by Rita Herron
She wanted to shut down, tune out the world, the bombings, her feelings. Her contact with reality. Her own instincts when investigating a crime and unraveling a story.
All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and bury herself beneath the covers and cry.
And forget that she’d almost died tonight. That her mother was gone. Her father lost now.
Perhaps forever.
No, he would come back. She’d get him all the help he needed.
And she would expose whoever did this to him for all the world to see.
And Quinton…
God, he scared her. The power he’d wielded tonight without even touching her father or the police—he’d frozen them in place, literally held them back as if time had stopped. That was the only way she could explain what she’d seen.
He was a demon of some kind. Dangerous to her. He’d told her that himself.
But he’d saved hundreds of lives tonight, as well as hers and her father’s.
She had to stay strong. To prove that her father hadn’t acted of his own accord, that he’d been forced, brainwashed into committing a crime. The thought of him going to jail for the rest of his life for attempted murder or terrorism was more than she could bear.
But how would she prove his innocence? And how could she print the truth if Quinton was right and the mastermind was demonic?
Quinton’s gut tightened as he glanced at Annabelle’s dejected face. Dammit, he wasn’t supposed to let it get personal. Relationships interfered with the job and his objectivity.
But she’d somehow snuck past his defenses. And it was painful to see her this way, beaten down when she was such a fighter.
He parked at the hotel, then circled the car to her side and gave her a hand. The fact that she allowed him to help her spoke volumes about her emotional state. She was trembling as he guided her inside to their adjoining rooms. He rushed to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
“We need to warm you up,” he said quietly.
She moved on autopilot and began to strip. Bastard that he was, his body hardened, instantly coming alive.
But a sliver of guilt wormed into his consciousness, and he hesitated, refusing to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state.
She looked up at him with helpless vacant eyes, dropped her hand as if she was too tired to even undress, and he removed her clothes, forcing himself not to stare or touch her sexually when his balls ached and throbbed and his cock pressed against the fly of his suit pants.
When he’d spotted her in this delicious dress earlier tonight and made love to her, he’d imagined removing it at the end of the evening, but not like this.
Moisture glistened in her eyes, and her chin quivered as she climbed beneath the spray of water. But she didn’t move to bathe, she simply stood there shaking.
A snap decision made, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the shower with her. She faced the wall, her head thrown back as warm water sluiced over her body.
He soaped the cloth and slowly ran it over her shoulders, her back, gently bathing her, then lower over her buttocks and legs. His cock twitched and pulsed, wanting between her legs, the urge to push her against the wall and drive himself inside her so strong that he sucked in a deep breath.
Then he turned her around slowly and bathed her shoulders, her arms, then trailed the bubbles over her breasts. His breath hissed between clenched teeth at the sight of her nipples budding and rosy under the warm water. But he didn’t linger. He traced a path with the bubbles over her stomach, thighs, and legs, avoiding touching her heat. Although his gaze fastened on the tattoo and he traced a finger over the design, wanting more, wanting to kiss her bare flesh.
If he did, he wouldn’t be able to resist prying her legs open and touching her intimately. He wanted to be inside her, to make her forget the pain for a moment as they’d done earlier. To take whatever little she could offer tonight before they faced another gruesome day tomorrow.
To give to her as he’d never given of himself to a woman before.
Suddenly her expression softened, and she seemed to realize they were naked and wet together, and she arched against him, hunger flaring in her eyes.
He kept his hands gentle as he tilted her chin up to search her face. Was she asking for his loving?
“Please touch me.” She closed her eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. He couldn’t deny her any more than he could deny himself.
His need raged, dark and raw, driving his movements as he trailed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and to her breasts, where he cupped the heavy mounds in his hands.
“Quinton…”
“I’m here, Annabelle. It’s all right.”
He touched her tattoo again, then soothed her with soft whispers, her quiver telling him that his hands were awakening erotic sensations along her spine.
She slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him, and he heard her thoughts as if she’d spoken them aloud.
She wanted him. A man who could kill coolly without blinking an eye, without an ounce of remorse, but a man who’d saved her life more than once now.
A man who elicited erotic sensations in her belly, and made her feel more alive, more aroused, than she’d ever thought possible.
A threat to her—yes.
Would she have him?
She had to.
Dr. Wynn picked through the dozens of bones, trying to decide which one to add to his collection. So many bodies to choose from. So many pretty bones to add to his wall. Some large, some small, children’s, women’s, men’s… animals’.
Like fine art, he selected each one for its shape and texture. A finger that had been severed, the bone jutting in jagged lines. A kneecap, once round now distorted.
A splintered rib. A femur carved with the imprint of shattered glass. A tibia marred with the vulture’s teeth prints.
A fractured skull, the eye sockets torn out by the birds of prey.
The vultures had done a number on them, but that was their primal nature, to clean up after death. Just as it was his.
Chapter Twenty-four
Annabelle’s heart thundered in her chest. Quinton’s gaze locked onto hers, his hunger evident in the deep blackness of his eyes, and sensations stirred low in her belly, rippling through her in erotic waves.
“You’re shivering,” he mumbled in a fierce tone.
She shook her head. “Because I want you.”
His jaw tightened, the scar along his neck glistening with water. “You’re in shock. Let’s dry you off and put you to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” she whispered roughly. “I want you inside me.”
“Annabelle.” His voice rumbled out, deep and throaty, and he stepped back, dropping the washcloth. Water cascaded over his rippled, muscled chest, down his washboard stomach, over his engorged penis, which twitched with arousal as she blatantly stared at it.
She started to reach for him, but he held up his hands in protest. “Look, I’m not a good guy, Annabelle. But I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
She licked her lips, desperate for comfort. “Why in the hell would you start doing the right thing now?”
A hint of a smile lit his devilish eyes, but he still shook his head.
She didn’t care. Her body craved his, and the dark hunger in his eyes promised her another mind-blowing orgasm.
She knew how to seduce him, how to make him break. Licking her lips, she slid her hands over her breasts, cupping them, twisting her nipples to stiff hard peaks that begged for his mouth. His eyes tracked her movements, his breath hissing between clenched teeth.
“You want your hands on me, don’t you?” she whispered.
His throat muscles contracted visibly as he swallowed. “Yes.”
Forgetting all thoughts of caution, she teased the nipples again, then slid one finger to her center and stroked her clit, moaning as sultry sensations flooded her.
“Don’t make me do this alone,” she whispe
red. “You know you want me.”
He swallowed again, the raw need in his tautly controlled face exciting her and driving her to a frenzied heat. She lifted her fingers from her damp center and slid them over his length, tracing a finger over the tip of his penis and circling the enormous head.
Then she blatantly parted her legs, displaying herself and begging him with her eyes to take her.
A low groan tore from his throat, and he suddenly snapped. “Dammit, Annabelle. I can’t just watch. Not with you.”
His gruffly spoken admission sent a frisson of fear and pleasure along her spine. Then he jerked her into his arms, dragged her mouth to his, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. His movements were no longer gentle but laced with desperate, raw passion.
She met his tongue thrust for thrust, moaning as his hands splayed over her breasts, teasing her, twisting her nipples until she cried out and ran her foot up his calf. His hair-dusted thigh brushed hers, stirring her hunger.
Then he lowered his mouth and kissed the tips of her breasts, licking and suckling until pleasure overtook her, and she began to quake with the first hint of an orgasm.
Enflamed by her moans and her hands frantically reaching for his cock, he shoved her against the tile wall and wedged his thigh between her legs, parting them for his invasion.
“You really want this?” he mumbled huskily.
“Yes, please,” she whispered, hating to beg but knowing she’d do anything now to have him.
Anything he wanted.
The thought sent terror through her, but also a tiny thrill that tripped her orgasm over the edge. She cried out, trembling as he slid his fingers inside her and stroked her deep and hard.
When he withdrew, her body protested with a moan. But a second later, she realized he’d reached into his pants on the bathroom floor for a condom, ripped open the package, and pulled it on. With a growl from deep in his throat, he ground his big body against hers, but still didn’t penetrate her, simply teased her inner thighs with his sex, stoking the flames again, arousing her to the point of nearly pleading.
He bent and suckled her nipple into his mouth again, then trailed kisses down her stomach and she realized his intention. “No, I want you,” she hissed.
Frantic for fulfillment, she grabbed his arms, pushed him against the wall, and lowered her hand around his thick hard length. His cock surged and pulsed beneath her fingers, his look feral as he lifted her and she impaled herself on him.
She wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him as he stretched and filled her, their bodies slapping the tiles as they ground together.
A million butterflies danced in her womb, as he bit her neck and pounded into her. It was fast, furious, passionate, mind-boggling in its rawness.
Everything she’d ever wanted.
He buried his head against her, nibbling at her ear, his hands cupping her ass and shoving himself so deep inside her that she cried out with the impact, felt as if he was tearing her apart, and knew that she’d be empty without him inside her if he left.
Tingling sensations spiraled through her, her body quivered, her womb clenching around him, her head spinning as another orgasm claimed her. She threw her head back in wild abandon, unashamed at the guttural shout that erupted from her.
He drove deeper, harder, faster, pushing her over the limit, then his body jerked and he growled her name as his own pleasure mingled with hers, his big body rocking with his climax.
Amazing sensations overloaded Quinton’s body, triggering a flood of emotions, and he gripped Annabelle tighter. Dammit, he didn’t want to let her go. And he sure as hell didn’t want another man having her.
He tensed, troubled by his thoughts. She wasn’t his to lose. Sex was the only thing they could have together.
Instinctively, he knew Annabelle would want more. A family.
Her thoughts fell open to him.
She cared about him, needed him, wanted him to love her. But she was scared as well. Afraid of getting hurt.
He couldn’t let her need him too much because he would have to let her go.
A man with demon blood running through his veins didn’t have the right to make promises of happily-ever-after. And what if he brought a demon child into the world?
Why the hell was he thinking such nonsense? He was a loner. When this ended, he’d return to his solitude.
But Annabelle’s pain mingled with his own, and his knees nearly buckled.
The water was turning cold, and she sagged against him, stroking his wet hair, shivering. He flipped off the water, slowly let her slide to her feet, then reached for a bath towel and dried her off. Her nipples were stiff from the cold, goose bumps dotting her beautiful skin, his love bites marring the perfect flesh.
Guilt slammed into his gut. He had bitten her like a damn animal.
Her eyes were glazed with passion, her lids drooping, but her face also looked haunted, a reminder of her anguish.
He quickly dried off, swept her into his arms, and carried her to her bed. Needing to put some distance between them, to compartmentalize, he started to walk away, but she gripped his hand.
“Please, don’t leave me.”
His throat thickened. He needed to talk to Vincent, ask him about Gryphon. Do something to find this demon.
But she tugged his hand again, and he couldn’t resist. He climbed into bed, wrapped his arms around her, and held her until she fell into a deep sleep. Even then, he lay watching her, wondering how he’d gone from a killer who’d contemplated taking her life to a man who would give his own life to save hers.
The ringing of his cell phone broke the silence. He cursed, wanting to ignore it, but he couldn’t. What if it was the police about the bombings?
He slipped from bed and retrieved his phone from the pocket of his jacket, then checked the number. Vincent.
He connected the call. “Yeah, it’s Quinton.”
“What happened last night?” Vincent asked. “According to the news report, Annabelle’s father almost set off a bomb.”
Quinton scrubbed a hand over his neck then explained what had happened. “I think the demon used Armstrong to get to me.”
Vincent sighed in agreement. “How’s she taking it?”
“She’s devastated,” he said, his gut clenching. “But her father responded to her in the hospital, hopefully a sign that he’ll recover. The staff has instructions to phone me the minute he regains consciousness so I can question him.”
“This could be a break,” Vincent said. “So how did you stop him?”
Quinton relayed the incident in detail. “I don’t think anyone saw or understood what I did.”
Vincent cursed. “Hell, Quinton, you can’t expose yourself. That could be even more dangerous.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Quinton said in a low voice. “But what was I supposed to do? Let him blow up the room?”
A tense second passed, then Vincent spoke. “Any leads on the demon’s identity? Do you think it was Reverend Narius?”
“No. Armstrong took him hostage and planned to blow him up with him.”
“Shit. So that eliminates him as a suspect.”
“Exactly.” Quinton paced to the window, not surprised at seeing the vulture perched on the windowsill, its beady eyes staring into his own.
He snatched the sheers together, but even as he did, the monks’ warnings rose to taunt him, and he went to his bag and pulled out Deadly Demons.
Quinton exhaled in frustration as he flipped through the pages, searching for more information on the vulture and the Death Angel. “Listen, Vincent, at the shelter, I met this woman who said she’s a descendant of a voodoo priestess. She knew about us and our father, said that she was a witch and a demonslayer.”
Another long silence, then Vincent’s hiss. “What’s her name?”
“Shayla Larue. She was the social worker at a homeless shelter.”
“I’ll check her out,” Vincent said. “What else did she say about us?”<
br />
“Just that the demon would use Annabelle to get to me.”
Vincent grunted in acknowledgment. “I’ll pull a list of everyone who attended the fund-raiser and look for a person of interest.”
“Have someone study all the posts on that online PTS support group, too. Dr. Gryphon visited the group and is top on my list of possible suspects.” Quinton explained about the information he’d tapped from Gryphon’s mind involving his past and his research efforts.
“I’ll put someone on it ASAP,” Vincent said.
“What about a common denominator with the cities?” Quinton asked.
Vincent hesitated a minute. “All of them are historically haunted cities.”
“And New Orleans is often called the city of the dead for its aboveground cemeteries.”
“I’ll get a warrant for Gryphon’s office and home,” Vincent said. “And I’ll find out where he’s conducting these experiments.”
Quinton halted as he located the page in the book describing the Death Angel and an adjoining page about the vultures. “Vincent, get this. Old-world vultures were gryphon vultures.”
“Gryphon?”
“Yeah. If Gryphon is the demon, he used Annabelle’s father to hurt her. And Annabelle to get to me.” A pain shot through Quinton’s chest. “Which makes me responsible for her father’s current state.”
“Did she see what you did tonight? Does she know what you are?”
“You mean that I’m not human, but part demon?”
Vincent muttered an obscenity. “It’s a curse we have to live with.”
“She saw, but don’t worry. I took care of Annabelle. She won’t tell anyone.”
“I hope you’re right,” Vincent said. “Can you imagine if it leaked that we’re demonic? The FBI, police, scientists, they’d all want to get a piece of us.”
