by Trisha Telep
Tatienne had betrayed him too. Zola leaned back and let his warmth and strength curl around her, along with the wonderful belonging that came from being with one of her own kind. “If it had been your choice? Would you have followed me?”
He released a long, slow breath that stirred her hair and tickled her cheek. “In a heartbeat. Nothing else could have kept me away.”
Truth had a scent. A feel. Bitter, sometimes, but always solid and implacable. Tension that had lived inside her for a decade slowly unknotted itself. “Then it’s behind us. I like who I’ve become. I have my freedom.”
He stiffened, just a little. “I wish I could say the same.”
Zola slid her hands up to cover his. “The past is the past. You’re fighting to protect your people. I like who you’ve become.”
“You won’t if I have to go.” His hands slipped down and tightened around her waist. “I’d do it to protect you.”
He expected her to be shocked. Perhaps she should have been, or outraged, or even angry. Some male shifters smothered their mates with a blind protectiveness that carried an unpleasant aura of chauvinism. But if Walker had such unsavoury prejudices against women, he wouldn’t have willingly followed Zola’s mother.
Zola smoothed one hand up his arm and shoulder, curling her fingers around the back of his neck. “I would do the same to you. We protect the ones we—” Love. “—care about. Which is why I’ll take your people under my care. I’ll call the Conclave tonight and declare them my pride, and the people in New Orleans will help me keep them safe.”
A beat. “Where do I fit in?”
The warmth of his body made it so easy to move closer – and hard not to rub against him like a cat in heat. “You can lead with me, or you can leave. I won’t blackmail you into my bed by holding their safety over your head.”
His laugh vibrated against her skin, less amused than wondering. “That’s the last thing you’d have to do to get me in your bed.”
Instinct whispered that he wouldn’t make the first advance, so she did, rocking up on her toes to close the distance between them. His lips were warm and firm and tasted like bitter coffee mixed with cinnamon from the pastry he’d had for dessert, and underneath it all Walker. Lion. Male.
Mine.
Her back hit the wall and Walker pressed closer, lifting her a little as he eased between her thighs and ground against her. “I won’t stop this time. Not until I’m inside you.”
She’d had plenty of men in her bed, in her body. But never another lion. Nothing could have prepared her for the satisfaction that roared up from the deepest place inside, washing away reason in a wave of primal hunger. She got both legs up around his hips, trusting him to hold her as she pulled at his shirt.
With his hips bracing her weight, he leaned back and yanked his T-shirt over his head. “You’re positive?”
Such a foolish question. She answered by working a hand down until her fingers cupped the hard weight of his cock. “I told you. I’m not an innocent girl anymore. Can you keep up with me now?”
Walker hissed in a breath and nibbled her, the sharp press of his teeth on her jaw just short of savage. “Ask me again later, if you can still think.”
Thought was already fighting a hopeless battle. She got her fingers around the button on his jeans and ripped it off in her haste. “Hurry.”
“No.” He slid his hands under her ass and hoisted her up. “First door, yeah?”
She’d take him into her now and glory in every thrust as he fucked her against the wall. Some dangerous alchemy of lust and instinct turned her wild, and only the promise of seeing him twisted in her sheets made it possible to find her voice. “Yes.”
It took him only a few quick steps to reach the bedroom – and the bed. He dropped her on it and slipped his hand under her shirt, his eyes blazing. “I missed you.”
Warm, callused fingers stroked over her stomach. She arched into the touch, eyes falling shut. “You don’t need to miss me any more.”
“No, I don’t.” He palmed her breast through her sports bra. “Take off your clothes.”
Easier said than done. Her T-shirt tore under her frantic fingers. She let the cotton slip to the floor and wiggled her way out of her pants more carefully.
By the time she lay in her bra and underwear, Walker was watching her, his hands clenched by his sides. “This is the first time,” he whispered. “You’ve been mine for so long that it seems surreal, but this is the first time.”
Their first time, and relief rose that it wasn’t her first time. At fifteen, she’d fallen in girlish love with a youth of twenty-one. At nineteen, she’d trembled beneath the careful kisses of a man who’d held himself back, too aware of her innocence.
At thirty, she was a woman who knew what she wanted, and she took it, rising to her knees and sliding her palms against the incredible heat of his strong chest. “The first time. Not the last.”
“No.” He slid his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back. “What do you like?”
Zola laughed and scraped her nails down his arms, letting power rise in her, the best kind of challenge. “Figure it out.”
“Uh-huh.” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re not naked yet.”
With the button from his jeans gone, it was easy to slide the zipper down. “I’m distracted. If it’s important to you, maybe you should help.”
He caught her wrists in an iron grip, and it was only then that she realized how tenuous his control was. “If you want me to take my time,” he rasped, “then you’re going to have to let me.”
Wildness seethed just under the surface, and she wanted it. Needed it. With her wrists pinned she used her teeth to drive home her point, biting his shoulder with a low growl. “Take your time later. Now, we fuck.”
Walker surged over her with a growl, as if some leash holding him back had snapped. “Should have just said so.” The stretchy fabric of her bra yielded under his hands.
It was too fast to savour, but she wouldn’t have been able to appreciate finesse with blood pounding in her ears and hunger narrowing the room to his touch. Callused fingers, fast and frantic until she revealed a weakness with an arch or gasp, then so intense he had her panting as he toyed with her breasts. She moaned when he added his mouth, his rough tongue and sharp nips of his teeth.
He teased his thumb under the edge of her panties. One gentle tug and then he ripped those off, as well, baring her to his touch. He didn’t hesitate, just rocked the heel of his hand against her and groaned when pleasure shattered through her so hot that she cried out.
If he worked his fingers inside her body, she’d come and he’d take her and it would be good, but it wouldn’t be what she needed. Using all the strength in her trembling limbs, she broke free and rolled to her stomach, then came to her knees. “Now.”
Walker growled his pleasure, but he didn’t touch her again until his bare skin brushed her ass and the backs of her thighs. He leaned over her, strong arms braced beside hers, and kissed the back of her shoulder. “Now.”
He drove into her, and the world tumbled end over end in a dizzy spiral that tightened along with her body. In ten years of running she’d never belonged anywhere as much as she belonged here, beneath him, around him.
Part of him, as she’d been since the first day she’d loved him.
Her fingers fisted in the blankets as she rocked back, taking him deeper until pleasure gained a sharp edge that sliced through her, laying everything bare. That edge cut deeper as he nudged her hair off the back of her neck and bit her, then began to move, slow and strong.
Perfect.
She wanted it to last forever, but of course it couldn’t. Zola closed her eyes and revelled in the slick thrust of his cock, the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles. Too soon, she was trembling.
He whispered one dark, quiet entreaty. “Come.”
She did, with a helpless moan that didn’t drown out the sweet sound of their bodies slamming together as she tumbled in
to bliss. He bit her again, arms shaking as his thrusts sped until he went rigid and followed her over the edge with a choked sigh.
Her name.
I love you. The words echoed in her mind, but she collapsed in a sweaty, trembling tangle of limbs without giving them voice. Too fragile. Too old and too new. So she pushed them down and ignored the lion’s unhappy rumble.
Walker would be theirs soon enough. She wouldn’t let him go a second time.
Four
Walker woke with Zola draped over him, a living dream that had haunted him for years. His third time of waking and reaching for her, and she came to him as readily as the first, wrapping her legs around his hips.
“Slow.” More than a whispered promise to her, it was a pledge to himself. They’d both waited so long, and they deserved to have each other in every way imaginable.
He kept his pledge until she bit his ear and whispered, “Mine.”
He lost himself then, surging deep. Mine. More than a word – a claim, one that matched the way her body welcomed his. Pleasure overwhelmed him, pure instinctive satisfaction.
Completion.
He belonged here, exactly where he was.
Afterwards, he licked the sweat from the hollow of her throat and smoothed her hair back. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”
A sleepy shake of her head as she stroked his back. “Never on Sundays.”
One of a hundred tiny little details he didn’t know, and he relished the opportunity to learn everything about her. “Just us, then?”
“Unless we want to start making arrangements to bring the pride to New Orleans.” Her fingers slid up to tease the back of his scalp. “I have money. We can find them a place to live.”
Money was the least of it. “So do I. The problem is how much red tape is involved with a move like this. That’s part of why I wanted the wolf council’s help.”
She chuckled. “I did not immigrate . . . naturally. There is a thriving business in New Orleans that focuses on nothing but making red tape disappear.”
“And if they’re like all the other thriving businesses like that all over the world, you don’t just walk up to them with an envelope of cash.”
“No,” she agreed, laughter still bubbling in her voice. “You send Alexander Jacobson. He will do it, because I’ve recently taken on a young woman of his acquaintance as a private student, and he’s feeling very grateful.”
He joined in her laughter. “I see how it is.”
“Mmm.” Her hand stilled as she yawned, then nuzzled his chin with sleepy affection. “Rest. You’ll need it if we’re to do this again in a few hours.”
“I need you more than I need sleep.” He kissed her temple and slid out from under the covers. “I’ll be right back.”
Walker made his way down the hall towards the bathroom in the dark. As he approached the half-open door, his skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck rising.
Something was wrong.
Though he could see well enough, he wasn’t that familiar with Zola’s apartment to notice anything visibly out of place, and he heard nothing. Not a damn thing to fuel his indefinable sense of wrong.
Still, it remained.
He flipped on the bathroom light, and his blood chilled. A bag of dirty black cloth dangled from the mirror by a length of coarse twine. A gris-gris, maybe, one that Zola definitely hadn’t placed.
The bag clinked as he yanked it free. He smelled flowers and copper, two scents that exploded in his nose as he upended the bag on the counter. Rose petals and pennies tumbled out, along with a small bottle of whiskey and a slim dime that seemed to spin in time with his pounding heart before finally settling on the slick tile.
Just like that, he was back in the bayou, watching his mother bury another wax doll baby under the raised edge of their ramshackle porch. She’d always whispered words, low, mellifluous entreaties that faded in the heavy air, rising to blend with the rustle of Spanish moss in the trees.
Not a gris-gris. Flowers, nine pennies, whiskey and a Mercury dime. Everything a rootworker would need to buy graveyard dirt from the departed.
It was a message and a warning, all wrapped up in bits and pieces of his past. The Scions had come in while they slept, or even while they made love. Under cover of magic, they’d violated the safety and sanctity of Zola’s home.
And yet, no blood had been shed.
Walker swept the contents of the black bag into the small wastebasket beside the vanity. The Scions wanted nothing to do with Zola, either because of her connections or because she’d been blameless in Tatienne’s affairs – but they’d hurt her if they had to. To get to him, they’d mow down anyone and anything in their way, and damn what the Conclave had to say about it.
He made a cursory check of the apartment, but found nothing. He hadn’t expected to. No one remained stealing about the rooms under cover of magic. They had no need for it.
The Scions had accomplished their mission and left their message. They knew Walker, knew what lived at the very heart of him – and the lengths he would go to in order to keep Zola safe.
And he knew where they’d be waiting.
Walker parked his borrowed bike at the end of the long driveway. Someone had taken a swing at the rusted out mailbox, and it dangled precariously from its wooden post. He righted it before he set out for the house on foot, though he had no idea why.
No one lived here and, unless his half-brother tired of city life, no one would.
It had been years since he’d walked the mostly-dirt path. Grass had grown up in the middle of the road, between the packed ruts, and the heavy canopy of live oaks and cypress overhead blocked out the light of the moon.
The path lightened, and he could see the house at the end of it. Walker had barely cleared the thick cover of the trees when a voice spoke from the sagging porch. “So. You come alone.”
Walker studied the simply dressed man and shrugged. “I assumed that was what you wanted.”
A soft footstep made the porch creak, and a woman appeared at the man’s shoulder. “It is easier not to have to contend with the Seer’s get, but we were not sure you would abandon her.”
Abandon. The word rankled, shamed him. “She has nothing to do with this.”
The man laughed, rusty and flat. “No, I suppose not. Taking her from you might right the scales, but she’s more trouble than she’s worth . . . as long as you come with us quietly.”
“Just me.” Walker shifted his weight, instinct demanding a fight – though there would not be one. “The rest of the pride is hers now, and my life is yours.”
Gravel crunched behind Walker, and the two Scions on the porch stiffened. The woman tilted her head and gazed past him. “Does she know that?”
Damn it. Walker turned to find Zola standing there, eyes narrowed. “I thought I might have gotten away with it.”
She raised both eyebrows, silently asking if he’d really thought he could, then looked past him toward their enemies. “I know what’s mine. The pride is mine, as is Walker Gravois. Are you here to challenge me for them?”
The woman paused at the top of the porch steps. “Gravois is coming with us. He must answer for what he has done.”
Zola strode forwards until she stood at his shoulder, then reached down deliberately and curled her hand around his. “He stays. You leave.”
She was strong, beautiful. Defiant.
His.
Walker gripped her hand and looked down at her, his chest aching. “They fight as one,” he whispered, “but so do we.”
“Always.” Her fingers tightened until her grip bordered on painful. “Do you challenge us, Scions?”
In response the man pulled a gun and levelled it at Walker’s head, finger already squeezing down on the trigger.
Walker released Zola’s hand and ducked into a roll as magic surged through the night. One kick to half-rotted wood brought down the corner of the porch, and the Scion stumbled and dropped his gun.
He dived for
it, but Zola was faster. Her first kick sent the gun skittering under the groaning porch, and her second swiped the man’s legs out from under him, spilling him into the too-tall grass. A second later the woman – the shapeshifter – leapt from the crumbling steps and tackled Zola.
Zola bucked and rolled, using the Scion’s own momentum to throw her aside. Walker caught the woman off-guard, drawing her attention away from Zola. As the child of a Seer, Zola’s natural resistance to magic made her a better adversary for the spell caster.
And she pressed that advantage, coming to her feet just as the man fisted both hands and raised them. Magic cut through the cool air, prickling along Walker’s skin, but the brunt of the power rolled off Zola as she spun again, lightning fast, and clipped the wizard’s jaw with her heel.
His grunt of pain made his partner turn for a split-second, and Walker slammed his elbow into her temple. She staggered, and he caught her around the throat. “Will you go?” he demanded. “Leave and never come back to New Orleans?”
She replied with a snarl and a knee driving into his groin as magic snapped again, this time slamming into him. His vision blurred as pain and magic mingled, and he lashed out, instinct driving him.
He struck her in the throat with the blade of his hand. The delicate bone protecting her airway snapped and she fell back, choking for air in loud, heaving gasps.
It wouldn’t take her long to recover. Walker struggled to focus, to shake off the spell so Zola wasn’t left to fight alone.
The sharp crack of gunfire echoed around him, a second before a warm body crashed into him. Zola’s, by the scent and feel. She bore him to the ground and rolled them until his hip bumped into the collapsed end of the porch.
“He’s got the gun,” she whispered, a breath of sound against his ear. “Firing from under what’s left of the stairs.”
“The other support beam.” The porch had been rickety even in his youth. One more well-placed blow might bring the entire thing down on the hidden Scion.
“Can you get to it if I distract them?”
He was still seeing double, but he nodded. “Get the shifter. I’ll handle this guy.”
