Rise of the Lost Prince

by London Saint James

  His brother shrugged a shoulder. “When don’t we have one?”

  “Shit, big guy,” Dash said as he strolled up the alleyway as cool as you please. He glanced around then stopped alongside Vibe. “Can’t you go one night without breaking things?”

  “Bite me, Dash,” Petúr said, wiping something that resembled wilted lettuce from his forearm.

  Dash sniggered and pointed to the top of Petúr’s head. “I think you missed some.”

  Combing his fingers through his hair, he didn’t want to consider what other nasty things hitched a ride on his person. Whatever. He didn’t have time to really worry about it. He shook like a dog then jumped out of the tattered remains of metal and trash. The woman squealed.

  He turned, palms up, and walked toward her as if approaching a skittish alley cat. “It’s all right,” he assured. “Everything is fine.” He knelt by her trembling frame.

  “What in the heck was that thing? You. He. You-you.” She tried to crab-walk backwards. “What are you?”

  Excellent question. He wished he knew.

  “Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God,” she spluttered.

  “Shh….” Petúr placed his large hand on her shoulder. She whimpered. He’d hoped to comfort her, but by the level of her shakes, he was failing miserably. “You’re safe now,” he said. A gust of wind disrupted her hair, causing some of the strands to whip across her mouth and neck. He swiped her hair aside, letting his fingers bask in the silk a moment before freeing her face. “I promise.”

  There was a cute smattering of freckles over her pixie shaped nose and she smelled of cotton candy. He usually didn’t take much, if any, notice of the darkling’s victims. Especially not the full shape of their lips. Cherry colored. Or the gentle curve of their jaw and delicate line of their neck. The way the pulse beat wildly in the smooth space of their throat.

  What in the hell? He dropped the thought of placing his mouth and nose to the beat of her there and turned to eye Vibe. “She’s scared shitless.”

  Vibe nodded. Petúr didn’t need to say anything else. They’d fought together, side-by-side, and dealt with the aftermath of their scrimmages with the darkness for years. Vibe knew what to do.

  Petúr watched in amazement as his friend and brother stared at the woman’s forehead. No matter how many times he saw Vibe do his thing, it always astonished him to see what could only be described as something akin to a heat wave undulate from Vibe’s body.

  Dancing on air, the wave reached out to the human. Contact. He experienced the warmth and low-line buzz overtake the female’s frame while Vibe’s silver eyes gave the allusion of pools of liquid rippling out from the dark centers.

  “She’s questioning her sanity and can’t wrap her mind around what she saw,” said Vibe. “She’s considering the darkling to be some kind of demon. And has some crazy thought of you being her sexy guardian angel.”

  Petúr almost, but not quite, broke a smile. “She thinks I’m sexy?”

  Vibe chortled. “Or you could be the devil in disguise.”

  His brow crinkled at that.

  “But then she goes back to her original thought of being in her bed at home, having some sort of nightmare.”

  Vibe snorted.

  “What?” Petúr asked, curious.

  “She thinks the bizarre dream is a result of eating tainted shrimp and oysters from Manny’s Crab Shack for dinner and is considering giving him a piece of her mind tomorrow morning when she wakes up about serving bad seafood.”

  “I hate to be the kill joy here,” said Dash. “But, attacks usually happen in twos and threes.” Dash turned his onyx gaze to Vibe. “So maybe we should wrap things up.”

  “Because of her disbelief, it will be easy to replace her memories,” Vibe said.

  “Do it,” said Petúr, feeling a brief pang of guilt over the decision. Why, though? This woman didn’t need to remember the details of the night. Nothing good would come of it if she did. He grabbed hold of his resolve. “Dash is right. One attack tonight won’t be all. Grappling Hook and his darklings seem to be getting more desperate.”

  The wave of heat and vibration became stronger. Beneath Petúr’s hand, she relaxed. Exhaled. Closed her eyes.

  “She’ll think it was a mugging. She knows she’s safe with us and won’t remember the details,” Vibe said. “She thinks she fainted.”

  “Ma’am,” Petúr said, softly.

  “Hmm?” she muttered, glancing up. Her eyes held a trace expression of being dazed.

  “Are you feeling a bit better?”

  She blinked. “I think so.”

  “I’d be happy to escort you home.”

  She rubbed at her temple.

  “Ma’am?”

  Her long lashes fluttered, causing spiky shadows to stipple the tops of her cheeks. “I forgot my laptop. I need to get it from my office,” she said. “That’s where I was going when I got mugged.”

  “Here you go,” said Dash. He’d gathered up the woman’s things and tucked them back into her purse. “I don’t think he got anything.” He handed the tan bag over to her. “I think we interrupted the mugger. Petúr tried to catch him, but he got away.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking her scuffed-up purse.

  “It’s a good thing we were walking past this alley,” said Vibe. “We heard you scream and—”

  “Yes,” she said in a robotic voice, nodding. “You scared off the mugger.” She was looking at Petúr in that unseeing, vacant way, the pupils in her eyes large and pulsing.

  He inclined his head. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you up.” He gave her his hand. She took hold, and he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the petal softness of her skin. After she was steady on her feet, he thought to introduce himself. No need to be uncivilized. “I’m Petúr.” He pointed to his right. “That’s Vibe.” Vibe gave her a two finger salute. Petúr tilted his head to his left. “And that’s Dash.”

  “I’m Wyndi,” she said, her voice becoming less animated. “Wyndi Darlingheart.”

  “Of Darlingheart Incorporated?” Petúr asked.

  She brushed a few strands of hair from her face. “In a roundabout way.”

  What did that mean?

  “Roundabout?” Dash asked the question he himself was dying to know.

  She glanced at Dash and kept her gaze trained on him for a long moment. A too long moment. Something hot and possessive twisted in Petúr’s gut. He wanted to reach out and turn her pointed little chin back in his direction, away from the other warrior.

  “Cromwell Darlingheart is my father,” she said.

  That piece of information got the muscle in Petúr’s jaw to working and quickly stamped out the unusual possessiveness he’d been experiencing.

  “Father?” he asked, needing the confirmation one more time.

  She nodded and looked up. Her sky-blue gaze went to his mouth then flitted up to his eyes, locking with him. She gasped.

  “What?”

  The woman welded her beautiful eyes shut and muttered, “Nothing.”

  Could she be afraid of him? No. He didn’t think it was fear he saw swimming in the depths of those liquid blue pools. More like realization of him, mixed with feminine lust.

  His golden gaze meandered over her, catching on her cleavage a moment, before moving on to the shape of her hips. Curvaceous. He cleared his throat. Her long lashes fluttered open. Unable to help himself, he was staring at her spectacular face once again. She worked her bottom lip over with her teeth.

  She was an oddly captivating, deliciously sweet smelling, eye sparkling female with a mouth he wanted to taste. Taste? Really? He mulled that over for a moment. Yes. He wanted… No. What he was experiencing was more than mere want. He needed to taste her. All of her, he realized taken aback.

  He’d been with numerous women before in a quick, rough coupling just to satisfy his animalistic desires, however he was having thoughts he’d never had. Animalistic, yes, but….

  He studied her, the arch of her
brows, the way strands of her hair framed her face. How delicate she was compared to him. Wyndi Darlinghart. He allowed her name—the daughter of the rich scum-sucking asshole who’d purchased Neverland, intent on clearing the land, as well as him and the lost boys out of their home—to simmer.

  Her sweet cotton candy scent assaulted his nose once more. His dick stirred beneath the leather of his D-ring jeans. Would she melt in his mouth like the candy would? His brow furrowed. What was wrong with him? He took in another deep breath, allowing her bouquet to linger. Maybe the ache would go away if he just tasted those full lips. No. He shook his head in an attempt to shake away the urge.

  Seconds ticked by. Damn it. He couldn’t shake off what he was feeling. His eyes narrowed. Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be this woman he seriously wanted to thoroughly enjoy in a slow, lingering manner?

  Because fate is a cruel bitch. That’s why.

  “She’s a Darlingheart,” he heard Vibe say.

  No. Not say, but project inside his head.

  “Right,” he mumbled, but when Wyndi’s eyelids fluttered open, and she locked gazes with him once more, all the hardened steel he’d erected around himself, as well his common sense, fell away.

  Crazy though it might well be, Petúr found himself, for the first time in his long life, wishing for more. More time with her. He wanted to talk, and touch, and kiss. Shit. He wanted to kiss her so bad he physically hurt.

  He broke the eye contact this time, and turned away. Who was he kidding? He might want more than fast, anonymous, no strings attached sex, but he wasn’t a choirboy either. For what he had in mind, there would be strings. Maybe even ropes.

  “We’ll walk you to your office,” Petúr said, unwilling to let her out of his sight, as he tried to tell himself the over-protectiveness was necessary, even though darklings never attacked the same person twice.

  “Um…” Wyndi muttered.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye. “That’s where you said you were headed, right?”

  “Yes.” She straightened her shoulders and took the lead.

  Petúr homed in on the sway of those hips as she walked in front of him. Oh yeah. He might want more. More than he’d ever given or received from any other woman, yet he also wanted to strip this little human, go to his knees, and map her feminine folds with his mouth, listening to her call out his name in a breathy entreaty as he tasted her pleasure upon his tongue.

  Chapter Two

  “So, what do you say?”

  “About what, Blain?” Bell asked. She’d sorta zoned out and missed the first part of his question.

  “Dinner and a movie on Saturday. It’s your night off.”

  Ugh. “Look,” she said, striving for polite. He held up a hand, stopping her.

  “I know. I know. You already told me you don’t date guys you don’t really know.” He gave her his shark toothed grin. “But, I come in here all the time, so you know me.” No. She didn’t. And more importantly, she didn’t want to know him. “I’m not some crazy dude, looking to tie you up and spank you.” He paused and raked his gaze over her. Her skin tingled with the heebie-jeebies. “Unless you’re into that kind of thing.” She didn’t bother to answer. “Are you into that?” he asked, too curious.

  “OMG. My rum and coke,” the snooty redhead standing next to him at the bar snapped. “I’m still waiting.”

  “Blain. I’m working here.” Bell grabbed a bottle of rum.

  “All right,” he said. “Sooner or later, my charm and persistence is going to get you to finally say yes.”

  Never going to happen, big boy.

  Pouring rum into a glass, Bell was distracted by a giggling snort. The birthday girl. She glanced up to see the tiara toting princess stumble past the bar, clearly headed toward the doors. One of the big linebacker looking frat boys quickly caught up to her and scooped the silver clad, and obviously intoxicated gal, up into his arms.

  “You’re a sexy little thing,” he said.

  She batted her lashes. “So are you.” Giggle, giggle, snort. “Sexy, but not a little thing though.” She fondled his bulging bicep.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, sexy for sure,” she said.

  The linebacker turned toward Blain, eyes reflecting a mirror shine, the birthday princess still secured in his arms. Bell concentrated on his face. His eyes. They were hazel colored. Her own eyes must be playing tricks on her, or that flash within his eyes she thought she saw was a trick of the light.

  “I’ll catch ya later. I’m giving…” He glanced down at the bundle-o-girl in his arms. “What’s your name, doll?”

  “Dalia,” she said, seductively.

  The big guy winked at her. She broke into another bout of giggles as he returned his attention to Blain.

  “I’m giving Dalia a ride home.”

  Blain nodded. “Later, dude.” Then he joined the rest of his frat pack and the remaining party girls.

  Bell slid the drink to the pissed off redhead. “That will be three fifty.”

  The woman pressed four crinkled dollars toward her and grabbed the drink. “You took forever on this, so don’t expect a tip. I want my change.”

  Bell turned and tapped in the particulars into the point of sale. The cash drawer opened. She put the singles into the drawer and slipped fifty cents out, shutting the drawer with her hip then twirled around.

  What in the elf? Her jaw just about dropped. Her boss walked in, looking a little worse for wear, with three massive, devastatingly good-looking men.

  “My change,” said the redhead, tapping her nails on the bar.

  “Oh. Um, here,” she said, giving the snooty gal the change, while keeping her gaze on the foursome as they started to trail down the hallway.

  Bell didn’t even notice if the redhead left or not, and she didn’t care. She just turned on her heel, walked over to Sven and said, “Take over for me a minute.”

  “Sure, Bell.”

  She hightailed it to the hall which led to the manager’s office.

  “Hey,” she said, and elbowed past two of the men. One of them, the tallest, and probably the most delish of the trio, blocked her view. “Wyndi, are you okay?”

  She stepped over the threshold of the office, only she didn’t see her boss.

  “She’s fine,” said Mr. Tall, Dark and Gothically Handsome, whipping around to glower down at her. And that’s when she saw….

  Bell gawked. His shirt and black and silver button trench coat had been torn, revealing a muscled bicep, shoulder, and part of his steely chest. It can’t be. She stared at the spot over his heart. He survived. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Three concentric circles with a stylized sun placed in the middle were branded on his flesh.

  She reached out, intending to touch the symbol. The blond came from behind her and grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Bell ignored him and glanced up, into the angelic face of Petúr. That’s what Illia had named him. “Look at me.” The blond’s voice was compelling. Something she very much doubted humans would pick up on. However, compelling or not, she continued to ignore him and kept her gaze on Illia’s son, tugging her wrist free.

  While Petúr’s golden eyes were hard and unyielding, they were unmistakably the same color of his beloved mother’s.

  “It’s really you,” Bell muttered, then went down on one knee, bowing.

  ****

  “Kros!” Grapple bellowed, his meaty—and only—fist hitting the bloodied banquet table. “I gave you simple instructions.” Kros bristled, hatred and fear working its way up his spine. “Find the human girl and bring her down here to me.”

  “Father, I—”

  “Silence!” Grapple lifted his right arm and shot a barbed grappling hook from the stump. Kros fell to the floor, the weapon barely missing his head. “You were to return to the surface and do a simple snatch and run. You were not to consider the Darlinghart girl your due, or to toy with her until P
etúr of the lost boys arrived, let alone engage him in battle.”

  “But I almost—”

  “You almost nothing.” Kros glanced up, kneeling now, to see his father’s always brutal face distort into the picture of disgust. “You cannot win against him.”

  Anger stabbed at Kros and scraped through his brain with sharp metal claws. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “If I had fed first. Maybe I—”

  “I watched you through the sphere of shadows,” he said, brow pulled into an angry V as he retracted the hook. “Fed or not. You are weak when you walk the surface. And if you had not flashed when you did, he would have taken your head.” Grapple stared him down. Lip curling up into a wicked sneer. Kros hated this man. He detested being subservient. But most of all, he loathed the fact his father was right. “Are you eager to have your head cleaved from your shoulders?”

  “No.”

  “It took all of your magic reserve to flash yourself here, did it not?”

  Standing, Kros reluctantly nodded.

  “I,” Grapple said, voice echoing off the cave walls, “Am still the most powerful Unseelie Sidhe Fae to ever live. And do you know why?” Kros shook his head. “Not only do I still retain my magic, but I have kept my alliance with Ariette, doing what I must. Enduring unspeakable things so that we may thrive in this under-verse of shadow until we are powerful enough to break the seal, return to my homeland, and seize the throne.” He held up the stump where his right hand used to be. “Unlike you, I do not weaken on the surface of man, and yet you can see what Petúr did to me.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “If we are to destroy him, we must be smart.”

  “And the girl you desire? She’s the way to destroy him?”

  “His binding with the darling woman of heart has been foretold by the seer. If I defile her, I will decimate him.”

  “I’ll go back to the surface and feed, then—”

  “No.” A muscle ticked in his father’s jaw. “I suppose if I want something done, and done right, I must do it myself.” His lavender eyes flashed into a deep shade of crimson. “You,” he said, “are to go with the others and prepare for the reaping.”