Crimson Kisses: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (Marked Souls Book 1)

by Sabrina Shelley

  But we’re still speaking in riddles. Nothing he’s told me so far has been revolutionary.

  I don’t know how he knows so much about guardians, but my thoughts go back to what he said about Xander not having a choice.

  “I don’t believe that my guardians don’t have a choice to protect me. They’re, what? Forced into it by some supernatural bond? Even if they don’t want to? Xander and Nico work for the Regime. And my beliefs are in stark contrast to Regime fools who think their government is some benevolent entity looking out for the good of the people. Plus, you just said that everyone has a choice, so I don’t think you believe it either.”

  My eyes are still locked on Ryker’s as if they hold all the secrets. As if I could ferret out the truth if I just looked harder.

  “Yes, they do work for the Regime, little witch. As do you.”

  The words hang in the air, so simple, just a stating of facts, yet full of so much meaning. What’s he saying? That people within the Regime may not be sold on the party line of working toward the greater good?

  I mean…it makes sense. I was practically forced into service. Yeah, yeah, I know I had a choice, if you want to call it that. But there’s nothing saying that others weren’t as well.

  My mind plays back all the people I’ve met since I’ve been here. Xander. Nico. Dr. Belmont, Abra and Cassandra and their guards back at Eastwatch. Is it possible that some of them, perhaps all of them, aren’t on board with the grand plan? Whatever the fuck that may be.

  And I’m confused as ever about his contradictory statements about guardians having no choice but to protect me, that bond bullshit or whatever, and everyone having a choice. Riddles, indeed.

  “But Drew told me not to trust anyone,” I find myself saying as I rest my forehead on the cool metal of the bars separating me from this enigmatic man.

  Ryker reaches up and fingers a lock of my hair, twirling it around as he stares at me as if he’s willing me to come to the conclusion on my own. When I don’t, he chuckles again.

  “I think a better way to take that would be don’t take anything at face value.”

  Right. Again, makes sense. Like everything else he’s said so far. At least the parts that haven’t confused the fuck out of me.

  “How did you get to be so wise, Mr. Weird Cat Man?”

  A smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. Instead, I see a hint of pain, anguish, memories so cruel no one should have to endure them.

  “I’ve seen a lot, little witch. Perhaps one day you’ll hear the tale.”

  One day. As if this isn’t our one and only time together. The notion sends a wave of relief through me. I feel a connection with Ryker, something I can’t explain. Yes, my palms are still hot and emanating white light. Maybe he’s another of my guardians and that’s why I feel that we’ll see each other again.

  But it’s more than that too. I feel something pure and real when I look at this man. Like if our paths had crossed on any other day in any other situation, if I were a regular woman with no magical powers and he was just a man on the street, we’d still have this draw to one another. I can’t explain it, but why the fuck am I even trying to explain shit to myself anymore? None if makes sense anyway, so I just have to go with it.

  Suddenly a loud mreow comes from the darkness where it last disappeared. The cat.

  “Or maybe you can tell me now since this cat seems to know exactly when to show up, like he’s in our heads or something,” I tease.

  Ryker gives me a look, one of those that says, Put the pieces together.

  “Oh my god! He is?”

  “Not quite. Let’s just say that I may have a unique ability and that this cat just so happens to be a willing vessel for me to keep an eye on things.”

  I want to hear more. So much more. I’m still so full of questions. What happened down here when Drew was here? Why did he send me? There must be more to it than just another take on his warning of trusting people. And what kind of weird mind tricks can Ryker play? I want to ask more about Xander and Nico and if Ryker knows who I can take at face value, and who I can’t.

  But before I can speak the words, the cat jumps up on my lap and hisses urgently.

  “You have to go, Rory. Someone’s coming.” Ryker’s voice is insistent now.

  “Who?” I ask, my eyes roaming over his body as I take in newly healed wounds so similar to Drew’s. I hadn’t noticed them before. Oh my god, is the person who tortured both of them on his way back? Is he going to catch me here?

  I jump to my feet, and the cat starts to trot off the way he first led me into the prison, meow-ing at me to follow.

  But before I can, Ryker reaches through the bars and encircles my wrist, his fingers gripping tightly as a powerful tingling sensation shoots up and down my arm at the contact.

  “You have to promise, with or without me—though I’m working on a way out of here—if the Warden comes back, you have to escape.”

  The Warden.

  I’ve only heard him spoken of once, when Belmont said she’d made sure he would be gone while I was in Aisling.

  “Is he the one that did this to you? To Drew?”

  A single nod. “He’s not someone to mess with, Rory. He’s…not right. He takes pleasure in inflicting pain.” He seems to see the question in my eyes before I can ask and shakes his head. “He’s not the one coming now. He’s not back—I’ve been watching. But if he does return…just promise me.”

  I stare into his eyes, full of urgency but also of concern. For me. And I find myself making I vow I have no idea how to keep.

  “I promise, Ryker.”

  “Good. Now go.”

  I turn and follow the cat who’s already disappearing into the darkness, hearing his voice echo behind me.

  “Until next time, little witch.”

  11

  Rory

  His eyes catch me first, then I take in the rest of him.

  Tall, lean, broad-shouldered Nico Arendale, waiting for me in a sea of roses with his seafoam eyes.

  “You’ve met Ryker, then.” There’s something smug about his voice as he says it. “Took you long enough.”

  A wave of transparency passes over me. I feel like a flower, spreading my petals and opening up to the hot summer day overhead in bloom. “He and Drew seem to think he’s my guardian,” I find myself telling him, though I can’t explain why. “Dr. Belmont walked in on us.”

  “Doing what?” A warm, lazy smile spreads across Nico’s lips like a summer breeze. “Nothing untoward, I hope.”

  “You’re bad.” I mean that—but the way I say it, it sounds like it’s a good thing. “Belmont sent me to train with you—I suppose you know why.”

  “Maybe she thinks I’m supposed to be one of your guardians too.”

  I laugh. “It’s cute how everyone thinks they’re better at spotting my soulmates than I am.”

  “Could be. You know what they say…‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

  “They don’t say that—Shakespeare did.”

  Nico holds his hands up in surrender. “I only mean to say things are not always as they appear. You may be looking one way while your heart is pulling you in others.”

  “And my mind?”

  Nico stares at me for a long, lingering moment. I feel like he’s searching for something in my expression—so I don’t give him anything.

  “Your mind is your own, Rory,” he says softly, finally. “To make up or not—as you like. No one would pretend to take that from you.”

  “Except you, apparently.” I cross my arms as the wind blows the roses against my thighs, sending the sweet scent of the flowers billowing up around me. “You’re playing with me right now, aren’t you? Doing your emotional manipulation mumbo jumbo?”

  Nico’s smile widens, and the wave of honesty passes, leaving me feeling empty and on edge. But at least I know those are my own feelings—not something that Nico’s powers manifested because he thought it would be a fun li
ttle game.

  “It can be hard not to sometimes, you know.” He lowers himself into the field of roses, pushing the flowers aside to make a little clearing where we both can sit. “I find myself thinking how much I wish Rory would be honest with me—tell me how she really feels—and then, suddenly, there you are, and that’s what you’re doing.”

  “You don’t have any control over your own powers, then.” Tentatively, I take a seat next to him—but not too close.

  Nico looks off into the distance like he’s thinking hard on how to answer that. “Who among us can truly say that, Rory?” He laughs, but this time, it’s a harsh noise. “We live in a world where the Regime tells us where we can and can’t go—what we are and aren’t allowed to do. The Regime regulates our magic. They hunt down those who can do it, lock them up—sign them over or strip them of their powers as they like.” He holds his hand out and, after a moment of hesitation, I scoot a little closer to place mine in it. His touch is pleasantly cool in the summer heat as he traces the lines on my palm. “And what they can’t regulate, they seek to control. Fate chooses your guardians, not the Regime. Correct?”

  “Allegedly,” I say, thinking of Drew and our time together and the lack of any magical markings to prove that, along with Ryker’s monologue on choice.

  “But the Regime determines the terms on which you meet. If Ryker is one of your men, he’s locked away—impossible to hold or kiss until he submits to the Regime’s accord. Xander—well, Xander is a Regime man to the bone. And me…” Whatever Nico means to say next, he discards it, changing the subject. “I assume you’ve realized that your bedroom is under watch by now.”

  I remember the gasping, whirling moments with Drew last night, the way his fingers probed between my thighs—the beautiful things he made me feel, and all the other things he made me want even more when he was done—all so he could tell me the name of a man who might help me.

  “Well, now you can be sure.” Nico squeezes my hand like he’s trying to comfort me. I suppose if he wanted to, he could hit me with a wave of comfort that would leave me writhing and moaning deliciously here in the dirt—but, for once, I’m grateful to feel the discontent linger. At least that means it’s real. “You’re in a difficult position, Rory. You’re led too much and told too little. You don’t know where you stand. You don’t know what the future holds. Worst of all, you don’t know who to trust. Correct?”

  I feel his palm slide against mine. It’s like striking a match. I find myself making the small, imperceptible movements to angle myself closer to him—but I don’t feel the wave of Nico’s influence pass over me this time.

  Whatever I’m feeling now, it’s real.

  “And I suppose you’re here to tell me I can trust you.” I look up at him, knowing exactly what I want to hear: Yes, Rory. Of course you can trust me. Never doubt it.

  Even though I’m not sure I would believe it.

  Instead, Nico laughs again. “Quite the contrary, Rory. I don’t think you can trust anyone right now. Me least of all—I certainly haven’t earned it.”

  Fucking hell. That’s the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear…but at least, I guess, he’s honest.

  “So, what? You have some kind of hidden agenda for me too, huh?”

  “I do.” Nico raises my palm to his lips. They’re refreshingly cool, but there’s a warmth pulsating beneath them that he doesn’t try to hide. His eyes don’t leave mine. “I’d like you to feel something. Several somethings, if you’ll allow.”

  “And if I don’t like feeling them?” My guard flares up instinctively—he did say I shouldn’t trust him, after all.

  “Then push me out and it will stop. May I, Rory?” he purrs against my skin.

  I feel his power surge between his words and my palm like a question mark.

  “You may,” I breathe, and he flows into me like a river into the sea.

  Suddenly, there are no words. Only feelings. I can feel the cool, reassuring clarity of his power pouring from his lips into my veins.

  Normally, my emotions are muddled. Cloaked in uncertainty and bandaged with fear. Nico is right—I don’t know who to trust, let alone who to fall in love with. I don’t know who I can count on enough to depend on as my guardian—who I can rely on when I need to put my life and magic in their hands.

  Not even Nico, I think, and the thought echoes impossibly loud in my head.

  No, I hear Nico’s voice agree, even though I don’t feel his lips move. Not even me.

  I feel hurt welling up inside me, and it takes more than a moment to realize that it’s not my own—it’s his. The hurt has a palpable sharpness to it—it stabs and twists and digs its knife into my bones. My body is wracked by it and I seek out the tendrils of Nico’s power for comfort—only to find that they’re actually the source.

  Is it always like this? I call out. This…complete? This intense?

  Always, he answers. But it’s worth it. Always.

  How? I ask. Why? What for?

  I can hear him laughing, and suddenly the hurt is replaced with amusement. Unbridled and worry-free. Like eating cotton candy while riding a carousel on a cool summer night as a child.

  It’s a pleasure to feel, he says simply.

  So I give myself over to it. I let myself feel it, too.

  I feel Nico’s joy. His pain. His longing. The innermost wishes of his heart.

  Sometimes, they come with memories clinging to them like little charms on a silver bracelet. The hissing ache of a tiny smashed finger, accidentally shut in a door, and the blanket of comfort that replaced it as he curled up, small and safe in his mother’s arms. A flare of confidence of a teenage boy as he turns a pretty dark-haired girl’s heart for him and she sends a smile his way for the first time.

  Sometimes, they’re only fragments of sensation: the calm of an afternoon rain storm, the flash of adrenaline and excitement before a fist fight.

  Other times, they’re so vivid with so little context I can hardly stand it. Out of nowhere, there’s a heavy, twisting pain in my heart mixed with thick, black loss that pools in my stomach and takes several moments to fade.

  Quickly after—in a scrambling sort of way, like a speechmaker who’s dropped all their note cards and is desperately trying to put them back in order without pausing their presentation—the feeling is replaced with a hot, burning need between my legs that I’ve felt with Nico before. Only this time, it’s tinged with the scent of honeysuckle—with a flash of chocolate brown hair—with the sensation of fingernails cutting into my shoulder blades and hot lips against my neck.

  Really? I ask Nico, annoyance bubbling up through the—well, the sex.

  Too much? I can feel him laughing at me again as he said it.

  You could warn a girl next time, is all.

  Apologies, he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry. Maybe—ugh. Maybe because he could feel that I was enjoying it. Why don’t you have a turn?

  How? I think about the other night with Drew again and a flash of fear darts between Nico and myself.

  I definitely don’t want to make Nico feel that.

  At least, I don’t think I do.

  Follow my power. Swim upstream, he tells me. At his words, I feel the tides of his magic shift, pulling me in. Don’t be afraid, Rory. The water’s fine.

  You said I shouldn’t trust you, I remind him. Everyone has been telling me not to trust them. Why should I?

  You shouldn’t trust anyone who hasn’t given you cause to do so, Nico says, sage-like.

  And your agenda? Shouldn’t I be worried about that? I feel myself dipping a toe into his magic like I’m testing the temperature—it’s cool as ever, but in a refreshing way. Not cold.

  Nico’s laugh reverberates through me. Less like the clanging of cymbals, more like the beating of a big brass gong.

  I want you to love me, Rory. I want you to choose me. He says it like it’s just that simple. But I suppose if this is how all of Nico’s emotions feel—so clear and easily distingui
shable, so distilled—maybe it is.

  Why? There’s nothing special about me. Apart from the weird marks on my hands and having five soul mates, I guess—but that hardly seems like it qualifies me as one-true-love material.

  Don’t be ridiculous. I feel Nico’s dismissal—his annoyance—at that very notion. It passes through me like a riptide with such power behind it that it almost makes me laugh. Everything about you is special, my dear. Don’t act like you can’t feel it.

  And when Nico presses how he feels for me into me, for a fleeting moment I can feel it. Like there’s something about me, unnamable but completely worthy. Completely unique. Completely deserving of his love.

  It strikes me to the bone, but he feels it. I can feel it too.

  Content, I lower myself into the flow of Nico’s magic. I submerge myself in it.

  By the time I follow the blue-green stream of it out of my veins and through Nico’s skin, it’s not my hand that he’s kissing anymore.

  It’s my lips.

  Our bodies tangle together in the roses, rolling and touching and grabbing and feeling—so much fucking feeling. I slip my hand beneath his linen shirt and experience the hard, cool expanse of his abs. As I count each one, I pass the feeling from my lips onto his—desire. He cups my breast in his hand, squeezing it like a ripe peach and I make him feel my longing. My want. The need for more.

  As his teeth sink into my lower lip, I feel his magic flow back into me. The same sensation, only amplified as he presses me down into the dirt.

  He wants me too.

  The smell of roses blooms around us. I feel his cock, hard and long and thick, pressing against my thigh and I send a pulse of pleasure to him. Yes, it says. I like that. His fingers twine with mine as I press my free hand to his chest and the magic unravels—expands. Now the blue-green river of sensation isn’t just flowing between my lips and his—it’s flowing between my hand and his heart.

  My palms are burning. My lips are on fire. I can smell myself—my wetness—a sweet, sticky musk mixing in with the rose perfume. Or is that his sensation, passing into me? What I’m feeling—what he’s feeling—it’s impossible to tell anymore.