Warrior Enchanted

by Addison Fox

  He treated her as if she were a precious jewel. When had she come to love it so much? To crave it with a desperate longing she’d never known?

  Then she lost the ability to think as his mouth came down over hers and the tables were turned on the huntress. In that moment, Drake brought the fierce.

  Drake feasted on her, this small, slender package of conflicting emotions and generous passions.

  How had he ever lived without her?

  With lips and tongue, he tried to show her what was in his heart. The desperate need he carried for her that wouldn’t be sated no matter how many times they were together.

  No matter how sweet the touch or how precious the moment, his body always craved the next one with her.

  Emerson.

  Her grip on his shoulders grew more urgent as the kiss continued to spin out between them. He caressed his way from the backs of her arms, over her shoulders, until he came around her front and filled both hands with the heavy fullness of her breasts. With a move that tortured them both, he flicked his thumbs over her nipples, satisfied when she arched into his hands.

  As her body shifted, her hips rubbed against his erection, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body. He felt her triumphant smile under his lips and the low rumble of her breath before she caught herself from speaking.

  “Nearly caught at your own game, eh?” he couldn’t resist teasing her as he squeezed her nipples between thumb and forefinger, gratified as her breath exploded on a gasp with a whispered exclamation of “Bastard” against his lips.

  Not to be outdone, her movements faster than a whip, she had her hands between their bodies and wrapped around his cock. With exquisite pressure, her fingers traveled the length in a series of constricting motions that had him seeing stars. Hand over hand, she fisted him until he almost came in her palm.

  Any sense of finesse or drawing the moment out vanished in the heat of what built between them. He wanted her with a desperation that bordered on madness and he had to have her.

  Staggering to the bed, he wrapped his arms around her and fell backward, absorbing her weight as she sprawled against him. Still gripped in the midst of the heat and need that drove them both, she moved over him, rising onto her knees. Before she could fit him to the wet warmth at her core, he gripped her hips and flipped her aside, straddling her from behind.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder—her gray eyes going an opaque blue with passion—before pressing her backside toward him and exposing her glistening folds to his cock.

  Drake didn’t waste another moment. He fitted himself to the hilt, then reached around to press a long finger against her slick channel, rubbing the sensitive core of her body until she was writhing against him in manic need.

  Blind need drove them on as their bodies met again and again, blistering passion consuming them both. Emerson’s climax rushed upon her and Drake felt his entire body tightening in answer. On a strangled moan, he buried himself inside her and gave himself up to the mindless needs of his body as it answered hers.

  He felt her go limp beneath him, the stiff arch of her back settling as her head fell forward. Another climax gripped his body at her complete acquiescence and he rode the gentler wave, rocking within her tight sheath.

  “Emerson?” Drake pressed his lips to the base of her neck, just above her spine as her soft moan of pleasure rose up to greet him.

  “I can’t feel my arms.”

  Abstractly he realized she still supported herself and he once again took her weight and pulled her down until she was fitted against him, her small form snug against his chest.

  They lay there so long, he almost believed she’d fallen asleep when she finally spoke. “I’m still mad at you.”

  “I figured you were, but I can’t say I’m all that upset by how you express your anger.”

  Her throaty laughter greeted him, the sound an enchanting blend of feminine knowledge and sexy satisfaction as she shifted up onto an elbow. “It was a far more interesting way to manage our differences of opinion.”

  Drake ran a finger down her cheek and marveled at how soft her skin was. She was just so damn delicate, yet a core of strength pulsed inside. “A quiet one, too.”

  The light in her eyes faded. “Did you find my brother?”

  “I did.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, Emerson. He vanished again.”

  “What do you mean he vanished? I know my brother has power, just as I do. But we can’t disappear from a place and reappear in another.”

  “I think he’s working under a different set of power. Something non-magic based.”

  “From where? That’s just not a power—even a dark one—a witch can possess.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  She struggled to sit up. “I need to get back over there and see if he comes back. I held off my grandmother and convinced her to stay at her friend’s for a few days, but I have to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Emerson.” Drake reached for her shoulders, holding her in place. “Your brother’s dangerous. Until we know more, it’s not safe for you at home.”

  “And it is for you?”

  “I’ve got some attributes on my side that you don’t.”

  She stilled, her stare boring into him. “What aren’t you telling me? Did something happen? Before he vanished? Something with the snake?”

  No matter how badly he wanted to shield her from all of it, she had a right to know. “He attacked Quinn and me. Or more specifically, the snake attacked both of us.”

  “Oh my God! What happened to him? And what in the name of all that’s holy is my brother doing with a snake that goes around attacking people?”

  “We have our ideas.”

  “Well, then, start sharing them, Ace.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to grab her clothes. “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to tell me.”

  Drake dug his fingers into the mattress beneath him. “It wasn’t my idea to fuck our way through a fight, Emerson.”

  “You damn sure enjoyed yourself,” she shot back from across the room.

  “I didn’t notice you offering up any complaints as you shattered in my arms.”

  “You still could have told me about Magnus.”

  With a swift kick to the covers, he got off the bed and stormed over to her. “I’m not the one who uses sex to replace anything real between the two of us.”

  “I don’t exactly see you complaining.”

  “Nor do I see you taking any fucking responsibility for what’s between us.”

  She shoved her legs into a pair of yoga pants, then turned and gave him her back. “I take full responsibility for what’s between us. I wanted a ride to work off some tension and I took it. End of story.”

  “Gods damn it, Emerson!” The woman could infuriate a nun if given half a chance. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Everything’s wrong with me, Drake. Everything.” She whirled around. “Have you seen my life?”

  “Don’t blame this on what’s happening with Magnus. You’ve been checked out around me for a year. It’s got nothing to do with him.”

  “This has everything to do with him.” The beautiful gray-blue of her eyes tugged at Drake as mysteries and painful secrets flashed across them.

  “Then explain it to me.”

  Whatever he saw flashed away, replaced with the same stubborn refusal he’d faced for the past year. “I don’t have the things to give that you’re so insistent you want. It can’t be me. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “Because I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re nearly as unaffected as you say. And I sure as hell don’t believe this thing between us is one-sided.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but—”

  He wouldn’t let her finish—refused to let her finish—as he snatched at her and pulled her to him, slamming his mouth to hers. She responded immediately, her low, hea
vy moan the proof he needed that she wasn’t unaffected.

  “Why do you push me away?” he whispered against her mouth. “Don’t you understand what you do to me? Don’t you see?”

  “It isn’t real, Drake. It can’t be real.”

  At that, he dropped his hold and moved away from her, his hands hanging straight at his sides.

  “It’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced, Emerson.”

  Rogan walked through the front door of the brownstone, oblivious to the sounds of New York as memories of Las Vegas rode him like a monkey on his back. How had he let his guard down?

  And how had the bitch gotten so far beneath his skin?

  It would be a fling, he’d promised himself a few years ago when it all started. A couple of consenting immortal adults who knew the score. Knew what went on outside whatever bed they happened to be sharing at the moment.

  Yet it hadn’t stopped her from going after them with precision and focus.

  All the while fucking him blind and brainless.

  The text message he’d intercepted burned in his mind’s eye. She’d been on that phone throughout the day, no doubt putting his Warrior brothers in jeopardy and mapping out her plans. All while he’d sat blithely unaware, right under her nose.

  The smell of dinner and the muted sounds of voices caught his attention and he headed for the kitchen. He’d fill in his brothers and take his lumps; then they’d figure out how to handle this.

  Together.

  When he paused at the swinging door a few moments later, he was met with the usual chaos that never failed to offer a small measure of comfort, no matter how long he’d been away.

  No matter how bad the situation—and they’d all fought through many of them—there would always be this. The easy camaraderie and ready acceptance.

  The kitchen was full, with Callie doing her usual food-is-love routine, piling platter after platter on the butcher-block table. Ilsa and Kane were manning an electric wine opener and already had three bottles open on the table while Montana took over pouring duties. Ava was at the stove, Brody behind her, as something sizzled in a large pan in front of her.

  Rogan knew the women had brought new life into the brownstone, but this defied description.

  They moved around, comfortably in their element, tossing jokes and insults, stopping to give small touches to their husbands or smiles to one another.

  As he watched them, it brought into sharp relief what he had with Eris. A relationship he hid in the shadows, unable—and unwilling—to share it with his family.

  Before he could pull Quinn aside to take him to the security center, Drake and Emerson arrived at the door. All noise in the kitchen stopped as everyone turned to look at the two of them. The silence had just veered to the far side of awkward when Callie grabbed one of the full wineglasses on the table and handed it to Emerson. “Come on and sit down.”

  Rogan sensed there were some underlying issues at play between the Pisces and the witch, but he didn’t have time to navigate whatever social drama had unfolded prior to arriving. He moved over to Drake and Quinn and kept his voice low. “You guys have a few minutes?”

  Drake glared at the wall of screens in Quinn’s security center, the low hum of voices fading into the background as he studied the monitors. Damn, but he couldn’t find his center and it pissed him off.

  He knew Emerson’s routine, and he understood there was something she was running from. He’d been laboring under the assumption that if he had enough patience, he could break through it.

  For the first time, he had to wonder if maybe he was wrong. If they really did sit on opposite sides of an uncrossable chasm.

  Damn it, she had churned him up today.

  “Drake?”

  He pulled his attention off the monitors and refocused on the conversation.

  “Did you and Quinn find Emerson’s brother?”

  With a quick recap, Drake filled Rogan in on what had happened next door. “From everything we can tell, it seems like he’s one of us.”

  “He’s been made.” Rogan’s voice was quiet, but his words were unmistakable.

  “By whom?” Drake thought about what they’d seen. “He’s wearing a snake. It’s just not possible. None of us have that mark.”

  Before Rogan could respond, Drake remembered the diary. “Hang on.” He ported to his room and back, the diary in hand when he returned. “We found this in Magnus’s things. It belongs to Eris.”

  Rogan took the diary, flipping through it quickly. “How do you know this is Eris’s? And why would Emerson’s brother have it?”

  “To answer the first part, open to the middle. There’s a recap of the Judgment of Paris and her use of the Golden Apple.”

  Rogan scanned the story, then flipped through several pages.

  “You’ve never seen that book in your work?” Quinn asked.

  “No.” Their Sagittarius shook his head. “Never.”

  Rogan’s role as their Warrior in charge of rounding up rogue pantheon members meant he’d seen a lot of legendary items. The fact he hadn’t seen the diary—didn’t even seem to know about it—made Magnus’s possession of it that much more curious.

  “Did you know Eris was missing her Golden Apple?” Quinn lifted a small pin from the desk and handed to Rogan.

  “This is it?” Their archer put the book on the edge of the desk and held the pin up to the light. “This is really it?”

  “We’re convinced it is.”

  Rogan turned the pin over in his hands, inspecting it from different angles. “Everything I’ve ever found on it says the apple was really just that—an apple cast out of gold. Nothing all that suspicious or out of the ordinary, other than the fact that it was made of precious metal. It’s what she imbued in it that’s got the power.”

  “Then she may recast the apple as necessary. In this case, into the shape of a pin worn most recently on the lapel of a mobster.” Quinn hit a few keys on one of his keyboards and pointed to the screen. The image of the warehouse where they’d found Finley came up. “It’s very real and very dangerous.”

  Rogan laid the pin on the desk. “It’s terribly dangerous. The possessor’s every action is one of underlying aggression. But it’s subtle and hard to detect. It’s why it’s so effective.”

  “But how does it work?” Quinn pushed again. “And why aren’t we affected?”

  “I don’t know.” Rogan glanced at it once more, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s part of our gifts? It’d be awfully hard to hunt down rogue artifacts and weapons if they fucked with our senses all the time.”

  “Fair point,” Drake had to acknowledge. He’d been able to do lots of things in service to Themis—his dip a few days prior in the drug-infested river a prime example—that he’d never expected.

  “But to how it actually works. You know Eris’s strength is in her words and her ability to create discord. She does that most often through a cunning ability to put the wrong people together and then let the sparks fly. The apple only enhances that.”

  “I still don’t see how what was basically a beauty contest when Paris was asked to judge the ‘fairest of them all’ is the same as getting a bunch of mobsters all riled up.”

  Rogan turned to Quinn, his smile broad. “That’s the whole point. It only looked like a beauty contest.” When Quinn’s eyebrows still shot up in a skeptical arc, Rogan kept going. “You read the story in the diary and you had to have been taught it as a kid. The story goes that she was pissed off she didn’t get invited to a wedding, so she cast the apple and said it would be given to whoever was the fairest.”

  “And Helen of Troy was the one selected,” Drake said. He hadn’t lived through that shit-storm, as it was before his time, but he’d learned the history as a child.

  “Exactly. But it really had nothing to do with a beauty contest. That was only the diversion. The selection of Helen ultimately lead to the Trojan War, which was Eris’s real goal all along.”

  “And
the apple did that?”

  Rogan shrugged. “The apple in and of itself doesn’t matter. It’s a conveyance. A device that channels her work, especially since she can’t be everywhere at once; nor can she be privy to all the actions of the people she’s manipulating.”

  “It acts as a surrogate for her power.” Drake realized with startling clarity just how effective a tool it could be. Like a homing device that amplified the problem, all at the same time.

  Quinn pointed back to the image still captured on the screen. “And now she’s using the mobsters to do the same thing.”

  Drake nodded. “Think about it. Eris creates a big fuss with the city’s organized crime families to drag focus and attention off of the real score.”

  “It makes sense. The organized crime escalation and whatever else she’s got planned.” Rogan picked up the diary again and turned it over. “But what’s the Magnus connection? What does Eris have to gain?”

  “Go back farther in our history, Rogan.” Drake pointed to the diary. “Flip to the back. It’s all there in the last entry, which also happens to be the most recent.”

  Rogan did as he’d asked and Quinn moved up next to him to read over his shoulder.

  “No fucking way,” Quinn breathed as Rogan slammed the book closed.

  “Magnus is Ophiuchus.” Drake nodded. “The serpent bearer. He’s the thirteenth sign. He’s her new weapon.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Magnus walked through the darkened house, not all that surprised to find it empty. He had no doubt Emerson’s bruiser of a boyfriend had already filled her in on what happened earlier and was taking care to keep her away for a few days.

  Trudging up the stairs, he focused on the home he’d grown up in. Although the porting was coming easier and easier—his earlier escape was evidence of that—he wanted a few moments to simply revel in the nostalgia of soaking up his childhood home.

  He really had been away a long time, and even before he’d left, he’d spent as much time out of the house as possible.

  His mother’s home.

  The brownstone was long and narrow, the square footage of the house found in going up, not sprawling out. He and Emerson had always had rooms on the fourth floor, while the rest of the family had been scattered across the second and third.