And then everything went to hell.
Her foot slid out from under her, and she crashed to the floor, landing on her back. The cement floor’s cold and unyielding surface bit into the back of her skull and left elbow. Pain arced from one injured place to the other in a loop. Spots of white light pulsated across her vision in a slow strobe.
The monks must have let her prayer go to voicemail. The bastards.
Chapter Two
Oh. Shit. The guys he played softball with liked to call him a lady killer, but they didn’t mean actual death. They thought he had an unending supply of female company, not knowing that any real interest on his part could lead to fatalities. He could hear them now, joking about how he’d almost killed a woman by looking at her and smiling. This would earn him a new nickname. Probably something like Dick Death or Pussy Killer.
“Peyton!” He rushed across the floor, terror igniting in his veins. A pit opened in his gut and sucked all the breath from his lungs.
When had he developed feelings for Peyton? They’d never even been on a date. And yet, somehow, he felt a connection with her beyond physical lust. Something in him recognized her, a pinging gong resounded through his soul, and he gasped.
No fucking way. That magic hadn’t been awake for years.
Peyton glowed with health and curves, had beautiful light brown hair that glowed with natural blonde highlights. Enormous hazel eyes framed by outrageous eyelashes. Ample breasts and hips he’d imagined digging his fingertips into more than once. He loved to watch her come into the dealership and check out the bikes. The way she stole looks at him when she thought no one would notice. It was cute.
He’d taught the beginner’s motorcycle riding course she’d taken—one of the dealership’s offerings in an attempt to garner more business. Train people on the bikes the dealership sold, and they’d be more likely to make their purchase there. Their interactions had stayed professional and that of a teacher and student, despite how attractive he found her. Something held him back.
He’d enjoyed their short chats, had always found a way to be available and in view when she came into the store, because he liked her. There was just something about her...if she’d been a Fae, he’d have pursued her. Caught her. Bedded her until neither of them could walk in a straight line and her pussy twitched around his cock with uncontrolled spasms.
Oh yeah. He could teach her a whole new way to ride. His cock twitched behind his zipper.
He even knew about the situation with her mother from the bits of conversation he overheard and the talk around town. Travers, Georgia was small enough to give credence to the idea that no one had any secrets, ever. Why he’d moved here five years ago, he’d never know. Blending in would be damn near impossible soon. Already some of his friends made pointed jokes about supplements and steroids to explain how he showed no signs of aging and recovered from physical activities much faster than they did.
Humans were so damn fragile. Keeping them as play things never ended well. It was part of the reason he’d never pursued more than friendship with Peyton, despite the connection he knew existed between them.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his skin tingled. Pixy magic in the air tonight. Her eyes fluttered as he checked her head. A large goose egg rose on the back of her skull, but the skin remained unbroken. Danger of a concussion remained, but no blood. A pent-up breath escaped his lips, and he moved on to her elbow. The swollen joint blazed bright red with a tinge toward purple.
He cringed and shook his head. The tinkle and chime of bells floated through the air, and he swore under his breath. Pixies were nothing but trouble; buggers hated being the size of gnats and took their bullshit out on everyone around them. He’d thought he’d gained enough respect from the few he’d allowed in past his wards to trust true malicious actions wouldn’t occur. “Damnable creature. She could have been killed.”
A coffee tin filled with nuts and bolts crashed the floor from his workbench, and a high, girlish laugh sounded. The wee ones liked to cause mischief and play tricks on the unwary. Usually they pestered him with hidden tools, untied shoelaces, and turning the volume on the radio up to full blast. Simple, harmless things. This boldness didn’t bode well.
“Who are you talking to? That was quite an inventive swear word you used.” Her hazel eyes opened and focused on his face.
He choked and blinked, casting about for a way to regain his composure. Bugger. The language he’d sworn in wasn’t English. Or any language a human should know.
The Fae tongue could only be understood by the Fae born.
Who was this woman?
“Ian? Why am I on the floor?” She started to struggle into a sitting position, and he guided her back down.
“You fell. Stay still.” Confusion and a sense of events spiraling churned his stomach along with a wave of selfish joy. If she was a Fae female, he could take her for a turn or twenty between the sheets. All those ample, lush curves under his mouth and hands. Fuck yes.
The clatter of metal hitting cement rang out again. His mind raced in circles. Who was she? All Fae were accounted for on the rolls. Duty bound him to report her to the Overlords. With their numbers dwindling as humanity spread and destroyed their homes in the forests, mountains, and even Underhill, each and every Fae must be accounted for.
Sorrow gripped him at the idea. She’d be taken in, her lineage discovered and traced, and then placed in a clan. With other Fae who shared her blood, magical affinity . . . she’d be married and pregnant within two months.
Irrational rage billowed up when images of Peyton on her knees sucking another man’s cock, with her legs twined around another man’s hips, or her beautiful breasts cupped in another man’s hands coalesced in his head. No man but him should be pleasuring this woman. He’d kill—
“Oh my God. Your eyes.” She gasped and scooted away from him, her injured arm cradled to her chest. “Stay away from me.”
White-hot heat stole from his solar plexus and into his fists. He clenched his eyes shut and attempted to think of something else. Anything else. She needed medical attention—was hurt. Might need a doctor. Focusing on taking care of her, of not frightening her, helped him tamp the magic back down. Shoving the power back into its cage meant it would simmer and boil until the lid blew, but he had to take care of her.
“Ms. Reynolds. Peyton. It’s okay.” He held his hands at chest height, palms out, and prayed his irises had returned to human green. She must have seen them with the full bore of his magic pouring out like a pair of neon green searchlights. For each step he moved closer, she scooted in the opposite direction. Damn the gods, but he needed her to trust him. Her fear twisted him into knots, and a madness he hadn’t experienced in years crested. The rut ascended from the hollow he’d managed to stuff it in, a shrieking tsunami of magic fueled lust searching for his mate. He shoved it down and aside, surprised when his craving to reassure and protect her stemmed the surge. “Peyton. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
And if he was lucky, she’d be naked with him soon. Spread open wide and taking his thick cock into her pussy.
Now that’d be one hell of a nightcap.
The roar of approaching motorcycles reverberated through the repair bay. Every hair on his body stood on end, and territorial fury smashed into his magical shields.
The Wild Hunt. Here. Now.
A cross between a stallion’s trumpet and a snarl erupted from his lips, but the blast of revving engines covered the sound. Mostly.
He had to get her to trust him, and fast. But what could he do? The engines grew louder, and the drawers on his tallest tool chest flew open. Sockets pelted the floor in a metallic clatter.
“Ian, what the hell is going on in here?” Howie Turner, the floor manager for the dealership rushed into the room. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt, and his pot belly protruded over his waist. “Oh, great. I told you not to let her in here with you. What happened to Ms. Reynolds?”
T
he short, balding man went to one knee next to her hip and reached for her arm.
“Don’t touch her, Howie.” His voice bordered on a growl, but he couldn’t help it. His innate Fae magic and the rut reacted to the magic of the Wild Hunt, whirling, condensing, and growing inside. She belonged with him. To him. Protective, confused, and agitated, the thought of another man handling her was enough to almost push him over the edge. She was a lost Fae, and his every instinct railed at him to claim her. Now. Before another man spirited her away.
The motorcycles cut off, but the pixies weren’t done with their devilment. Another coffee can careened off a shelf. The air compressor kicked on with a loud, grating buzz, and Peyton shrieked.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes huge in her pale, frightened face.
Damn Manannan. Damn those pixies. Damn Howie. Fuck the Hunt. He paced in a tight circle and threw a shop towel.
“Ian Coghlan, watch your mouth.”
The glare on her sweet, rounded features startled him, and he swore again, then laughed. He’d sworn in the Fae language. No one had corrected him in such a way since his mother centuries ago. His mirth lasted until Howie touched her and helped her stand.
“Turner, do not touch her. Step away from Peyton. Now.” The large overhead door to the outside flew up on its tracks. He spun, weight on the balls of his feet to face the new, greater threat. “Both of you get out of here. But Turner, you touch her, and I’ll know. Keep your hands to yourself if you value them on the ends of your arms.”
Six men stood shoulder to shoulder in the massive bay doorway. Moonlight and shadows played over their features and hid their faces.
“Who the hell are those guys?” Peyton’s voice rang out. “And why is it suddenly dark?”
Turner answered her in a hushed tone, but he didn’t bother to listen to the words. All his focus narrowed down to the men in front of him. When the door to the showroom clicked closed, he let his guard relax marginally.
“Lose the glamour. Or stay the hell outta my shop.” Two long strides took him to the four-foot long crowbar he hid in the space between two tool boxes. The long piece of iron was meant for prying car engines. Not much use for motorcycles, but he liked to keep it around.
“Come on Ian, you know that is useless against us.” The tallest of the six moved into the light, and the glamour of shadows and smoke wreathed around his form dissipated. Well over six feet, with the lean body of a mega-distance runner, Brennan tossed his lit cigarette to the floor. His heavy boots clomped on the cement and hoop earrings hung from both ears, studs pierced his right eyebrow and the middle of his lower lip.
Ian held his ground. The myth of iron harming the Fae had been started and perpetuated by the Fae themselves. But being struck by a big-ass piece of metal would hurt anyone. And he’d use it on his old friend if he needed to. “What is the Hunt doing here? In backwoods Georgia?”
They had to be here for Peyton. Well they couldn’t have her.
“We came to get you buddy. It’s time for you to come back. The Hunt isn’t the same without you.” Brennan cocked one blonde eyebrow high until it disappeared behind the fringe of dark hair draped over his forehead.
Ian snorted and released a bitter laugh. “If you recall, I left for good reason. You can’t have an unmated steed in rut running around like I was. Manannan made sure to remind me almost daily I wasn’t welcome.”
At some point in the life of a Fae steed, he went into rut. In times long past, the rut called out to his mate, a magic tether that brought two together. Weeks of merriment and celebration ensued for all members of the Hunt. But their numbers dwindled, and more and more, the blood diluted.
He’d gone into rut, and his mate had not appeared.
As the mating magic rode him, he went through females at an unprecedented rate and flew into uncontrollable rages. As he turned more and more feral, in his steed form, none could ride him.
The Hunt cloaked itself in a glamour that in this century took on the appearance of a motorcycle gang. And the Hunt was left with a motorcycle that drove down the road without a rider. They managed to conceal him for a few years, but eventually he’d been cast aside for the protection of the larger whole. The pain of being ostracized from his people hurt, and doubled up on the agony of knowing there was no mate for him. Destined to be a bachelor forever, with a sex drive that never abated and the stamina of ten human men, he’d been screwed. There was never enough pussy to satisfy him, because sex wasn’t all that he sought. His soul searched for the other created just for him, for that connection.
Manannan claimed being on his own would help him control his magic, and that the urge of the rut would fade with distance between himself and the Hunt. The leader had been right about the rut, but each day the ache in the center of his chest that needed the embrace of magic, a mate, and family, grew.
With the rate at which he aged, he figured he had another thousand years left on the planet. Those centuries stretched out in front of him in an interminable length he refused to examine closely. The thought of living alone for century upon century left him hollowed out and wretched.
Now, his oldest companions and compatriots had returned, and dangled their family ties in front of him. The outsider. Cast aside and left alone from all of Fairie but for a few pixies who’d almost killed Peyton.
The rut reawakened for her. For Peyton, after five long years of living and working in close vicinity to her, tonight, the Hunt came here, and his magic struggled and thrashed to claim her.
“It’s not that you weren’t welcome. He had to protect the whole. Manannan wears the weight of that decision every day. He is not a cruel man.” Brennan gestured to the men who accompanied him, and the glamour dissipated in full.
Daegus, Connor, Irial, Lonan, and Marcan all appeared before him, each the same as the last time he’d seen them. Each man carried a sense of danger and ferocity, the swords, daggers, spears, and shields of ancient warfare now formed into modern weaponry. Their chain mail and armor had been replaced with chaps and leather jackets.
The black smoke curled its tendrils around Daegus as it always had, condensed until his eyes glittered and shone like onyx marbles. Daegus held out his left hand to display the pattern etched into the skin on the palm. “She is here, Ian. Your mate.”
The bar clattered to the floor and pixy laughter reverberated in his ears. Hope, exhilaration, and a dizzying sense of fear overtook him.
A Fae who had come to them fully formed as an adult, birthed by the Hunt itself, Daegus served as Oracle, healer, and match maker. His tattoo was never wrong. The lines on his former compatriot’s hand formed a single word in the Fae tongue.
He grabbed the proffered appendage and traced the word with his finger. Roughly translated, it meant “She who rides.”
The old fury of the rut crested, and he forced the hand away. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” To his ears, he recognized the hope, the agony, and the terror in his voice. What if this wasn’t true, and it was all some kind of elaborate lie? Peyton couldn’t be his, could she?
If his dick had anything to say about it, she was.
Did he even want to return to the Hunt? He’d made a new life in Georgia. And what if she accepted him but not the Fae?
Lonan twirled a ten-inch knife on his finger, the point stuck in his flesh. “You sure about that, buddy? You don’t know any females that ride?”
Chapter Three
Peyton perched on a bar stool at the parts counter and fought the urge to bang her forehead over and over until she went unconscious. How humiliating. She was such a klutz. Slipping in nothing and bashing her head and elbow on the floor. If only she had an inter-dimensional time machine to whisk her away from Ian’s penetrating gaze. She’d go back in time and take ballet. Or piano. Something artistic and artsy-fartsy so she could be like those self-possessed interesting women she’d gone to college with. The ones who wore funky hats and dark-red lipstick and lugged enormous art portfolio
s with bits of paper poking out of the top.
Curiosity to know who the new arrivals were and why Ian had been so determined to send her out of the garage got her to her feet. Leaving well enough alone wasn’t good enough for her. The urge to plunge into people’s stories and unearth their secrets like an archeological dig had led her into law. So often she’d found the truth through what wasn’t said aloud, in the circle of family and friends and exes... and Ian had been in a damned big hurry to get her away from his guests.
A real-live motorcycle gang in Travers was something she didn’t want to miss. She stood, only to flop back down again when the room spun and she almost puked. Howie, the store manager, emerged from the employee break room with two instant ice packs in one hand.
At least the head injury had cured the worst of her urges to nibble on Ian. The cannibalism must have been transitory or part of a weird hormone surge, so that was good to know.
He held one to her head until she took control of the pack herself, and lifted her elbow up so he could slide a second one beneath the swollen joint. The overhead lighting shone off his wet, thick lips, and his breaths rasped in and out with heavy sucking sounds. A fine spray of spittle landed on her sleeve, and she scooted out of range.
Yuck.
“I am so sorry, Ms. Reynolds. We don’t allow customers in the garage for just this reason.” Coffee scented breath invaded her nostrils, and she leaned away.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Turner. I have no intention of filing suit. I insisted on following Mr. Coghlan into the garage area.” She kept her tone dry and settled her elbow into the cold gel as deep as the plastic pack allowed. Sometimes she hated being an attorney. People assumed she intended to sue them for ridiculous things. “Where is everyone? Isn’t the dealership still open?”
Peyton's Ride (Riding With The Hunt, #1) Page 2
