by Anya Bast
“Isabelle.” Her name sounded ragged on his tongue, like a prayer or the word water from a desperately thirsty man. “I can’t wait another moment. I need to feel you. I need to be a part of you.”
In answer, she wound her legs around his hips and pulled him down on top of her, feeling the scratch of his pants against her ankles and calves.
He held her gaze as he pressed the head of his cock to her entrance, then gathered her wrists in one huge hand and pressed them to the mattress above her head. Then he held her hip with his other hand and thrust deeply into her, until she was completely filled and stretched by his cock.
Isabelle gasped and sank her teeth into her lower lip. Her clit pulsed and her sex rippled from the sensation of having him within her.
He rode her, taking her in long, steady, deep strokes that cleared every fleck of rational thought from her mind and made her body feel like melting butter.
When her climax came it enveloped her entire body in ripples that started small and then expanded outward. She arched back when it took her, her mind swamped with pleasure.
Thomas released her hands and sucked one of her offered nipples into his hot mouth, dragging it gently between his teeth. He answered her orgasm by groaning deep in his throat and coming.
“Thomas,” she sighed, covering her face with her hands. What had she allowed them to do? How fucking stupid was she?
Thomas rolled off her and pulled her onto the bed. He dragged her against his body and stroked his fingers down her face. “You’re mine, Isabelle. I’m not letting you go or letting you run. I’m not letting you push me away. And I’m not leaving here tonight. For better or for worse.”
Defeated, tears stung her eyes as she turned and buried her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled. He smelled so good, smelled so much like Thomas. She slid her hand into his shirt to find warm flesh and hard muscle. “Get undressed then because I need to feel your skin on mine.” Her voice sounded gritty from lack of sleep and emotion.
Together, they stripped his clothes off until his body brushed against hers, skin-to-skin. He kissed his way over her shoulder and down her arm, urging her to her stomach. Isabelle lay facedown on the bed while Thomas ran his fingertips down her spine to the small of her back over and over, lulling her to sleep.
“Isabelle,” Thomas purred in a sleep-roughed and sex-satisfied voice, “why would Boyle kill Stefan as a favor to you?”
Her eyes shot open and she stiffened, but at least she could answer this honestly. “I don’t know.”
“Really?”
Isabelle turned onto her back and snuggled against him. She stared up into his face and brushed her fingers across his pects. “Really. I don’t understand the demon mind. I find it incredible he could long for home, too, that a creature like him would have emotion that way.” She shook her head. “I have no idea why Boyle would decide he needed to kill Stefan for me.”
“What he said right before he knocked me out at Gribben…it made it sound almost as if the two of you have a relationship.”
She raised her head and grinned, even though she hardly felt the levity. “Jealous, Thomas?”
“Hardly. Afraid for you, yes.”
She took a moment to answer, carefully phrasing her response. “It’s like I said before. I think he’s seized on me because of my sister. He imagines that because he”—she had to pause and find the right words before she could continue—“he murdered her that he and I have a connection.”
Thomas stroked his hand down her arm over and over until she sighed and her muscles let go of their tension. “That does make an odd sort of sense.”
“I don’t think demons make sense.” Her eyelids drooped.
“Go to sleep, Isabelle. I can tell you need it.”
She sighed and relaxed into him. Before she knew it exhaustion had towed her under.
ISABELLE WOKE UP FROM A DEEP SLEEP. FITTING HERSELF against Thomas’s warm body, she smiled and closed her eyes again. By his side, she would always sleep well. For a moment she knew perfect bliss, and then she remembered. It leaked like toxic waste into her mind, poisoning her.
The demon was coming. Maybe not today, but soon.
Disturbed, she rubbed her eyes and glanced at the window, where the first strains of pale gray morning light stole through. She’d only slept an hour or two at most. What had woken her?
No scent of demon magick fouled the air. Not a sound could be heard. She wasn’t too hot or too cold…then she knew it with utter certainty.
Dread curled itself like cold lead in the pit of her stomach. She pulled out from under Thomas’s protective arm and slipped from the bed. Solemnly, she pulled on underclothes, a pair of jersey running shorts, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then resecured her syringe and knife sheath. That done, Isabelle walked to the living room window as if drawn there by powers beyond her control.
Indeed, she probably was.
She pushed aside the curtains covering the living room window, and there, on the tree-lined street running past the apartment building, sat Boyle on his Harley—looking up at her. Metal and chrome, buffed to a high shine by loving demon hands, gleamed in the streetlight. Black leather covered Boyle from head to toe, and the morning breeze buffeted his blond hair.
She gasped, “Thomas,” and turned to run and quickly try to get him out of the apartment. Instead, she ran smack into a very broad chest. The smell of leather and demon slammed into her nose.
Boyle stared down at her, his normally blue eyes already glowing red. “It’s time.”
Mute, she could only shake her head. It was time? How could it be time? It couldn’t be time! Thomas was still in her apartment.
Boyle reached for her and she took a step back. He withdrew his hand. “Do you choose to place your mother in your stead? If so, let me know now. I don’t have a long time in which to make this sacrifice.”
“I’m the one making the sacrifice.” Her voice shook. “And I won’t allow anyone else to be put in my place.”
“Very well.” He held out his hand again. “Then we shall leave now.”
Isabelle was amenable to leaving the apartment quietly, leaving Thomas to sleep in the other room…and not interfere. “All right.” She went to the foyer, where her white Keds sat neatly side-by-side under the breakfast bar. She slid them on and turned to the demon. “I’m ready.”
Boyle didn’t poof her. He led her out of the apartment and downstairs to his Harley. Every step that took her farther away from Thomas made her throat constrict a little more. When they finally reached the street, Isabelle counted it a miracle she could still breathe.
The demon mounted the motorcycle. “It is a beautiful bike, don’t you think?”
She only stared at him. Small talk wasn’t something she could manage at the moment.
“I will miss this bike,” he continued. “It is one of the only things I will miss about living here. So, we take my bike where we are going, instead of more direct transportation. It will be my last chance to ride.”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”
He stared at her for a moment, his blue eyes glittering. “Get on.” He turned the key.
The machine started with a muted purr, but she didn’t move to obey him. She couldn’t help but allow her gaze to stray down the street. Moonlit shadows played on the concrete of the sidewalk, dappled by the leaves in the trees. A soft, warm wind blew that made the limbs of the tall, beautiful maples shiver and creak. In the distance lights changed at an intersection and one lonely automobile traversed.
She did have on her running shoes.
“I know where your mother is.” The demon’s voice was low and sure. He knew what she’d just contemplated in the split-second she’d glanced down the street. Of course he knew. “I could be to her within the window of time I possess.”
Sighing, Isabelle mounted the bike behind Boyle. Declining to encircle his waist to hold on, she gripped the seat instead.
“We�
��re going to my warehouse.”
Nausea rose in her throat. She wasn’t wearing a helmet. Maybe they’d get lucky and have an accident before they arrived.
Actually, that was a good idea.
Isabelle knew that now she had the perfect opportunity to kill Boyle. If she could get the syringe out of her bra, she could inject the liquid copper into him while he drove.
Perfect.
Of course, if it worked they were going down. Isabelle, in her Keds, running shorts, and T-shirt would be pretty much screwed in that case. But Boyle would be dead. That was the important thing.
“Put your arms around my waist,” he commanded.
“Excuse me?” That would make it difficult to snag the syringe.
“Your arms. Put them around my waist and hold on. Do not remove them. I haven’t come this far to lose you now.”
Isabelle took a moment to collect her emotions and then slowly placed her arms around his waist. The muscles of a bodybuilder rippled under her hands. His torso felt like rock under the black leather he wore and Isabelle fought a gag reflex.
The bike lurched forward, along with her stomach. Isabelle closed her eyes and offered a prayer to the Lady. At the last moment, she looked up at the darkened windows of the apartment, where Thomas still slept.
Thomas.
TWENTY-FOUR
“ISABELLE?”
Thomas woke and turned over, groping for the warm body he missed. After finding only air and blankets, he cracked his eyelids. She wasn’t in the room.
The hair on the back of his neck rose as his intuition kicked in. Something wasn’t right.
He pushed the blankets aside, found his pants in the dark, and slid them on. Making his way carefully through the dimly lit apartment, he found the living room empty. He could feel that the entire place was empty except for him.
Outside on the street a motorcycle vroomed to life.
He knew the sound of that cycle.
Thomas rushed to the window in time to see Boyle pull away from the curb…Isabelle on the back. Just before Boyle accelerated, she looked up at the window wearing an expression of total desolation.
And then they were gone.
Clear, cold certainty quickly killed the jolt of shock that ran through his body. He knew Isabelle hadn’t left with Boyle because she wanted to…and he knew exactly where the demon was taking her.
Thomas didn’t waste time for anything but his car keys and cell phone. Barefoot and shirtless, he raced from Isabelle’s apartment, dialing Jack and the Coven as he went.
THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH ISABELLE’S HAIR AND blew up her shorts, making her shiver. Of course the shiver probably had less to do with the wind than it did the demon she rode with.
The bike ate up the streets between her apartment and the warehouse a lot faster than she would’ve liked. She watched the pavement fly by under her feet and wondered what it would feel like if the copper affected Boyle like she hoped. How did it feel to die in a motorcycle accident? Would she end up with gravel three inches under her skin? Would her head split open? She supposed if her head split open she wouldn’t much mind the gravel under her skin.
Lady.
It was the only way and stalling any longer would be criminal. Now was the time. Her last chance. By doing this she’d save her mother, her sister would be avenged, and the worlds—both of them—would be rid of the likes of Erasmus Boyle.
All she had to do was move her hand, grab the syringe from her pocket, and shoot it into him. Then, if the copper injected straight into his body did as she hoped, she would die in a horrible, fiery motorcycle accident. Piece of cake.
She could do this.
She could.
Boyle flipped every stoplight they approached to green. Either that or he had some great luck at hitting the lights just right. Green light. Green light.
Green light.
They were getting near the warehouse and Isabelle knew she had to do it. It was time, past time. Her heart pounding so fast she thought she’d have a heart attack—preferable to the way she was about to die—Isabelle moved.
Boyle roared in protest as she took her arm from his body, but Isabelle ignored him. She plunged her hand down her shirt, sought the syringe, and yanked it out. Gripping the top between her teeth, she pulled the needle free, stuck it into the demon’s neck, and pushed the plunger down.
The liquid copper shot into Boyle’s throat.
Syringe empty.
Boyle gurgled. The bike wavered. Isabelle looked down at the swiftly passing road beneath them. They righted for a moment and then the demon made a choking, snorting, screaming noise.
And they tipped.
The bike fell to the right and spilled Isabelle to the pavement. They’d been going about fifty miles an hour and in the split-second before Isabelle made contact with the road, her mind went completely blank—totally clear. Then she hit. No pain exploded through her. Nothing but softness met her head and body as she slid and rolled across the road and onto the sidewalk.
Isabelle lay on her side, motionless and aware. Clearly, she’d gone into shock and that’s what had blocked the pain of the crash. If she looked down at her body now, she’d see blood, ragged flesh, and twisted limbs.
She decided not to look.
Instead she watched the bike scrape against the pavement, screeching in a fiery symphony of destruction down the middle of the street. Boyle went with it, his leg trapped under the twisted metal. The cycle came to a halt near the curb, the demon motionless.
Had she killed him? Was this nightmare finally at an end? She was still conscious. Did that mean she’d actually lived through the ordeal as well? Or was the numb coldness stealing through her body merely a precursor to death?
The sound of scraping metal once more filled the air. The motorcycle moved and Boyle shifted beneath it, groaning.
“No,” Isabelle whispered, lifting her head. “Oh, no.”
“Get up!” Thomas’s voice. Strong hands under her arms, lifting her. “Isabelle, get up! He’s not dead.”
“What?” She pushed to her feet and glanced down. No blood. Not even a scratch. Not even her clothing was torn. “What’s—”
“I cushioned your fall. Concrete is part of my dominion as an earth witch.” He hauled her down the street as he spoke. “We have to get you far from here in case Boyle recovers and comes after you.”
“Wait!” She pushed at him. “No, I can’t run.” Isabelle turned and headed back toward Boyle.
Thomas grabbed her and lifted her off her feet, carrying her up the street toward his still running car. “Have you lost your mind?”
She fought in his embrace. “No! You don’t understand. Let me go!”
“You can explain it when we’re five miles away, okay?”
Unable to break Thomas’s iron-strong grip any other way, Isabelle focused on the water in his fingers, hands and arms, forcing it to momentarily heat up. Thomas yelped and dropped her.
Isabelle tumbled to the ground and righted herself, struggling to her feet. “I can’t leave now. Boyle will pick another witch to take my place. Either he dies…or I die. I won’t allow this to happen any other way.”
Thomas stared at her for a moment before replying. “You made some kind of deal with Boyle? You either go willingly with him or he takes another witch in your place?”
She nodded furiously, her gaze straying behind Thomas to where Boyle was rousing from the ground. “My mother, in point of fact. He meant to take my mother in my place. Yes, I have issues with her, but I can’t let Boyle kill her.”
Boyle looked badly injured and hope flared within her. Judging from the way he moved Isabelle doubted he could get very far from his current location, which was comfortably distant from their own.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
She made a frustrated noise and clenched her fists. “Because I knew you’d do this! You’d rush in all knight in shining armor and let the demon kill you before he hurt me. I trie
d to keep you out of this so you would be safe. The Coven needs you, Thomas. Witchdom needs you. No one in the world needs me.”
Thomas’s response came swiftly. He reached out, grabbed her and crushed her to him. “I need you, Isabelle.”
For a split-second she melted into him, closing her eyes at the emotion in his voice. Then she pushed away, putting him at arm’s length. “Thank you for that, but I won’t let Boyle put another witch in my place.”
“No, you…won’t.” The voice came from behind her. Low. Rasping. Forced. In pain.
Boyle.
He put his hands on her shoulders. Apparently, she’d been wrong about Boyle’s ability to move. Unfortunate.
Isabelle held Thomas’s gaze for a moment. She knew she looked resigned.
Boyle poofed her.
SHE COULD STILL HEAR THOMAS’S AGONIZED BELLOW ringing in her ears when she suddenly found herself in the warehouse, her stomach roiling and her head pounding. Isabelle took two steps forward, staggered and went down on her hands and knees. Bile coated the back of her mouth and flooded her mouth with bitterness.
Her hands pressing into the cold concrete, she closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on not passing out. Boyle’s way of transporting people really sucked. She’d prefer a car to that any day.
Behind her came heavy, shuffling footsteps and a low groan. Keeping her head bent, she opened her eyes and stuck her hand up her sleeve, her fingers closing around the hilt of her copper knife.
“You won’t live long enough to kill me, Boyle. You’re done.” Her voice echoed steady and harsh in the quiet of the warehouse. “It’s in the sound of your voice and the cadence of your step. Death.”
No sound. Not even a whisper of breath filled her ears. Isabelle hoped for one wild moment…then four shuffling steps toward her. Huge hands thrust under her armpits and lifted.
She’d expected to be yanked, thrown, hit, something violent. The demon’s touch was gentle instead, almost caring.
