by Angel Lawson
Admittedly, some of my dedication is due to the fact I’m hiding from Clinton. I can’t express verbally or on paper what came over me that night. I’ve never felt such all-consuming want. I mean, sure, there were guys I’d been interested in. Even a few hard-core celebrity crushes in college, but I threw myself at the man, and the following evening at dinner, even though my urges had quelled, I kept my eyes on my plate and excused myself quickly.
I’d probably still be in my room if I didn’t have an appointment to keep. I’m on my way to my first meeting with my graduate professor when raindrops begin to fall. I run down the city block with my bag clutched to my chest, barely making it inside before sheets of rain hit the streets.
“Wow, that was close,” I say to the woman at the desk while shaking the water out of my hair. “I’m here to see Professor Christensen.”
Her eyes flick to the computer monitor. “Morgan Hansen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can go on in. He’s expecting you.”
I walk down the short hallway and find his name on a small plaque by the door. I knock twice and a voice invites me in. The older Professor stands behind his desk in greeting. “Ms. Hansen, I’m happy to meet you.”
“You can call me Morgan.”
“Please have a seat, Morgan.” I stare at the man, with his graying hair and thick beard. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sorry. You just look familiar.”
He smiles. “I get that a lot. I’m told I favor Brad Pitt.”
His expression is dead serious but I figure out soon enough that he’s joking—although, to be fair, there’s a touch of Brad in his baby blue eyes.
“I wanted to start off by thanking you for setting up the scholarship and housing.”
He stiffens slightly before gesturing to the seat across from his desk. I take it and by the time he’s in his own chair the easy charm has returned. “The Brannon scholarship is unaffiliated with this office. They do their own research and selection. You aren’t having any problems there, are you?”
“Oh, no. My housemates have been very welcoming. And my quarters are the perfect space for writing. I’ve accomplished so much since I arrived.”
“Good.” He leans back in his chair and it creaks under his weight. “That’s an eclectic group of men. I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable in any way.”
“Aren’t all artists eclectic?” His tone feels a little off, like he’s issuing a warning. But I’m not here to talk about my housemates. I shift the subject. “Since this is our first meeting, can you tell me a little bit about what I should expect in the program?”
That brings a smile to his face. “As you know, this is a special graduate degree. You’ve been chosen to continue working on a specific project that we’ve seen extraordinary promise in—your novel. The first sections you sent in with your application were phenomenal.”
Pride swells in my chest. “Thank you.”
“Maverick’s search for her true meaning is heartbreaking. And her relationship with the ravens? Impossible—yet we know from science and mythology that ravens are a magnificent species. Smart, cunning, clever. You’ve captured all of those elements in your book while bringing us the true humanity in Maverick’s emotional journey.”
His words hit me in the chest. I’ve never had someone understand my writing—my true intent—without me having to over-explain it in the process. Christensen nailed it on the first chapters. “That means so much to me.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Now, don’t think my compliments mean there’s not a lot of work to be done. The University and my office want to do everything we can to make your novel a success. Resources, research assistants, oh and I have arranged a partnership for you.”
“What kind of partnership?”
“With another author. You’ll bounce ideas off one another, read each other’s work. It can be very beneficial.” He hands me a card with a name, number, and email on it.
“Anita Cross. Is she in this program?”
“No, she didn’t qualify but she’s still an outstanding author. I suspect you’ll learn so much from one another.”
I slip the card into my bag. “I’ll get in touch with her soon.”
“Excellent.” He glances at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have words to get down.”
“Every day!” I laugh. But it’s true, even sitting here right now I’m itching to get back to work. Maverick has been running through my head all day. It’s like she wants to tell me something and I can’t quite figure it out.
*
That evening, after another quiet dinner, I pass Clinton exiting the dining room. I expect him to ignore me but he stops and grabs my arm. In a quiet voice he asks, “Can we talk?”
My heartbeat kicks up a notch and I nod.
I follow him into a quiet corner just off the kitchen. “I apologize if I crossed a line the other night.”
“You?” I laugh. “I’m the one that basically jumped you. If anyone should apologize, it would be me.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Morgan.” He brushes his hair over his ear. “Expressing yourself sexually is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a healthy reaction to stress.”
I’m not ashamed but I do feel the flush of heat come to my cheeks. “Do I seem stressed?”
He looks me over, eyes sweeping over every inch of my body. “Not as much as you did when you walked in my room.”
With that he walks off, leaving me flustered in the corner. I compose myself and walk through the library, picking out a book to read. I then exit through the back French doors leading to the porch. I’ve spent the whole day working or meeting with Professor Christensen, a break is warranted.
The porch is wide and made of stone. Twinkling fairy lights hang from the ceiling and comfortable furniture crowd around a circular pit with a roaring fire lit in the middle. I take a seat and pull out my book, content to read as the sun drops behind the nearby buildings, casting the whole yard in a fiery glow.
It’s peaceful back here. I’d almost think I was back in suburbia, and my only interruption is Davis coming out and asking if I’d like a drink.
“Some of the wine we had for dinner,” I suggest. Everyone at the table had at least one glass.
“Right away.”
The creak of the door alerts me to his return but when I look up I spot Sam holding two glasses. “Can I join you? Seems like a nice night.”
“Of course,” I reply, scooting over on the cushiony couch. I’ve got my bare feet perched on the fire pit, enjoying the heat on my soles. “Shouldn’t you be out photographing that sunset?”
“There’s more than enough natural beauty right here.” He grabs his phone and takes a quick snap. Before I can react he takes a series of just me.
“You know I don’t like it,” I tell him as he slips the phone into his pocket and sits next to me.
He shrugs. “I don’t tell you what to write, you don’t tell me what to photograph.”
That’s the kind of logic I don’t approve of, I think, knowing he’s right. We drink our wine and watch the red trails of the sunset fade into evening. Sam and I sit close together on the couch and I don’t protest when he links his fingers with mine.
“You’ve been quiet at dinner.” He rests his glass on the arm of the chair.
I glance over and catch the ridiculously sharp angle of his jaw in the firelight. His eyes twinkle and I want nothing more than to tug at the tie holding up his hair and watch it spill over his shoulders.
“I’ve just been immersed in my book, I guess. It’s hard to come back to reality sometimes.”
“I know the feeling. I spent eight hours in the darkroom yesterday.”
Incredulous, I move so I can see him better.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s just really nice to hear someone say that. None of my friends at school ever got my intensity or drive. They made me feel like a freak for the am
ount of time I spent working on my novel.”
Sam uses a finger to push a strand of hair off my cheek. His hand lingers on my neck. “Your friends must not have the creative passion you possess.”
Between the heat of the fire and Sam’s proximity, I break into a sweat. It’s only been days since my encounter with Clinton but the familiar ache returns to my loins, this time stronger than ever. If Clinton was here I’d take him up on his offer for another round. But he’s not. Sam is and my feelings for him are just as strong.
He frowns and asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Can I tell you something you won’t divulge to the others?”
“Of course.”
I’m glad with the firelight he can’t see me blush. “I kissed Clinton the other night.” I wait for the reaction and start to pull my hand away but he only tightens his grip. He also doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Did you know? Oh my God, did he tell you?”
“Who?”
“Clinton!” I whisper-yell.
He laughs. “No, he didn’t tell me anything but…well,” he makes a face, “secrets are difficult to keep in this house.”
I’m not exactly sure what that means but I add, “It was a one-time thing. Completely out of character. At least my character, that is.”
Sam gives me a long look. He’s not intimidating like Dylan or Clinton but he carries himself with confidence. Why wouldn’t he? He’s fucking gorgeous. When he looks at me though, with those emerald green eyes, I feel like he can see into my soul.
“Did you feel better after being with him?”
“We didn’t have sex.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I look down at my hands and remember what Clinton said about not feeling shame. “I felt better actually. Like, when I went down to his room I had all this pent-up energy—just bubbling up inside. Once we kissed and, you know, we let that out on one another I felt more balanced.” Sam’s fingers tighten around mine. “I’m not really experienced in things like this. I hope I haven’t ruined the dynamics in the house or something.”
He shifts toward me and clasps a hand behind my neck. “God no, Morgan. Dylan told you that first night. We’re here for you in any way you need.”
His tongue darts out, licking his lips and for the second time I feel like I could fall into a man. When I don’t respond with anything other than a rapid heartbeat and shortened breath, he tugs me into his arms until I’ve got my back pressed against his chest. His feet bookend mine, soles burning against the hot fire, and my dress has shifted up, exposing my upper thighs. I feel the length of his hardness against my lower back and I fight the urge to press into it.
Why? Because this is crazy. I feel crazy.
Slowly, Sam begins to trail his fingers up and down my arms, leaving a blaze of goosebumps in their wake. His breath is hot against my neck and he whispers in my ear. “Let it go, baby. All that doubt and anxiety. You’re carrying the weight of the past on your back and it’s a boulder that will take you down.”
His words don’t make sense but his fingers do, and they move across my thighs and under the curve of my breasts. I will my hips to stay on the cushion but I crave his touch, right at my center, and just when I think I can’t bear the teasing any longer, the tips of his fingers dip between my legs, grazing over my most sensitive spots.
“Have you ever had an orgasm, Morgan?”
“Yes,” I breathe, trying to find my voice. And trying even harder not to think of that bumbling night with a potential boyfriend. That relationship, like all the others, didn’t end well. “Just once, really.”
“I can tell. You’re wound tighter than a clock. We’ve got to release a little of this, okay?”
“Ohhkay.” I shudder when he moves further, pushing past the lace of my panties. His lips kiss up and down my neck, sucking and licking every inch. My toes curl on the fire’s edge and I clench my hand around his knee. He strokes the hot nub between my thighs, the one desperate spot begging for all the attention. His fingers move with precision, like he doesn’t want to waste a beat. His free hand moves to my breast, tugging at the strap until he can reach the hard peak of my nipple. I moan at the dual sensation. No, I’ve never felt anything like this.
I grow slick from his touch and I lean my head on his chest. I feel his heartbeat, rapidly thumping against my back. His movements grow quicker, my hips thrust in time, I almost—almost—beg him to do more, go further, but the coil in my lower belly tightens and tightens until I’m wound so far there’s nothing to do but gouge my nails into Sam’s legs and cry as I shatter into a million pieces.
“Sam,” I breathe, trying to regain control of my senses. But all the stress and tightness in my body is gone. I’m limp as a ragdoll against his body. All I want to do is curl up and soak in the moment, but I force myself to sit up and straighten my top, then the hem of my dress. My panties are drenched and I don’t even want to know what my hair looks like. He confirms this by smiling at me and smoothing out my hair.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, leaning forward to kiss me. His lips are warm and inviting. “I always knew you would be, but it’s like looking into the sun. Blinding.”
He kisses me again and again and again, until the moon rises high and we both sleep.
Chapter 13
Sam
“I fucked up.”
Dylan looks up from the book at his desk. It’s a massive tome, six hundred years old, with brittle pages and faded ink. I spot a familiar design at the top of the page. The sword that Damien forged into a ring—the same one he’s creating for Morgan.
“What did you do?”
“She’s just so…” I can’t believe I did it. I’d been so careful. We all have, but seeing her like that. Red cheeked and post-orgasmic. I just let it slip. “I made a comment about how I’d always known she would be beautiful.”
Dylan’s jaw ticks. “Did she react?”
I can’t help the smirk. “Honestly, I think she was too fucking pleased to notice.”
“Yeah, we all caught on to that. The whole house shuddered when she finally came.”
I expect a congratulations on being the one to push her over the edge but no, I fucked up. That’s why I’m here.
“As obnoxious as it is, you’re probably right,” he says, leaning back in his leather chair. “She was probably too distracted and even then, we may have to continue to nudge her toward the truth anyway. I think we’re running out of time and her memory is slow to recover.”
“I know. My photos aren’t getting any better.” In fact, they’re scary as fuck. The darkness is looming and if we don’t get the bond forged, we’re all screwed.
“Did you get a feeling?” he asks with a straight face. To be chosen bears a lot of responsibility. Morgan’s mate will no longer just be her guardian. He’ll be her partner and take the brunt of her powerful energy. “Like you were the one?”
“I felt something—she’s special. The desire to please her is overwhelming.” There’s no mistaking the pain on Dylan’s face. We all feel the need to pleasure Morgan. “But she didn’t push it further. I gave what I could but as you know, the choice is up to her.”
Dylan nods and looks back at the book in front of him. He’s studied the lore on Morgan and the gate for many years. He carried the knowledge in him even when he took the form of a raven. But this is the first time I’ve seen lines of worry by his eyes.
“We have time,” I assure him. “Her memories are coming back. She’s writing a lot and the two energy releases have helped. I think she’s aware that she may need to rely on us more. Once that happens, she’ll be more receptive to understanding the truth and her role in everything.”
“And you think she’ll make the right choice?”
We both know this is where the whole problem lies. Morgan must know the truth about her past; what has happened and the destruction she caused.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “But soon we’ll find out and we need to be prepar
ed one way or the other.
Chapter 14
Morgan
Under the guidance of the handsome blond man, Maverick twists the door knob. The ravens screech overhead, angered by her actions, but the surge of power between her and the door feels right.
Something finally feels right.
The lock gives, springing inside, and she feels the click of release. Maverick tilts her head to look at the ravens flying overhead. She can barely hear them now and their bodies look like nothing more than shadows. The man’s hand comes down on her shoulder. “It’s time, Maverick. Open the door.”
With a firm grip on the knob, she does just that, pushing it forward until she can see to the other side. A veil of gray shrouds the distance, but the cold is unmistakable. Black tendrils of smoke weave around her ankles and the air smells of wet ash.
She steps forward, leaving the sunlight behind, and jumps when the land crunches beneath her feet. The girl bends and touches what appears to be stone covered in soot, but it only takes a moment to know it’s bone.
A wave of nausea rolls in Maverick’s stomach.
She looks to the man and says, “What happened?”
“You’ve opened the gates of Hell, sweetheart.” The beautiful man’s face shifts, eyes turning black and skin melting away. “Welcome back.”
Maverick screams…
The sound echoes in my ears and bounces across the room. I wake covered in a thick layer of sweat.
“No, no, no, no,” I cry, jumping out of bed. I brush my ankles to get rid of the smoke.
There’s no smoke. No ash. I blink, taking in the fact I’m in my room at Nead mansion. I’m not even sure when I came back up here. After midnight for sure.
Confusion and fear cling to my throat and I race to the window. I brace myself for destruction, for the kind of annihilation in my dream (memory?) but the city below functions like normal. Taxis and buses zip down the road. Green, thriving trees fill the park. People walk in that brisk, city way of theirs.
