out in a bold stripe-like pattern—the primitive presence of the dragon still strong in this Morgon man. When he spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I’d been lost in the beauty of his wings.
“Have you received gifts like this before?”
“No. Not anonymous gifts. My admirers tend to want me to know who sent them.” No snarky remark. Nothing. “So, did you, well, smell anyone?”
“No.” A harsh, clipped reply.
“What does that mean? Surely, he touched it. Maybe your Morgon sense of smell is lagging today or something.”
He scoffed with a snorting sound. “My sense of smell is fine, Ms. Linden.” He wasn’t talking about the card. “Your admirer is cautious. He knows you have Morgon…associates who can track.”
The door to his office opened. Fallon stuck his head in.
“Oh, I apologize. We have an eight o’clock appointment to view the final plans. Should I come back?”
“No, I was just leaving. My card, Mr. Nightwing?” I held out my hand.
For a moment, he hesitated and I thought he would refuse to hand it over. After a few seconds, he stepped around the desk and presented it between his index and middle finger. He did
n’t offer the bottle. Apparently, more sniffing to do.
As he passed the card, I noticed something on the back. An embossed symbol at the bottom—an hourglass shape with a sharpened cross at the center and jagged wings jutting out at the top. The design was minimalist in style.
Fallon angled over my shoulder. “Pardon me, but isn’t that the Borgus symbol?”
Lorian visibly tensed, his eyes narrowing on Fallon. The poor guy hadn’t noticed, staring down at the card in my hand.
“What’s the Borgus symbol?”
“Nothing,” Lorian snapped. The air grew thick with electricity radiating off him. This whole topic had his hackles up. Fallon clamped his mouth shut.
“It’s not nothing. What’s the symbol, Fallon?”
He glanced at his superior, jaw clenched. Was he waiting for permission?
Lorian growled, biting out a reply. “It represents a zealot. An ancient cult leader.”
“A zealot? Like a religious nut? Seriously?”
Fallon cleared his throat. “It’s the symbol of Borgus Fireblade, the head of a clan who died out long ago,” he replied, his voice more unsteady than before. “He led a spiritual group called the Larkosians, to honor the first Morgon, Larkos Nightwing.”
“Wait.” I nearly laughed. “Do you mean this gift is from some cult fanatic?”
Lorian shifted, an oddly nervous gesture. “I’m sure this is a prank to scare you.”
I frowned. “Why would someone want to scare me?”
Hands in his pockets, he straightened his shoulders, his wings folding tighter at his back. “You’re the first human to openly work with Morgons on a collaborative project.”
“You think a Morgon is trying to scare me off? He doesn’t know me very well.”
Lorian’s lips twitched. “It means nothing at this point. We’ll discuss this later over lunch, Ms. Linden.”
I lifted a brow.
“A business lunch,” he clarified.
“No, I’m afraid my schedule has me working through lunch with Willow. We’re shopping for club furnishings today.”
His body stiffened, like he wasn’t accustomed to denial. I smiled sweetly, knowing it irritated the shit out of him when I did.
“Dinner. Then.” An order. He grated the words. “A car will pick you up at six o’clock.”
Before I could protest, he turned to Fallon, gesturing him toward the comm screen on his sidewall to go over the plans. Just like that, dismissed. After summarily being told I’d join him for dinner. Pushy bastard.
Fallon tilted his head with a sympathetic smile before turning to the comm. I marched out, picked up my coat from Blondie, and tucked the card in my black satchel, heading out to meet Willow in the Warwick District for furniture shopping.
* * * *
“I like that one, but you have to remember we need a mix of high-backed and low-backed lounges. We don’t want the lounging sections separated, but for the furniture to invite both to hang out together.”
“Yes. I see.” Willow tapped a slender finger against her chin, silver wings fluttering. They were much more transparent than Lorian’s, revealing criss-crossing veins when the light shone through them from the window. “Okay, Belka. Mark these both down. I think we’re done.”
Her assistant meandered behind us, keeping tabs on our selections. My comm device rang for the third time this morning. I glanced at it and cringed, silencing the ring.
“If you need to take care of something personal, it’s fine.”
“No.” I sighed. “An overeager suitor I’d rather not deal with at all.”
Willow smiled. “I’m sure you have that problem often.”
I shrugged. “This one has my nerves on edge. I told him last night I wasn’t interested anymore.”
“He’s Morgon?”
I nodded, wondering if she were one of those who hated when the races mixed outside the business world. But she laughed. It was genuine. “You’ll find Morgon men are a bit aggressive.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s the dragon in them. They can’t help it. They want to conquer and dominate.”
We walked toward the exit, the ground floor of a furniture building catering to both races.
“Conquer and dominate. No. Afraid that doesn’t sound like any Morgon man I know.”
Both Willow and Belka laughed, a tinkling sound. I laughed with them.
“Can I ask you something personal, and you can totally tell me to fuck off if you want.”
Willow blanched. She was still getting used to my own volatile nature. She nodded for me to go on.
“Why aren’t Morgon women aggressive like the men? Doesn’t your inner dragon, or whatever, do the same as it does for them?”
We stepped out to the cool street. Horns honked as humans traveled here and there downtown. I buttoned my coat as we headed toward a bistro I’d mentioned earlier for lunch.
“Our history books tell us female dragons always submitted to their male. For many Morgon women, her inner dragon remains instinctually submissive. I’m afraid these genes run deep. However, this is not true for all Morgon women.”
“Hmph. I haven’t met a dominant Morgon woman yet.”
“And you won’t. Not here. They prefer to live in Drakos and other Morgon-only provinces.” Drakos, the largest Morgon-only city, where humans were definitely not welcome to visit, much less live. She twisted a strand of fair hair around a finger. “Morgon women like us prefer life here.” She gestured toward Belka at her side who remained silent.
I frowned. “Why is that?”
With a kind smile, she considered a moment before answering. “People in Gladium, both human and Morgon, tend to be more accepting.”
A shocking statement, considering most of the aristocracy was comprised of a bunch of bigoted prigs.
“The environment is less aggressive,” she continued, “providing a more comfortable place for Morgons like me.”
She said it as if she were a freak or something.
“There’s nothing wrong with your personality, Willow. I think you’re terrific. You remind me a lot of my friend, Ella.”
She quirked a wistful smile at me as we walked along. “I wish I could be as bold as you.”
I laughed. “I wish I could be more agreeable sometimes. I tend to get myself into a mess every other day because of my, shall we say, forceful spirit. But I don’t apologize to anyone. This is me. Love it or leave it.”
“Well, I love it. It’s quite refreshing to watch you in action.”
I lost my train of thought when a hulking shadow loomed in front of us. Torin grabbed my arm and moved me into the doorway of a shop, his wings spreading wide to block Willow and Belka from interfering.
“Let go of me, you asshole.” I jerked free of him.
Male aggression beat off him in a tangible ripple. “Why won’t you answer my calls?”
“Because I’m working, and I told you last night what I had to say.”
After he inhaled deeply, his eyes narrowed to slits. I pushed back against the door to keep his body from pressing against mine.
“You’re with someone else.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested in you, Torin. Wait. Were you the one who sent me the Brevette?”
His brow furrowed, his voice gravelly with disdain. “I can smell him on you.”
What the hell!
Okay, I’d showered and scrubbed myself till my skin was raw. How had Lorian marked me so his scent still clung to my body when we hadn’t even had sex?
I hardened my gaze and put steel in my voice. “Who I sleep with is my business.” The irony here was that I’d slept with no one, but his presumption gave me an easy excuse to get rid of him. I jabbed him with the heels of my hands. “Now, get out of my way.”
Torin winced and stepped back. I pushed his wing further, so I could pass, joining wide-eyed Willow and Belka cowering behind her.
I walked confidently in the direction of the bistro at a br
isk pace. The Morgon women caught up, panting when I finally slowed in front of the restaurant.
“Was he the boyfriend you were having trouble with?” Willow asked.
“Ha! Not my boyfriend, not even close. He was a mistake who apparently doesn’t understand what rejection feels like. I’m sure it’s against policy, ladies, but we’re having cocktails over lunch. End of story.”
Yeah. I needed a drink. First, some asshole was leaving personal gifts only people in my circle would know to give me and writing cryptic messages with cult symbols. Second, my one-night-stand had turned into a creepy stalker. And, third, Lorian had somehow imprinted his scent on my skin.
How Lorian managed that trick, I had no idea, but I was damn sure going to find out. If he thought to subdue me with dinner by candlelight or something, he had a rude awakening in store. I didn’t do steady relationships or whatever the hell “more” meant. I was my own woman and decided who and where and how long. He’d better think again if he planned on trying anything tonight. Dinner couldn’t come fast enough.
Chapter 5
Maybe I was giving mixed signals to wear such attire to a business dinner with someone I’d determined not to pursue. But the vixen in me couldn’t help it. She liked to taunt. Especially Lorian. Even after I’d put him in the you-don’t-get-any category.
The car he’d sent waited for me at the curb when I stepped out of my apartment building. The chauffeur, though discreet, seemed to appreciate my attire. Even draped in a sleek, black coat, a hem of vibrant red peaked out the bottom. Coupled with shiny, black pumps and my hair spilling in wild waves down my back, I might have painted it on a bit thick for someone determined to ignore the advances of a certain Morgon man.
Oh, well.
The chauffer drove me deep into the Morgon District, stopping in front of a restaurant with a sign reading Vallero’s. I’d heard of it—a high-end restaurant frequented by humans and Morgons, but Morgon-owned. By some miracle, not by the Nightwings. A doorman, a Morgon, bowed politely as I entered. I gave my name to the dainty russet-winged hostess.
Windburn (Nightwing# 2) Page 4
