“Oh, thank God,” he said, thrusting into her quickly three—four times before stiffening completely. He roared into her neck as his body jerked atop her.
When he finally stilled, he slowly raised his head and looked down at her. His smile was wide and showed all of his perfect teeth. He brushed her nose with the tip of his and drew his fingers down her cheek in the softest of caresses. “I think we should find our bed,” he muttered, his eyes focused on the waves spread around her head. “We need to do that again, and then I want to hold you while I sleep.”
A knock sounded at the door three times before someone tried the doorknob. At the jingle of metal tumblers, Anahita stiffened and prepared to jerk her robe down, but Max refused to move—rather stubbornly if Anahita said so.
“Door’s locked,” he said, continuing to stroke her cheek. “And I’m not done touching you yet so they can just go the fuck away.”
“Anahita,” a male voice said—one of her Warriors. “We have news that cannot wait.”
“It’s going to have to,” Max called. His muscles had stiffened, and the slightest hint of resignation flitted across his scarred face.
“My love, it may not truly be able to wait,” Anahita said, smoothing her hands over his shoulders, already regretting the inevitable end to this intimate moment.
“Hell,” Max said. He dropped a quick kiss to her lips. “You call me love one more time, and you can get me to do pretty much any damn thing you want.” He straightened and pulled slowly out of her. They both moaned at the loss of connection. With a sigh, he began doing up the buttons of his shirt.
Anahita sat up, wincing slightly at a twinge between her legs that told her she’d been well loved, and straightened her robe over her knees.
Max reached out and pinched her chin between his thumb and finger. “Okay?” he asked softly. “I wasn’t too rough?”
She leaned in and kissed the hollow of his throat before saying, “Next time it is my turn to make you sore.”
He swallowed hard. “That is most definitely a date,” he said, voice husky. The knock sounded again, and Max growled. “Your men are going to drive me crazy.”
“You are my only man,” she said absently.
“Damn straight, and they better recognize that.” He stalked over to the door, clicked the lock, and pulled it open so quickly, the angel on the other side nearly stumbled into the room. The three angels behind him looked in with wide eyes, and Anahita tried to slide off the table as nonchalantly as possible. “You get five minutes with her,” Max said, wagging a finger in the face of her stunned Warrior. “Then, if she’s not in our apartment, I’m coming back here and throwing her over my shoulder to take her there.”
Something wicked and delicious rolled over in Anahita’s stomach, and she stared hungrily at Max’s tight behind as he stalked from the room. Her Warriors filed in as sheepishly as Warriors could, and she gestured for them to take their seats. Biting back a smile, she said, “You have six minutes, Warriors.”
About the Author
When she’s not writing or teaching, Micah Persell spends time with her husband, brand new daughter, and menagerie of pets in her Southern California home. Of Alliance and Rebellion is her sixth novel; she has also published Of Eternal Life (Operation: Middle of the Garden #1), Of the Knowledge of Good and Evil (Operation: Middle of the Garden #2), Of Consuming Fire (Operation: Middle of the Garden #3), Persuasion: The Wild and Wanton Edition, and Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition. Learn more about her at www.micahpersell.com, or visit her on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.
More from This Author
(From Of Consuming Fire by Micah Persell)
Dr. Grace Tucker pulled herself deeper into the corner and tucked her arms tighter around her unshapely belly. As her hands and arms touched her large middle, it repulsed her nearly as much as it seemed to repulse the opposite sex. No, there was no disappearing a plus-sized woman, but her sloppy appearance got most people to look away quickly, which was as close as Grace was ever going to get to being blessedly invisible.
And, not for the first time, she desperately wished to be invisible.
Grace huddled in the main room of the top-secret government facility where the Trees stood. As always, she ignored them. She was never awed by the ancient trees. She’d taken one cursory glance at their branches that most described as majestic. Their fruit — covered in glittering diamonds for the Tree of Eternal Life, swirling black and white for the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil — was interesting only in that it loosely related to her work. She didn’t stand there and stare at them for hours as she was told was the expected behavior for new employees.
And yet right now, Grace wasn’t the only one ignoring the Trees. The somber mood in the facility was nearly suffocating. Not one of the dozens of employees had spoken in hours. They moped from room to room, desk to desk, casting great, wide-eyed glances upon everyone they crossed. But that wasn’t the reason Grace retreated to the corner.
They were touching one another.
Any person they came into reaching distance with. A hand on the shoulder. A hug. A squeeze of the arm or lingering pat on the back.
It was only a matter of time before one of them tried to touch her. And that simply was not going to work. End of story.
And, so, she was in the closest thing to a corner the domed room provided.
A young soldier in army fatigues walked by, and Grace went rigid, holding her breath until he passed.
He didn’t once glance in her direction. Grace’s breath flew from her frozen lungs even as her heart seized at the casual snub. She hugged herself tighter as she cursed her weak emotions. Without fail, every time her carefully cultivated armor of acerbic wit and slovenly appearance actually worked as she’d meant it to by keeping others away, her irrational side would come up bruised, as though it didn’t know perfectly well the reasons human contact was not in Grace’s cards.
She sighed almost silently, and forced herself to look cheerfully upon the fact that standing in the corner was working. She would make it through this. She would. It wouldn’t be like all of the other times. There would be no scene. No gut-wrenching screams shooting from her body without her control. No hysterical sobs. No sedation. No awkward return to work. No inevitable summons to the boss. No starting over with the knowledge that this was her life — on repeat.
She closed her eyes. The sad truth was, this was her life. And right now, she was huddled in the corner, praying to be invisible, worrying with all of her strength that someone would touch her.
But her friend’s impending death? Not even a blip on her emotional radar. Jericho Edwards was dying, and Grace was worried about herself.
Jericho was everyone’s favorite, but for a reason Grace couldn’t explain, he was her favorite as well. It had been thirteen long years since Grace considered a man as anything other than something to be avoided at all costs. Thirteen years since Grace had carefully erected a wall around her heart. And yet, somehow, Jericho found his way around that wall the tiniest bit.
It might have been the very obvious fact that Jericho would never, ever pose a threat to her. She’d known two seconds after being introduced to him that he was head over heels in love with someone: his Impulse mate, Dahlia. Jericho was nice to everyone, men and women alike. In fact, Grace had never met anyone so good.
And he’d taken one look at her — her frumpy clothes, excess body weight, bird’s nest of red hair, black-rimmed glasses, and man-hating glare — and deemed her a friend, working tirelessly at cultivating a relationship with her when everyone else just avoided her.
And now, he was dying. Worse, his survival depended upon Grace and Grace’s work.
Three months and a week or so ago, Jericho cut his finger on the sword — the artifact that Grace was commissioned to work on. It was a flesh wound that should have healed in seconds given that Jericho, Dahlia, Eli, and Abilene were all immortal after eating the fruit from the Tree of Eternal Life. But the simple woun
d hadn’t healed. And things came to a head a few days ago when Jericho returned to the facility with his brand new wife, Dahlia. In the process of moving, Jericho managed to rip the tiny, unhealed wound wide open from the tip of his finger into his palm. It had been bleeding profusely ever since, and his body couldn’t keep up.
And suddenly, Dr. Grace Tucker was very much in demand. She couldn’t count the number of times she had to remind them “I’m not that kind of doctor.” Their situation was so unique that her PhD in dead languages made her much more qualified to help Jericho than an MD would on its best day, but her work took more time than medication or surgery ever would.
She’d made her breakthrough this morning.
The ancient, dead language on the sword said What the Tree gives, the Sword takes. What the Sword takes, the Tree gives.
At least, she was ninety-nine percent sure that’s what it said.
Grace gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and reassured herself that she was never wrong when it came to her work. Never. She was wrong when it came to everything else, but her work was infallible.
That’s why she was here. She was the single most prestigious language expert in the world. And it was going to change her life. That was the plan. She’d worked hard to make sure no one noticed her. The weight she’d gained, the fashion-backward wardrobe, the overt hostility — when she couldn’t disappear into her surroundings, she kept people away with every weapon her extensive intelligence and vast vocabulary could come up with.
But Grace’s secret dream was recognition. She just wanted it on her terms. She was going to make the discovery of all time with this sword. It was the work she’d been waiting for her entire career. And now it was here. And, as long as her translation was right, it was about to save one of only four immortal human beings on the planet.
Career. Made.
Everyone would know her name; everyone would know she was something. And the best part? She’d be absolutely untouchable in a way she could not dream of cultivating on her own. No one walked up to the winner of the Nobel Prize and gave them a hug. They got the recognition without all the messy social baggage associated with being members of the human race. They were members of a class considered above such things. And Grace couldn’t wait to be admitted into their ranks.
Grace’s eyes snapped open when she heard the sharp clack of men’s shoes on the hard floor of the facility. Sergeant Collins was approaching.
Grace shrank back further into her corner, her shoulders bending in on themselves, but it was too late: he was looking right at her, and double damn, he’d noticed she was trying to turn into wallpaper if the arch of one of his salt and pepper eyebrows was any indication.
He stopped before her, and Grace couldn’t prevent the hitch in her breathing. Reaching distance. The man was within reaching distance. She bit her bottom lip to avoid a whimper.
“Dr. Tucker?” Sergeant Collins asked in his smooth, Southern whisky drawl. He then looked her over once more. His eyes softened. He took a step back and crossed his arms behind him, effecting “at ease” posture.
Relief flooded through her so strongly it momentarily overshadowed the embarrassment she felt at having someone else recognize her reticence at human contact. But only momentarily. Damn it, why couldn’t she be normal?
She straightened to her full height — a whole five feet five inches — and worked her hardest to look as un-crazy as possible. “What can I do for you, sir?” A lock of her frizzy, red hair fell over her glasses, blocking Sergeant Collins from sight. She shoved it out of the way, tucking it behind one of the pencils stuffed into her “style” of the day.
“Nothing more than you’ve done, ma’am,” he said with polite distance. “I’ve come to report that your findings seem to be accurate.”
Grace wanted to sag in relief, but was so wary of causing Sergeant Collins to think any less of her that she clenched her jaw and forced iron into her spine. No one would know how worried she’d been about her translation. She’d emit cool confidence all day long. Her “findings” included the recommendation that whatever damage the sword caused could be un-done by administering the fruit of the Tree of Eternal Life topically. They’d been forcing the fruit down Jericho’s throat for days to no effect. It was a nuance of the language that had given Grace the idea to apply the fruit to the site of Jericho’s wound.
“So, Jericho’s recovering?” Grace forced herself to ask, alarmed a little at the obvious worry in her voice. She didn’t care about him that much, did she?
A new voice sounded as it approached. “His skin is knitting together before our eyes.” Dahlia Edward’s brown eyes peeked around Collins’s shoulder, warm for the first time ever that Grace witnessed.
Grace actually liked Dahlia a lot, and not just because Jericho did. Grace hadn’t met many people who seemed to hate all others as much as Dahlia did. She was even more socially hostile than Grace. It was … refreshing.
“They think he’ll wake up any moment now, and I want to be there when he does, but I had to come thank you first,” Dahlia continued.
Grace felt her eyes widen. “Thanks” often involved touch of some kind. “That’s not necessary,” Grace muttered, crowding the corner again.
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Relax, Red,” she said with a laugh. “God, it’s not like we’re going to attack you with hugs or anything.”
Grace didn’t laugh. She didn’t even notice when the two before her exchanged a worried look as her eyes glazed, and her mind turned over one of Dahlia’s words.
Attack. Attack. Attack.
A loud snap erupted in front of her face.
Grace refocused to see Dahlia’s fingers before her eyes as the woman snapped again, this time accompanied by a sharp, “Grace!”
Grace sucked in a breath.
“Is she … ” Sergeant Collins trailed off as both women’s heads snapped around to glare at him.
Grace opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off with Dahlia’s curt, “She’s fine, Collins, God.” She then stood directly in front of Grace, blocking her from Collins’s sight, giving her a chance to compose herself. “Nothing some lunch and a good night’s sleep won’t fix. We’ve run her ragged. Give her some grace.” Dahlia snorted.
Collins threw Dahlia a wobbly smile. “I’ll just … um … call Miss Esperanza then. Tell her Jericho’s fine.” His mouth moved like a caress over the name of Dahlia’s former mother-in-law, his accent adding at least two syllables, and his eyes twinkling like a kid.
Dahlia looked at Grace and winked. “You do that, Collins.”
He cast one more concerned look toward Grace’s corner, not quite meeting her eyes, and backed off, hurrying away to his office.
As Dahlia watched him go, her hand fell to the small bump beneath her shirt. Grace was pretty sure she was the only person in the facility who had guessed that Jericho and Dahlia were expecting. There had been no announcement; there hadn’t been time before Jericho fell gravely ill. But Dahlia made that little movement often when she thought no one was looking.
She turned to Grace now and arched a perfect eyebrow.
“I really am fine,” Grace offered weakly.
Dahlia scoffed and muttered something in Spanish that Grace perfectly understood — dead languages weren’t her only specialty. Grace bristled. “Look, I’ll just get back to work.” The news of Jericho’s recovery was already spreading if the increased chatter in the room was any indication. She could re-join life now. She needed to get started on writing this up, though she knew publishing any of her top-secret findings was going to be an uphill battle. Possibly an impossible one.
Dahlia nodded once and began to turn away.
“Hey,” Grace blurted. Dahlia turned back to her. “Um … when he wakes up. Tell Jericho … I’m glad he’s okay.” Grace was shocked to find out she meant it.
Dahlia’s eyes roved Grace’s face for a moment, but then she smiled. “You’ve got it, Red.” She took two steps toward the medical wing, then stop
ped.
Grace watched the black waves cascading down Dahlia’s back rustle as the stunning Latina tilted her head to the side.
“Do you hear that?” Dahlia asked.
Grace frowned. “Hear what?”
Just then, the lights flickered. A distant rumbling seemed to seep in through the walls of the facility.
All of the hopeful chatter in the room faded and then fizzled out as people began to look around curiously.
A huge clap of thunder rent through the building with such force that loose items throughout the main room clattered where they sat.
The lights went out completely.
Emergency lights along the walls illuminated, casting Dahlia’s caramel skin in an unearthly glow as Grace stared at her in barely subdued panic. The others in the room began to mumble to each other, their voices rising in pitch. She felt her nails digging into the skin of her arms and realized she was hugging herself again.
A man in a lab coat raced into the main room, skidding around the door and barreling toward Dahlia as soon as he spotted her. “He’s waking!” he yelled at Jericho’s wife. “Come quickly.”
Dahlia took a quick step toward him, but then stumbled. She threw out an arm to catch herself against the wall. “Shit,” Grace heard her mutter.
Dahlia spun around and pinned Grace with a wide-eyed look. “Earthquake,” she told Grace in an odd, disbelieving tone. “Big one.”
Dahlia lunged forward and grabbed Grace by the arm, hauling her quickly to a nearby desk and shoving herself and Grace in the small area beneath it.
Shooting pains emanated from the skin Dahlia’s fingers touched. Grace hissed and tried to wrench her arm from Dahlia’s grip as she spluttered, “What — how do you — ”
“I can hear it coming,” she said impatiently. “Take cover!” she bellowed to all the gawkers.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the first wave hit the building. A sound, louder than the eardrum-cracking clap of thunder, ricocheted through the room like a freight train, and Grace watched with wide eyes as the floor began to ripple at the edge of the room and move toward them like oncoming ocean waves.
Of Alliance and Rebellion Page 22
