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

by Sabrina Shelley

I look back at Cassandra, the words still echoing in my head:

  What’s dead stays dead…

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Rory,” she says in her soft voice, her otherworldly eyes full of sympathy, “I told you to leave me. That I know I’ll look death in the face…and that I’m okay with that. But what’s done is done. Your guardians are right. You have to leave.”

  “Not without you.” I grasp her hands. “Not this time.”

  She nods, reluctant, almost regretfully. “Then let’s go.”

  I try to stand, but I can barely breathe, let alone support myself.

  “You have to shapeshift, Rory.” Xander grabs me by the hands.

  “I—I can’t.” I don’t want to so much as think about magic, much less use it. Not after what I just did.

  “You don’t have a choice, Rory.” Drew this time. “This is all for nothing if we don’t make it out of here alive.”

  I look back at the guard. He’ll never make it out alive. Then I look at Cassandra. But she can. The thought of channeling magic right now repulses me, but Drew is right. This is all for nothing if we came this far then fail because I’m afraid.

  “Okay.” It comes out like a croak, barely audible.

  Then Drew is lifting me to my feet, supporting my weight while Xander clasps my hands and pours his magic into me, almost by force. I resist at first, not drawing it into myself, but he pushes harder, his eyes boring into mine.

  “Come on, baby. I didn’t come this far to lose you now.”

  And I open myself up to him. Let him fill me with his power. I think of Dr. Belmont and her crimson lips, and another sob escapes as I allow her appearance to take over my own.

  Then it’s done.

  Xander is doling out instructions on what we’re to do once we’re back in the prison yard, what story we’re supposed to give to any guards who might question us, but I’m not listening. Instead, I sink into myself, shut down. Block out everything that isn’t focused on moving one foot in front of the other.

  I walk through the yard in a daze. And when we’re back outside the outer gate, confronted with the mists again, I collapse. Let my façade drop yet again.

  Drew scoops me up into his arms and holds me to his chest, murmuring words of comfort in my ear as he drops soft kisses on my head again and again.

  But I’m still numb. I have to be. I can’t think about what just happened. If I do, I may sink into an abyss that I won’t know how to return from. So I shut it off. I try to forget. All feeling, all emotion—gone. I’m operating on survival instinct at this point.

  I hear Ryker and Nico demanding to know what happened, but I don’t pay attention. Instead I focus on Cassandra. I reach out my hand to hers as she walks closely alongside Drew and intertwine my fingers with hers. We did it. We made it out. Mission accomplished.

  She looks at me with a mixture of sadness and pity. Then leans in and whispers in my ear:

  “What’s gone isn’t dead. What’s dead isn’t gone.”

  I stare at her. The words make no sense.

  “What?” I manage to say.

  “Just remember, Rory. No matter what, remember.”

  I look up at Drew, but he doesn’t seem to have heard, his gaze focused straight ahead.

  Coming back to myself somewhat, I look around. We’re emerging from the mists already. I’ve again missed the whole thing. But oh what I wouldn’t give for my thoughts to have been full of Nico’s images rather than the image of the dead guard on the stone floor.

  Suddenly, Drew comes to a halt, as do the rest of the men surrounding us. Cassandra squeezes my hand tighter and I look ahead.

  The car we left is no longer there. In its place is a sleek black town car, it’s windows darker than the night.

  “What’s going on?” I say, angling my head to see better.

  Drew meets my eyes. “I love you, Rory. Always.”

  I look at him, confused. Why is he saying it like it’s so final?

  Then I see them.

  The car door swings open and a man with red hair emerges from the front, then reaches back to open the back door.

  And Dr. Belmont steps out.

  But she isn’t last person in the car.

  Another foot emerges, a shiny black boot hitting the gravel, and a tall man stands.

  A man I’ve never seen before, but have also seen as recently as tonight.

  The Warden.

  18

  Rory

  The Warden has dark hair laced with silver and eyes the color of a blackout. He wears the black leather gloves of a regime officer and a thick woolen overcoat over his uniform despite the heat. I think for a second that he could be handsome, maybe, if he smiled more—but then he smiles at me and I think twice.

  “Rory Bright. What a pleasure.” He says my name like it’s some kind of novelty to him. Even though he’s just caught us in the middle of an escape attempt…his voice is full of delight. “Your reputation precedes you, Rory. Does mine?”

  “Don’t answer him, Rory,” Drew murmurs to me.

  “You’re the Warden,” I answer anyway, feeling Drew sigh in frustration as he holds me to his chest.

  “So you have heard of me.”

  I shrug. “I’ve heard enough.”

  A glimmer flashes in his eyes. “Regale me then, Rory. What is it that you’ve heard?”

  “Rory,” Drew warns again—but not fast enough.

  “That you’re a sociopath,” I say plainly. “A fascist and a sadist and worse.”

  “Rory.” This time, it’s not just Drew’s growl. It’s Nico’s. And Ryker’s. And Xander’s. An entire male chorus of don’t fucking push this man.

  “Heard you’re a real piece of shit, actually,” I finish anyway. Not because I take enjoyment out of poking the bear—but because we’ve been caught. Red fucking handed. The worst that could have happened has already happened, and I want him to know that I’m not about to grovel at his shiny boots for clemency when he already knows what we’re doing at Aisling’s outer gates.

  The gravel crunches beneath his boots as the Warden approaches me. Ryker and Nico shift in front of me protectively, but the Warden sidesteps them without so much as a shoulder-check. I expect my comments to have offended him. They should have. But as he draws dangerously near to me, his awful smile doesn’t fade.

  Instead, he leans in—so close that our noses are practically touching. His breath is unnaturally cold on my skin like winter frost in the summer heat. It smells like cloves and tar and nicotine, and when he’s done breathing out, I can feel him breathing me in.

  Then, of all things, he laughs. The sound is high and clear and oddly. It starts out as a chuckle and builds into a roar. He throws his head back, flashing his lunatic’s smile to the night sky, and he laughs like my entire existence is the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

  “Oh, you’re going to be fun, Rory.” With a leather-clad finger, he wipes a tear away from the corner of his eye and flicks it aside. His smile goes with it—it dies on his face abruptly, leaving no trace of humor behind. “Kill the extra.”

  He says it so suddenly, without breaking my gaze, that it takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking to me.

  The Warden’s hand reaches out to Cassandra, tearing her from my side. He throws her to her knees just behind him. I watch Ryker, Nico and Xander struggle to move to her aid, but it’s like their bodies have been locked into place where they stand.

  The Warden’s man steps forward before she can get up. He cups her cheek in his own black-gloved palm and her body goes rigid. A white, glowing light passes from her lips to his as he turns her face up toward him. He breathes it all in in a single, massive inhale—and then Cassandra’s body slumps to the ground.

  I think I scream. I feel the reflex to do it trigger, but no scream comes out.

  “No,” I hear myself say instead. Barely a whisper with the faintest hint of a sob. “No.”

  The Warden chuckles again. I feel ever
y muscle in Drew’s body tense up as the Warden reaches for my cheek.

  “Poor baby,” he coos. “It’s so hard, I know. Elza?” His head turns to Dr. Belmont just in time to see a look of brokenness disappear from her face. “What’s your read on—” He wiggles his fingers to gesture at Ryker and Nico, Xander and Drew around me as they fight whatever force is holding them. “—The others. More spares?”

  “They’re her guardians, sir.”

  “Shame,” the Warden sighs. “All four of them? Really?”

  “Two,” Dr. Belmont corrects. I feel her betrayal like a dagger between the ribs. “The vargr, I’m sure, will be. But the one holding her…”

  The Warden touches a finger to the collar of Drew’s t-shirt and slides it down his chest. I watch the fibers burn and curl away, leaving an incision in the fabric all the way to Drew’s abs. The Warden pulls the shirt away and examines Drew’s chest, finding no evidence of a mark.

  “Ah,” the Warden breathes, his grin spreading. “And yet, he does hold her.” His eyes narrow as he leans closer to Drew, clapping him on the cheek and tutting. “There are rules to loving witches, you know. Have you been a naughty boy?”

  “She cares for him, sir. She’ll cooperate better if—”

  “Enough, Elza. I’m not going to hurt him.” He looks down at me, easing me out of Drew’s arms and into his own. “At least, not presently.”

  The Warden’s touch is as cold as his breath is. It’s a stark contrast from Drew’s ever-present body heat. Being held by him is like being held by a marble statue in a cold, dark church. He lowers his lips toward mine in some semblance of a lover’s gentleness and I tense up, terrified that he’s going to kiss me.

  But the moment before our lips meet, he drops me to the ground instead. Immediately, every ache and pain in my muscles amplifies and reverberates. I can see Cassandra’s pale, unmoving body slumped unnaturally on the gravel only a few yards away from me. Her eyes are closed. Her chest is still. A thin trickle of blood falls from the corner of her mouth, staining her cheek. Her lips are as white as her hair.

  Dead. After everything she did for me—everything I tried to do to repay her—she’s dead.

  And I brought her right to her killer’s front door.

  “I think,” the Warden pontificates. He paces among us with his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back. When he comes to Cassandra, he nudges her head aside with the tip of his boot and steps on her hair. “I think you’ve all been very naughty in my absence.” He stops abruptly, holding his hands out. “Why is that?”

  No one says anything this time. The absence of warnings from my guardians—Rory, don’t talk to him. Rory, don’t answer—tells me that they’re not just frozen in place by some unknown force. They can’t even speak for themselves.

  The Warden steps up to Xander. “You, Commander North…you should know better. Letting an escape attempt go unfoiled under your watch? It’s very unlike you.”

  Xander’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

  The Warden sighs, cupping Xander’s jaw with his hand. I feel a sob rise up in my chest—first Cassandra, now Xander? Who else is this bastard going to take from me tonight?

  I’m braced for the worst as the Warden leans in to Xander. My stomach fills with black, oily dread.

  Then the Warden kisses Xander’s cheek with a wet, disgusting smack, pats him on the shoulder and draws away again.

  “But you are a man in love, my friend—and men in love do not always act as they should. For your transgressions, I forgive you, Commander North.” The Warden laughs, throwing his hands out and looking us over like an actor on a grand fucking stage. “See? Not so unreasonable. I forgive him.”

  As the Warden crosses to Nico, I hope the Warden’s forgiveness has more depth than his acting skills.

  “Nico Arendale. Always the rebel, aren’t you?” The Warden chuckles, shaking his head as he cups Nico’s jaw in his hands. “You, I cannot forgive—because this is to be expected.” He says it loudly while looking to all of us, like he’s teaching us all a valuable lesson. “You are not housebroken yet, Nico my boy. You are the misbehaving puppy that shits on my best carpet. This—this is my fault.” The Warden shrugs with resignation, lowering his hands from Nico’s face. “I should have trained you better, and I will rectify this in the days to come.”

  The dread in my stomach turns to black ice. Whatever rectifications the Warden has planned for Nico, I know they won’t involve anything good.

  The Warden comes to Ryker next. But when a low growl emanates from Ryker’s throat as he towers over the Warden, the Warden obviously thinks better of laying any hands or kisses on Ryker’s weathered skin.

  Instead, the Warden looks to Dr. Belmont in confusion.

  “What’s this one doing out of his cage?”

  Dr. Belmont’s red lips stand out even more as all the color drains from her face. “Miss Bright has a penchant for jail breaks, it seems.”

  “So she does.” The Warden sets his sights on me again, striding over. His boots flick little bits of gravel at me as he stops before me, lording his height over me as I remain slumped on the ground. “What other little misbehaviors have you been committing in my absence, Rory?”

  Whatever part of me comes up with quippy little retorts must have died with Cassandra, though. I don’t have anything to say back to him now. I can’t even muster a defiant stare.

  Above me, the Warden tuts in disappointment. “Silence may be golden, Rory, but you’re hardly one to hold your tongue. Killian!”

  The Warden’s man raises his head and answers the Warden’s call. A hot flow of rage courses through me as Cassandra’s killer approaches me. Part of me wants to hold out my hand and blast him into oblivion with my magic. But I’m tired—I’m spent. And the exhausted part of me wonders if maybe he’ll end this for me now. Maybe he’ll do the same to me as he did to her.

  “I think it’s time to uncover all of Rory’s dirty little secrets—don’t you, Killian?”

  The Warden’s man—Killian—grunts in soft agreement and crouches down to my level. When he lifts my jaw up in his hands, I meet his eyes to find that they’re surprisingly silver, like moonlight on water. The touch of his gloves to my skin gives me shivers from the cold, but it’s gentle.

  He doesn’t look like a killer—or even a regime officer, for that matter. His hair is too messy, the same shade of red as the shadow of stubble on his jaw, and he doesn’t wear the uniform. What surprises me most of all, though, is his face. It’s strangely likeable—trustworthy, even.

  It comforts me, I realize. If only a little. Cassandra died like she said she would—staring death in the face. And death was kind.

  But it doesn’t fucking matter how handsome he looks as he holds my head between his palms—and my fate with it. Because when the Warden lays a hand on his shoulder and says, “Go on, then,” Killian’s silver eyes close.

  Then I feel my own eyes roll back in my head.

  I can feel the connection between the three of us. The Warden through Killian, straight into my mind. But Killian isn’t reading my thoughts. If he was, he’d only see pain and heartbreak and hate.

  Killian is reading my past, and the Warden is seeing every excruciating moment of my life play out in reverse behind his own black eyes.

  Cassandra’s death. Cassandra’s warning. A flash of red bridging between my hand and her guard’s chest. Ryker’s escape. Xander’s kiss, then Nico’s kiss, then—Drew’s hands on my body, his lips moving across my skin, his body moving over me, inside me—then it’s gone and I’m letting the ashes of a rose float away on the wind with Dr. Belmont by my side.

  Through Killian I relive the last several days in leaps and bounds and fractions of seconds. The first time I met Ryker. The first time I met Nico. Turkey on rye with cranberry mayo. The perfect, smiling red of Dr. Belmont’s lips.

  He takes me through my time at Eastwatch—my escape, Abra’s distraction, Cassandra’s clue—and then, to my surprise—an
d my horror—he takes me beyond.

  He takes me back to my apartment in the city. The apartment that my mother left me…and the apartment my mother died in.

  He takes me back to the moment I was arrested—Xander’s hands on my wrists, then his lips on mine.

  And he takes the Warden with us when he does it.

  He takes us back to the moment that started it all…my mother’s grimoire spread open for me on the floor of her workshop and my body, unconscious from the power it took to open it, lying beside it.

  With a massive, gasping breath I’m catapulted from the past back into the present.

  “It’s okay,” Killian whispers, smoothing down my hair. “It’s okay.”

  The Warden pulls him back and shoves him away before he can comfort me any further. In Killian’s place, the Warden crouches down next to me in the gravel and takes my hand in his.

  “I’ve learned so much from you tonight, Rory,” he says in a low, hushed tone. “And you, I think…you have so much to learn from me.”

  I want to ask him what the fuck he thinks I want to learn from him. Sadism? Murder? But then the memory of Cassandra’s guard’s face the moment I raised my hand to him flashes again through my mind.

  What makes me any different from the Warden now?

  I’m a murderer too.

  The Warden’s fingertip is moving over one of my marks, tracing the lines of the pentagram and stopping at the circles at each of the points.

  “Five guardians, Rory…you are an unusual specimen, aren’t you? So much potential…so much power and prophecy…They’ll be five very lucky men, won’t they?” His eyes meet mine a final time, full of meaning. “With three men left to mark, we’ll just have to make sure that you only let the right ones in. May I?”

  The Warden raises my palm to his lips, and I feel the wisps of power still left in me churning, desperate to summon any defenses they can to stop him. But I’m so weakened by everything that’s happened tonight, and the Warden is strong.

  His kiss on my palm feels like dry ice. A slick of his tongue follows, a low purr in his throat.