Watcher Compelled: Dark Angels Paranormal Romance (Watchers of the Gray Book 6)

by JL Madore

  When her release racked through her, she felt him pressed deep inside her, pumping, stretching. She pitched her head back and called his name.

  What? Why the hell did she do that?

  Sitting up, she turned on her lamp and forced away every ounce of dreamy slumber. Bo was her enemy. She’d been dreaming about him only because she’d merged with his mind last night. She wasn’t attracted to him. No, no, no. Absolutely not. She needed to shut that down right now.

  Not the Viking.

  She closed her eyes and fell back to her pillow. As her breathing slowed, she felt his flaxen hair brush over her navel like the finest silk. She tasted the spicy power of his release as she sucked him off. She heard the possessive growl next to her ear as he pounded inside her and came hard and rough.

  That wasn’t her dream.

  The Dark Prince guaranteed no disease and no pregnancy from his events—he didn’t guarantee no memories.

  It had been for the greater good. Taken one for the team.

  Two Watchers at that party. One liked males. One liked females. Simple as that. She’d done what she went to do and afterward, removed any memory of her from his mind.

  She emerged from the mission with the intel needed.

  That’s it. That’s all.

  As another wave of wanton hit, she groaned. No. That orgasm wasn’t about him and what they did down in Purgatory. It was about last night. She delved too deep into the emotional core of the Watcher, and the imprint of his feelings left residual impressions in her mind. She ran rough fingers over her arms, her skin itchy and tingling.

  The echo would fade in a few days.

  Not willing to wait, Layne threw back the blankets and headed to the bathroom. Bladder empty, comfy tracksuit, meditation music on low, she sat cross-legged on her mat and began the cleansing of her mind.

  It was a mistake. Despite being exhausted, she should have cleared her mind before going to bed.

  She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jhaia buckled her seatbelt and set her briefcase on the floor beside her boot. When her brother settled opposite her, he knocked on the glass divider window, and the car pulled out of the driveway. “You needn’t escort me, Gheil. Thea assures me all is well and the incident long forgotten.”

  Gheil tugged the cuff of his dress shirt to peek out from the edge of his navy pinstriped jacket. The pale blue of the fabric highlighted the warm coffee of his skin and made his midnight blue eyes pop. He was the picture of success, suave, handsome . . . and tired.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  He shrugged. “How is a male to sleep when his own family is in disorder? When his people whisper in the shadows about his choices and leadership?”

  Jhaia felt for him. She also recognized that unwittingly, she had contributed to the problem. Trusting Layne to behave civilly, when it mattered, gave the girl too much credit. It cost her and her brother both. “I don’t know what she does out on the streets at all hours. I set a spell to wake me when she returned home. It wasn’t until the gray light of dawn pushed at the horizon.”

  Gheil’s lips twitched at the corner as he fought back a smile. “I set the same spell. We two are far more alike than we are like her. I don’t understand her.”

  “She was too young when they were killed. Father would have set her straight right from the beginning.”

  Gheil nodded. “And with that in mind, I have appointed a shadow guard to follow her. I don’t trust her judgment and won’t have her undermining all your hard work.”

  Jhaia hated the idea of spying on Layne but agreed with the logic. “The opportunity for peace and a new existence is too important to risk at the hands of a child given to tantrums. Father would have done the same.”

  Gheil exhaled, and she realized he’d held his breath as he awaited her reaction to the shadow guard.

  She sat forward and took his hand, giving him a squeeze of reassurance. “You needn’t fear my reactions, brother. You worry enough. I cannot promise I will always agree with you, but I shall always respect your leadership and support your decisions.”

  He squeezed her hand back and dipped his chin. “And I thank you for that.”

  The next few nights went off like clockwork and Bo started to think his phantom ailment was all in his head. The nights were warmer. The darkness grew shorter. If March came in like a lion and out like a lamb, they were definitely lambing it into spring. He would take the signs of global warming and not complain. If Toronto winters could be shorter and warmer, it was hard to wish things different.

  “Hey, do you mind if we check in on the Queens?” Zander asked, pointing the way. “I promised Cara I’d show my face more at the soup kitchen.”

  Known as the Oracles, members of the Otherworld considered the Queens “Other.” Their garrison never questioned their power and never tried to figure them out. Cara Zmatic, Amanda Playwith, and Clare Voyant were three of the most vivacious and involved females of any realm.

  And they did it with flamboyant flare.

  “While you check in, I’ll grab two coffees to go.”

  Zander nodded and led the way into the back door of the soup kitchen. It struck Bo that Z was a lot of things to a lot of people. To the staff and regulars at O-Zone, he was club owner and boss. To members of the underground, he was the champion to the underdogs. To many on the street, he was a safety net when the world overwhelmed. To the Queens, he was a silent benefactor and friend.

  It was easy for people to miss the man once they saw the long hair, tats, pocket chains, and leather. That was their misfortune. The Sumerian cared about people, the innocent, the preyed upon. They all did their duty and believed in the cause, but Zander took every person to heart. He paid for lawyers. He arranged education and training. And he ensured hot meals, warm beds, and clothes were always available.

  Zander nodded to a couple of regular volunteers in the kitchen and headed toward the front of the building. When they emerged into the cafeteria-style dining room, Bo took in all the faces on both sides of the serving line.

  He and his brothers had helped many of these people on the streets at one time or another.

  Bo smiled at Cara Zmatic, stirring the night’s culinary delight. The six-foot-four brawny woman wore a vibrant, tangerine jumpsuit and a leopard print apron that matched her thigh-high boots.

  “Baby!” Cara said, abandoning her ladle. “And without a complaint or me chasing you in any way. I’m touched.”

  Zander smiled and gave the woman his cheek, which she took full advantage of, laying a vibrant kiss on his rugged jaw. ”How’s things, Cara? You good?”

  Bo left them to talk and headed over to the coffee center. Pulling off his gloves, he stuffed the leather into his jacket pockets and rubbed his numb digits together.

  He wasn’t thinking when he agreed to join the Toronto Garrison. He could’ve been working the Atlanta Garrison and his seasons would have gotten mild at the worst. They didn’t get minus thirty-five.

  “Have you seen my kitty?”

  He set the paper cups back onto the counter and squatted down to meet the gaze of the little girl with bouncing golden curls. “I haven’t, sweetheart, but I just got here.”

  “Will you help me look? Mommy’s too tired.”

  He followed her finger and saw the bedraggled woman in question propped up in the corner, sleeping it off. “She does look very tired. Okay, what does your kitty look like?”

  “She’s gray and has a pink collar with a jingle on it.”

  Bo didn’t think they let animals in the shelter but who knew. Maybe they saw the woman acting as her parent, gave the kid a break and let her keep her cat. With threadbare leggings under her wool dress, he couldn’t imagine how cold she got at night on the street.

  At least her mother cared enough to at least get her in out of the winter weather. Straightening, he held out his hand, and they started their search. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “G
irl.”

  “Yeah, I get that you’re a girl, but . . .”

  One of the regulars shook his head as they passed the table and he understood. Girl? How could a mother be so lost in her own shit that a sweet little thing like this didn’t even know her given name? Or, if she were born on the street, maybe Girl really was her name. “Okay, sweet Girl, let’s find your kitty, shall we? Where did you last see her?”

  The sweet young thing led him around the community rooms, through the bunk areas, and back again. He was beginning to think the kitten was either gone or never was, when Amanda waved them over.

  “Hey, Girl, is this who you’re looking for?” The drag queen held up a ratty gray stuffed kitten and let off a few meows. “She smelled my yummy soup and wandered over. Come over, sweet thing, and I’ll set you both up with a bowl.”

  Bo followed the two and smiled as she climbed up onto the bench and set her stuffed kitty next to a low saucer of milk. She picked up her spoon and started eating, their newfound friendship forgotten.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  Amanda shrugged. “Just one of our heartbreaking regulars. I don’t know, exactly. The mother’s a piece of work. They end up here when there’s more month than money. We feed them, and they go on their way.”

  “Is there a father? A family member who could get her some warm clothes?”

  Amanda dropped her chin and pushed out her lip. “Nope. Born on the street. Raised in the street.”

  “Then Children’s Aid should get involved. Humans have organizations to protect the innocent. This isn’t right.”

  “You’re assuming foster care and getting shuttled around is better. The homeless have a community. They look out for each other. Her mother might leave a lot to be desired, but things happen as they’re meant in the long run.”

  He didn’t agree. Was he in any position to argue?

  “Aww, baby. Look at you getting all verklempt over the first little waif who breaks your heart. The best we hope for is keeping them safe and fed for whatever time they’re here. What happens when they’re out in the big, scary world—well, that up to the gods, right?”

  The little girl set down the spoon and took her kitty into her lap. Unzipping the toy’s belly, she stashed her crackers and zipped things back up. When she was done, she glanced around to see if anyone saw and went back to her meal.

  “Why’d she do that?”

  “For later, hon. Once you’ve been hungry, you make damn sure you do what you can not to let that happen again. Stashing food comes with the territory.”

  Fuckety fuck, that wasn’t right.

  He couldn’t bear thinking of the little thing cold and hungry. Grabbing his wallet, he pulled out his bills and a business card and pressed them into Amanda’s hand. “Put her on my tab. New pants, new toys . . . I don’t care what else. Whatever you can do to make her life easier. Tell the mother too. If she needs more before I get back, let me know.”

  “Footing the bill for a woman like that can get tricky, cookie. Careful what you wish for.”

  He didn’t care. He pulled back his empty hand and left her with the cash.

  “What’s going on here?” Zander said, joining them.

  Amanda stuffed the cash in her cleavage and winked. “Nothing, baby. Just another warrior with a bleeding heart.”

  Bo didn’t know about that. Was it so wrong to think a little girl should have food and clothes and a fucking name?

  Zander knew the look on Bo’s face. He’d felt those feels many times before. Hell, he’d been driven by the need to make things right for the weak and preyed upon his entire existence. It was good to see though. Bo was a helper, a fixer. He was most focused when someone needed him. Maybe him getting more involved with the needs of the homeless community would be good for him.

  “Something on your mind, Sumerian?”

  He sipped at his coffee and smiled at the ambrosia. No black tar coffee in the kitchen of the Oracle Queens. Those women had too much class for that. Whatever blend this was, it was rich and strong, and had a sweet hazelnut aftertaste.

  “I hate to beat a dead horse, my brother, but could we go over what you remember one more time?”

  “About the crash?”

  Zander nodded. “They forced you off the overpass, you sent Storme on her way . . .”

  “Then the assholes cut me out. I was in and out of it but managed to fight my way free. That’s when I found my way back to Brennus and Phoenix.”

  “And how’d you get covered in blood?”

  “Cutting down the enemy.”

  “With what? When Brennus and Phoenix brought you in, you were unarmed.”

  Bo’s brow grew tight, and he rubbed his temple. It was the same action every time he brought it up. “No. I remember cutting down three kidnappers with my dagger, and pushing out into the night.”

  But he didn’t have his dagger. Something wasn’t adding up, and he didn’t like it. He was grateful to have his brother back, but it all seemed too easy.

  “Come on, Thea is holding her first brainstorming session tonight and I want to make sure the loft is ready.”

  Layne paused, her knuckles raised and ready to rap on the mahogany panel of the door. She didn’t want to. Handling things on her own was more than a point of pride; it defined her. Whatever he’d done to her—the mind games, the sexual pull—she could stop it on her own. Except she’d tried. For days and nights, she’d meditated and masturbated and cleansed her mind and smoked her special blends, and researched spells. Nothing worked.

  The Viking was inside her. The enemy had invaded.

  “Is your arm tired yet, child?”

  The wizened voice came from the other side of the door, and Layne rolled her eyes. Of course Neima knew she was there. The woman knew everything. Dropping her fist, she reached for the handle. “May I enter, Grand One?”

  The door opened before she touched the handle. In a slow, creaky swing, the house welcomed her. No one stood on the other side of the door, and that was no surprise.

  Neima was that good.

  Incense filled the air, the entrance to the front room of the mansion draped in long strands of prayer beads. Layne centered herself and swept the sacred curtain to the side, gaining entrance to the room beyond.

  Neima, the Grand One, sat on a purple beanbag chair in the center of her prayer medallion. At over six hundred years old, she appeared as aged and frail as one would expect, her long, silver hair braided into a rope she carried hung over the sleeve of her embroidered silk robes, her skin loose and her eyes faded, like a favorite gray t-shirt that had been washed too many times.

  She didn’t buy the act for a second. Neima had more life in her than the rest of the Djinn community put together.

  Neima gestured to the plate of freshly baked brownies on the floor, and Layne sat cross-legged before them. “Thank you, as always, for your kindness.”

  Neima’s brownies were Layne’s favorite. If she’d expected Jhaia, the plate would hold molasses cookies. For Gheil, there would be raspberry pie.

  Layne picked up a chocolatey square and took a bite. Heavenly. As sweet succulence filled her mouth, she chewed, and tried not to groan. For them to be baked and warm implied Neima knew more than an hour ago she would come.

  Layne only thought of seeking help before she came.

  “You really are that good.”

  Neima chuckled and waved the compliment away. “Tell me, little nut. What has you so rattled?”

  Layne fought the urge to pop a second brownie in before getting into it but better to grab the tiger by the tail. Seeking counsel from Neima offered her much the same protection as a human going to confession. Her thoughts and actions remained a secret, her problems protected.

  “I invaded the mind of a Watcher, and he has infected me somehow.” Saying it aloud, it struck her how bad it sounded. She dropped her gaze and selected another brownie.

  Yay, comfort food.

  “Which Watcher?”

 
; Did it matter? Did she even need to ask? Neima likely knew the answer already but always had a reason for the things she did. “Bo. The Viking.”

  “Had the man done something to warrant the invasion?”

  Djinn weren’t an overtly aggressive or dangerous species. Tricks. Mischief. Even with greater powers than many other Darkworlders, they didn’t seek out confrontation.

  “No. Nothing more than being who he is.”

  “And how have you been infected?”

  Definitely more brownie strength needed before this one. She chewed, not even sure where to begin. “My mind never rests. My skin itches. My body aches for him. He invades my dreams, both in memory and imagination. I can’t rid myself of his presence.”

  “I see,” she said, the tone noncommittal. “And when you walked the corridors of his mind, how did you feel?”

  “Feel? I wasn’t there to feel. I sought information.”

  “And did you find it?”

  “Yes. After I finally broke him down.”

  Neima reached to the little table beside her chair and poured a cup of tea. With a tiny spoon, she selected a blend of herbs from the seven ceramic sections of her server and stirred them in. “When did he surrender to you? Were you on an intellectual plane or an emotional one?”

  Layne pictured the scene of slaughter on that creek bed and felt the searing pain of the Viking’s regret. “Emotional.”

  “When you ‘broke him,’ was it as an observer or did you inject yourself into his memories to gain his trust.”

  The mistake struck her immediately. “I took the position of his dead love.”

  Neima’s silver brow arched. “And it surprises you that your body now craves him? Were you intimate with him?”

  Okay, no brownie would make this any less embarrassing. “Yes.”

  “As his love or as yourself?”

  “Before. As myself.”

  She went back to the herbs, adding another two scoops of something that looked like small twigs. After stirring it, she extended her hands.