Kings of the Fire Box Set

by Lily Cahill

  Felicity sighed and nodded. “My wards were torn to shreds, their magic was completely decimated—but there are new ones up, ones I didn’t put there. The magical signature isn’t familiar to me, but if I had to guess…”

  Joy nodded. “Glinda.”

  “Right.” Felicity looked around the room. They were all gathered back in the dining room, the four Dragomir brothers, Ramona. Even the innkeeper had made the meeting, if only so that he felt important and included enough to keep his mouth shut in the future. The decorations that had seemed so fun only a few hours earlier now felt garish and out of place. “Our family is under attack right now, both sides of it. We have a common enemy, and we don’t know much about her. We only know her name is Natasha, and she doesn’t like us. From now on, we need to stick together, no matter what.”

  Everyone nodded solemnly.

  “I will not rest until this woman is found and tried for her crimes,” Damien added, his voice low and serious. Joy leaned into Vincent, needing his strength. “No one will be hurt by her. We are building a new world, better than those that came before.”

  Exhaustion creeped over Joy. She could feel it in every inch of her bones. She stood, Vincent moving with her as if they were joined by one brain. He took her hand—and she shrugged when she saw her sister’s eyebrows shoot up, but didn’t hang around to offer an explanation.

  He led her out of the room and upstairs. She’d never even seen her room, having spent every spare moment before the wedding helping Felicity. Now, as he led her into a room with a single bed, she figured she never would.

  Good. She just needed him tonight.

  As soon as the door was closed, Vincent’s arms wrapped around her, holding her tight. Pressed against his body, Joy let herself relax for the first time in what felt like forever. She felt like she ought to say something, but there were no words that could describe what she was feeling.

  “I’m sorry,” Vincent murmured against her hair, breaking the spell.

  “For what?”

  Vincent pulled back a few inches so that he could look her in the eyes, and although she didn’t like the distance, just looking at him and having him close brought her a sense of comfort.

  “I’m not good at words,” he started, then cut himself off with a frown. “I’m—I’ve always been better at being a dragon than a man. Men were the ones who hurt my family, and I thought that by distancing myself from that part of me…”

  Her heart ached for him, for the wrongs her family had done his.

  “I should have told you I loved you right away this morning. I should never have let you feel like less, for even a minute.”

  Joy shook her head. “I’m just as much at fault as you are. I couldn’t think of why someone like you would love someone like me—some ex-addict with a lot of baggage. I jumped to the wrong conclusion and I didn’t give you time to explain.”

  “I’m going to be a better man for you,” he told her solemnly.

  “I’m going to be a better woman for you.” Repeating the words back to him felt like a vow, and she went to her toes to kiss him sweetly on the mouth.

  As soon as their lips touched, the room filled with a bright light that faded as quickly as it came.

  Joy startled, but Vincent smiled against her skin and held her close. One hand broke away from the hold to trail down the notches of her spine, over her ass, to the torn and dirty hem of her skirt.

  “Can I apologize to you properly?” he asked, ever the gentleman.

  Just the thought of his hands on her gave her renewed energy. She kissed her way up to his ear and whispered, “By all means.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, he was on her, his hands roaming over her body, hiking up the hem of her skirt. He dipped his fingers under the elastic of her panties and pulled, sending them to the ground.

  The urgency, the passion—Joy let her head fall back, let herself enjoy the feeling of Vincent’s teeth nibbling at her pulse point. Her breath caught in her throat and she gave a ragged gasp as she felt his fingers slip between her lips, rubbing at her hidden nub.

  “I want to taste you,” he said, his voice all gravel and need.

  A fissure of heat went down Joy’s spine. She disentangled herself from his arms, and reached for the zipper of her dress, drawing it down. She slipped off one strap, and then the other, letting the garment fall to the floor. The bra—a barely-there strapless thing—came off next, and she stood before him, vulnerable and yet not vulnerable at all.

  His eyes devoured her, taking in her every curve, and Joy knew in her heart that he found her more beautiful than anyone. He didn’t see the extra pounds she was carrying. He thought her body was perfect exactly as it was.

  She loved it.

  She sat on the bed and then moved to the center of it, lying back. Propping herself up on one elbow, she crooked her finger. “Coming?”

  He didn’t have to be told twice. Vincent attacked the buttons on his shirt, nearly ripping the fabric off his body. His pants were gone just as quickly—she needed to feel him against her, and she loved knowing that he needed the same just as much.

  He got on the bed and delicately lifted on foot up, placing it over his shoulder. Her breath stuttered out of her.

  And then his mouth was against her, his tongue pressing against her clit, circling it. She gasped—her lungs couldn’t seem to find air no matter what she did. There was no room for air, only pleasure as his fingers joined in, working in and out, in and out of her body.

  Her muscles clenched and tensed inside of her. God, she was close.

  “Vincent…” she moaned, hoping he knew what he was doing to her.

  He only quickened his pace, sliding two fingers inside her quickly, his tongue flicking against that special spot. She snapped, every ounce of pleasure wrung from her body as she sobbed her release. It crashed like a wave, cresting again and again.

  She wasn’t even finished when he was suddenly there, inside of her, his hard cock hot inside of her. Somehow, impossibly, she felt like she could come again—and again and again and again. He kept her leg over her shoulder, letting him go so deep inside of her. Her vision was full of nothing but stars.

  He was panting hot against her neck, his skin slick with sweat, and her arms scrabbled around him. Her nails dug into his back and he rewarded her with an especially hard thrust, their bodies colliding faster and faster.

  She could feel it building, her orgasm. It came up on her quickly, spooling tight in her stomach. Vincent circled his thumb over her clit, and she was gone, babbling nonsense as pleasure hit her in all parts of her body.

  Bliss curled her toes, and a moment later, she heard Vincent call her name, felt him tense and release with a groan.

  He collapsed next to her on the bed, his lips tracing kisses up and down her shoulder.

  “I love you,” she said, because she had never been this happy in her life and she had to say it, to let him know how true it was.

  He caught her hand and brought her palm to his mouth. “And I love you.”

  It was not going to be easy. There was still so much that was wrong—she was still fighting cravings, there was a mad witch out to get her family, and she had no idea what was going to happen next. But suddenly, in that moment, with Vincent beside her, Joy was certain that things would be all right.

  Chapter One

  Marta

  “HEY, GUYS? HAS ANYONE SEEN Sandy Beach?”

  “You mean tan?”

  Marta could hear Joy’s huff of annoyance from all the way in the other room. “It’s not tan, Ramona. It’s called Sandy Beach!”

  “It looks like tan.”

  As fun as it was to rile Joy up, Marta was not in the mood to listen to Joy’s sermon on the subtle differences between each and every neutral shade of paint she had picked. Mostly because Marta had already been forced to listen to that exact same rant the night before.

  She stood up and then looked down at her makeshift seat: the drum of Sandy Beach
, more popularly known as tan.

  Ever since Joy had returned from the wedding, she’d been restless. Having Vincent on her side had made her start to see herself as worthy of a second chance, and now she was eager to seize that opportunity. It was great news, and Marta was proud of her charge. Sure, she was paid to watch out for Joy, but she’d grown fond of the girl.

  When Joy had announced her plan to reopen and rebrand The Witch’s Brew, everyone had been very supportive. She’d wanted to make it her own, she said, so that it didn’t just feel like she was following in Felicity’s footsteps. When she had followed up that announcement with a plea to help put up some new coats of paint and do some construction work on the interior, they had all felt trapped and begrudgingly agreed.

  All except Marta. She already had a job, even if it was her last day.

  Joy had recovered so quickly and so well—the lift in her spirits during the past few weeks had done wonders for her. She’d been weaning off the potions to manage her lingering health problems with no ill effects. She didn’t need Marta anymore.

  It was a good thing. It was what all nurses, magical and mortal, really wanted: healthy patients. Still, it was hard to move on from this place. She’d been happy here. It was tough, being an empathic witch. Her powers were so tapped into not only her emotions, but the emotions of others, that sometimes she became attached so quickly, so easily. It made her a good nurse, but it also could make her life difficult.

  But the joy, the general sense of wellbeing that had permeated the apartment above The Witch’s Brew, and her increasingly healthy patient meant that it was time for her to start looking for a new position. There were always people who needed help.

  Ramona and Joy’s argument about warm and cool undertones and complementary colors on the color wheel was getting too ridiculous. Marta moved to the door of the kitchen and stuck her head into the front of the house, where Joy, Vincent, Ramona, and Blayze were all working on their various projects. Even Arryn, the youngest Dragomir son, was there. Marta had never formally met him before.

  “Did I hear you guys were looking for tan?”

  Joy’s screech was totally worth it.

  “Marta, are you sure you don’t want to help with the ceilings?” Joy asked, smiling sweetly.

  Marta was very, very sure. She was not into home improvement projects. The Witch’s Brew was really starting to come together—the fresh paint made the whole place look bigger, airy. The men had rebuilt part of the counter, taking the shelving units that used to be for potions and instead creating a glass case inside the front counter, so that customers could see it as they glanced down. The old-fashioned tables and chairs, mismatched castoffs from Joy’s aunt who had passed away over a year ago, were mostly staying where they were—Joy had said Felicity would never forgive her if she got rid of them and bought something uniform. Plus, there was something about the idea of contributing to this place—she didn’t want to participate in building something she’d never be able to enjoy.

  Maybe it was selfish, but for Marta’s whole life, she had been about creating things and leaving them behind. She’d left behind her life in the Ukraine, her ex-boyfriend In Philadelphia, all the jobs she’d ever had. This one was special. It was already going to be tougher to move on from this than from most things.

  Explaining that was too much, however. It was easier to play it cool.

  She returned Joy’s smile with one of her own. “Are you adding that to my job description?”

  “It’s your last day! And look!” Joy patted up and down her body, which was covered in paint-splattered clothing. “I’m functional! You’ve done good, and now it’s time to—“

  “Rest? Relax?”

  “I was going to say ‘help me paint the ceiling.’ Please?” Joy pouted. “Besides, all you’re doing is reading. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  It was hard to resist Joy’s puppy dog eyes, especially with the waves of please please please coming off of her. Stupid empathy. Marta heaved out a sigh, and Joy sensed victory, rushing forward to give her a hug.

  “Stop, stop! You’ll get paint all over me.”

  She dropped her book onto the floor next to her, yanked the long-handled paint roller from Joy’s hand and gave her a mock glare.

  Vincent appeared behind Joy, wrapping his arms around her middle. Even though Marta had been skeptical of him at first—he had always seemed so aloof, so cold—she’d grown to like him over the past few weeks. He treated Joy like she was a princess, always putting her first, always supporting her at every turn. He blossomed around her, opening toward her like she was the sun. She’d learned to read him slowly—his emotions ran deeper than most. As soon as she knew him better, however, it was impossible not to notice how much he loved Joy.

  Although, Marta was definitely glad she was not only an empath, but also a witch, because sharing a house with the two of them meant there were a few nights when a silencing spell (or eight) had been a definite necessity. If only her witchy powers were as innate as her empathic skills; one night she hadn’t been able to find her wand and had been forced to listen to some pretty impressive noises coming from the other room.

  “You mind if I steal this one away for a quick break?” Vincent asked, looking over Joy’s shoulder.

  Ramona and Blayze were bickering in the far corner, and they seemed to be on the verge of packing up, too.

  Marta sighed. “I’ll finish up the ceiling, and then that’s it, okay?”

  “Okay. And then we’ll go out for dinner, celebrate your last day in style.”

  She’d never agreed to that, but there was no talking Joy out of it now that she had mentioned it. Besides, what else was she going to do?

  Marta nodded instead, turning back to the roller in her hand and the pan of Sandy Beach on the floor. She gathered a bunch of paint on the brush and tilted her head back, rolling a smooth line along the ceiling.

  Two feet down, many more to go.

  Marta fell into a steady work pattern. It was easy to lose herself in something menial. Pour more paint from the bucket into the pan, get an even amount on the roller, smooth it across the ceiling. Move to the next spot and repeat.

  She was nearly back to where she started when a voice from behind her said, “Watch out!”

  Marta startled, nearly dropping the roller. A blob of paint dripped down and hit her cheek, and she scrubbed at the spot before turning.

  Arryn Dragomir moved toward her, reaching out to tilt the roller so it was no longer directly above her head. Another bit of paint fell off, but this one landed on the covered floors.

  He hovered before her, and despite herself, Marta felt her breath catch.

  He was the Dragomir brother she knew the least about. Damien managed to be a constant presence, even though he lived in New York City with Felicity, his new bride. Blayze and his girlfriend Ramona were always dropping in on Joy, and their visits were loud, boisterous, happy events. Vincent spent more time at Joy’s apartment than his own. In fact, Marta wasn’t even sure he had his own apartment anymore.

  Arryn, though. He was a bit of a mystery. She’d glimpsed him outside the window of the apartment a few times, waiting for Joy and Vincent out on the street. He was utterly unlike any of his brothers in a way that she had never been able to pinpoint He was built like them, muscular and strong. He favored Blayze, a bit—his hair was closer to dirty blond than anything, and he had the same bright blue eyes that were so startling against his tan skin.

  No, it wasn’t his looks that made him different. Just like his brothers, he was almost too handsome to be real. But he was also—quiet, in a way that none of them were. Even Vincent seemed more open and friendly since he had found Joy. Arryn, though, always looked like his thoughts were far away—and that far away place, wherever it was, didn’t seem to be very nice. She’d never spent enough time with him to get a real read on him; mostly, she’d felt a few touches of brooding sadness, and then nothing.

  People were rarely a mystery to Mar
ta, which made this man even more intriguing.

  “What are you—“ Marta started, but then Arryn stooped and picked something up, holding it out to her.

  Her book.

  “Oh,” Marta said. She stooped to put the roller in the paint pan and then grabbed the book, pulling it close. She’d never have forgiven herself if she ruined this copy. “Thank you.”

  Arryn smiled—a tiny thing, no teeth, and yet Marta’s stomach flip-flopped at the sight, anyway. “No problem. Sorry if I scared you. I just know I’d have kicked myself if I ruined one of my books this way, so I figured ….”

  “No, you’re right.” She glanced down at the cover, mercifully free of paint. “It’s not like it’s a fancy edition, but it has a lot of sentimental value.”

  “Oh?” Arryn cocked his head to the side, his hair falling down over his forehead, and Marta couldn’t help but stare. “Which one is it, anyway?”

  She held it out so he could see the cover.

  His eyebrows climbed upward. “Jane Eyre? Isn’t this something they make you read in high school?”

  Marta held back her glare. He technically wasn’t wrong, even if his tone was a little condescending. His skepticism hit her like a wave. At least that made it a little easier to think around him—Marta Petrenko did not go dizzy over boys who did not respect literature.

  “I went to school in Ukraine, so I wouldn’t know what they teach in American schools.” She looked up at him, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “But it was my mother’s favorite book. She taught me English by reading it to me as a child.”

  Arryn nodded, looking slightly abashed. “I get it.” He looked down at his feet, then met her eyes again, obviously trying to make up for what he had said. “You know, I don’t think I ever read it. I was supposed to, once or twice, but we moved around so much. I didn’t pay attention in school.”

  That was just not right. With a deep breath, Marta held out the book to him.

  He stepped back instead of taking it from her. “What?”

  “You should read it. No one should miss out on this book.” She pushed the novel into his hands. “You’ll like it. There are crazy people and double crossings and it is…it’s very good. Trust me.”