by Nyna Queen
Yeah, well, no way she would get naked with this specific audience in the car.
She wiped her forehead, surprised when her hand came back damp with sweat. How could it still be so hot in here? The radiator looked to be all the way down already. She pushed at the lever. It didn’t move. Had to be stuck somehow. She punched her fist against it in frustration. “Damn—why isn’t that stupid thing working?”
“It has nothing to do with the heater.”
Alex glared at Darken. “Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat and nodded his head toward the center console. “The heat … and whatever else you are experiencing right now—it has nothing to do with the radiator, or any dysfunction thereof. The appliance is working just fine. In fact, you made it uncomfortably cold in here.”
What in the Jester’s name was he talking about?
Alex opened her mouth to give him a good piece of her mind but paused when a glance in the rearview mirror showed her that both kids were hugging themselves, shivering.
What the hell—?
A hand held in front of the vents proved that air was blowing out of them like fury, though it did nothing to cool her burning skin.
Darken sprawled in his seat like a cat that got the cream. “I believe I’ve told you about the repercussions of my magic.”
Oh yes, he’d told her she would feel like having a chill. Not that she’d feel like a horny teenager being engaged in the backseat of a car.
“It is quite normal, you know,” he added conversationally. “You almost died. Now your body is rejoicing in the fact of being alive and is trying to prove it to itself in the most primal ways.”
Just the slight hint of suggestiveness was enough to send a rush of heat between her legs. A throbbing ache spiked inside her and almost drove her out of her skin. If she was a cat she would have jumped straight up into the air. Alex bit the inside of her lip to keep from moaning. The muscles in her legs locked and she felt the urge to arch her back and curl her toes. Oh, sweet Jester!
The need to be touched became so strong it was all she could do not to dip her finger into the concentrated ache to relieve some of the pressure.
She clenched the wheel so hard that it hurt. If she clenched it any harder, she would either break it or her fingers. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Keeping her face impassive took every ounce of her will. “I have no clue what you are talking about.” And if you keep on talking I might just have to kill you.
He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, I’ve witnessed the effects of my magic so many times, I know exactly what it looks like.”
And he wasn’t smug about it at all, was he?
He bent closer and she had the absurd notion that she could see the heat rising from his skin in translucent tendrils of vapor.
“If it consoles you, when it has reached the point where your nerves have lost the ability to distinguish between inner and outer temperature, you should be almost at the worst.”
“It would console me if you stopped breathing!”
“Ah, I see it has done nothing yet to attenuate your unequaled level of rudeness. But then, I’m not sure this is within the bounds of possibility.”
She told him in great detail where to put certain parts of his anatomy.
The trueborn facade never wavered. “As intriguing as you make it sound, I don’t think I should comply. Not with children in the backseat.” He lowered his voice just a tad. “And frankly, I don’t trust your self-control at the moment.”
Oh, you arrogant son of a bitch!
There was no possible scenario in this world—or any other—in which she would ever be desperate enough to throw herself at someone like him!
Alex bared her teeth. “Why don’t you keep your dirty fantasies for your trueborn puppets?” Although she seriously doubted there was any female in this world wide enough to sheath his puffed-up ego.
For a second his whole body went stiff. A dark red glow rolled over his eyes before his face lost all expression. Abruptly, he turned away and stared out of the window again.
Now, what had she said? Perhaps insulted his virtuous little miss stuck-up-her-nose or something. Well, if he hoped for an apology, he could wait until he was gray and moldy.
With a shake of her head, Alex turned her attention back to the street, trying not to rub at her arms. Despite her burning skin it suddenly was extremely chilly in the car—and she had a feeling that it had nothing to do with the cold air blasting out of the radiator.
ALEX took a huge bite of pancake and shuddered blissfully as the sweet, stringy flavor of maple syrup slid over her tongue.
Mhmm, maple. If paradise had a taste it would most definitely be maple syrup.
She cut off another piece, taking the time to sample its smell before putting it into her mouth. As a matter of fact, the pancakes were slightly burned, the maple syrup was on the verge to staleness and the coffee was slightly bitter and way too cold—yet, right now, it was the best meal she’d ever tasted in her entire life.
Well, granted, she was ravenous and still suffering from the aftershocks of the magical backlash, so her standards might not be very high at the moment.
Spiking another slice, Alex shot a glance at Darken, who sat at the other side of the table, watching her dig in with growing impatience. It had been him, who, after about another half hour of driving in stone-cold silence, had turned to the back and asked the kids if they were hungry, and, when they said “yes” had suggested that they make a quick food stop. Since he was the only one who had limited himself to coffee, Alex strongly suspected that the suggestion had been made mostly for her benefit. Not out of pure concern for her wellbeing, of course. But rather for himself and the kids.
The effects of the backlash had reached a critical peak during that hour, turning her into a real safety risk at the wheel, and he’d probably been afraid that she would cause a crash if she went on driving in her jittery state. If she was honest—and the hell she would be—she had only kept on driving because she saw no way of asking for a stop without giving him the satisfaction of saying “I told you so,” and her pride simply wouldn’t allow it.
Irene’s Roadside Diner, which served breakfast on a 24/7 basis courtesy to the mass of night shift workers in the area, was mostly deserted right now. That would likely change in the next few hours when the regular commuters started stopping by for a quick bite on their way home from work. But at the moment, only two more of the cheap red, battered leather booths were occupied.
They had chosen a table in the rearmost corner, from where they had a decent view of the street but would be hard to spot themselves from the outside and the babble of the halfborn TV and lousy teeny pop music provided a little privacy.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Alex pointed her fork at the last pancake left on the serving plate.
Darken gave a tiny grunt and shook his head.
A real reaction. How forthcoming.
Alex shrugged and loaded it onto her plate, adding a generous blob of maple syrup. His loss, not hers.
As she spread the maple syrup with her knife, her eyes grazed the deserted half-finished plates of the kids. They had excused themselves a while ago and asked if they could go outside to the playground in the backyard for a moment to “catch some air,” as they put it. They didn’t really strike her as the playing-outside-in-the-dirt kind of kids, so Alex had the strong feeling that they really just wanted to escape the frosty atmosphere around the two adults for a little while. And really, who could blame them? She had to say, for a man who contained so much fire inside, Darken could be exceptionally cold. Ever since her puppet comment, he’d virtually cut her dead. It was a surprise that the booth wasn’t completely frosted over.
Alex reached for her coffee mug, but paused, when something the TV reporter said caught her attention.
“… are right at the scene of the crime and trying to shed some more light on the situation for you, while even the law enforcement still seems to be groping in the dark.
”
She looked up at the screen and scowled at the familiar, well-abhorred front of the Jester’s Inn, right above the huge headline “Dubois-Léclaire abduction.” A tiny shock traveled through her body as if she’d touched a charged car door handle.
“We tried to get the owner of the bar to comment,” the reporter said, “but unfortunately he declined to give a statement on the matter.”
Yeah, typical of you Mahoney, Alex thought disdainfully. One sign of trouble and her boss—ex-boss—would do a bunk. Dopey old coward.
“However, we could persuade one of the employees to speak with us.” A flustered looking Mitja appeared on screen beside a young reporter in a yellow fisherman’s raincoat. Alex’s heart dropped into her bowels. Her former colleague looked as haggard as ever, shaggy dirty blond hair hanging soggily into his forehead.
“Mr. Piotri has been working at the Jester’s Inn for about four years now, and while he’s seen his fair share of violence, he says nothing alike to the events on Saturday has ever happened on his duty.”
The reporter smiled and held out the micro. “Mitja—I can call you Mitja, right? How would you describe the bloody attack on the trueborn law enforcement officers?”
Alex held her breath, automatically leaning forward on her bench, waiting for the condemning words that surely were to come.
Mitja scratched the back of his neck, looking uneasy.
“I was working that day, alright,” he said, “though to be honest I don’t actually think it was the … you know, that … shaper who started the assault.”
The reporter frowned. “Didn’t you tell the PO that you and the other staff members were hiding behind the bar when everything happened?” she asked, sounding more than a tad accusatory. His answer obviously wasn’t what she’d expected. It wasn’t what Alex had expected either.
“That’s true, but—”
“So, you couldn’t even really see what was going on, could you?”
A tiny hesitation. “Right, but—”
“And you would agree that the shaper got away, while those trueborn officers all ended up dead, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he ground through clenched teeth. “However—”
“I was wondering: After all that has happened, do you still feel safe at your workplace?”
Mitja frowned, discernibly irritated by the constant interruptions. “Uhm, actually I—”
“Oh, I just hear that we’ve reached the end of our air time. Thank you for your personal opinion, Mitja.” The camera zoomed in on the reporter’s face. “And now back to the studio for more information on the Dubois-Léclaire abduction.”
She vanished from the screen and Alex closed her eyes for a second.
Bless you, Mitja. Bless you thrice. He had always watched out for her. And still did. Even though she wasn’t there anymore. Although she’d kept her true nature from him. Was that why the guardaí still had no leads on her identity? Had he convinced the others to keep their mouths shut about her? She’d never really thanked him for anything. And now she probably never would.
In the studio a newscaster went on about the investigations, mentioning in passing how shapers were like a plague—as if they were fucking roaches of something!—and wondering how the government planned to deal with this growing problem. He finally went over to praising the tremendous joint efforts of the various law enforcement bodies in searching for the missing children.
“… and you can help, as well,” he finally announced, beseechingly leaning toward the camera. “If you see these children or know anything about their whereabouts, please call—”
He rattled off a number, and Alex, who’d been about to spear a piece of her pancake, hit the plate instead, when Max’s and Josy’s faces suddenly solemnly glared back at her from the entire TV screen—huge and in color.
The spider hissed, and she went rigid, bracing herself for the shouts, the sirens, for people running into the diner and pointing their fingers at them calling something like “Here. Over here. We’ve got them!”
Nothing happened.
A second went by. Two. Three … thirty.
Across from her, Darken’s eyes were fixed on the screen, his clenched fist on the table top the only outward sign betraying the calmness of his appearance. Oh, but she felt the heat rolling off him in waves, telling the shaper in her just how charged he really was behind that slightly sleepy, bored mask.
Alex dared to take a tiny look around. The waitress was still going about her business, hand vacuuming one of the tables at the far side of the diner, the old man to their left was still sourly poking at his muffin and the pair of construction workers was still engaged in whatever uninteresting conversation they’d had a minute ago.
Nobody seemed to have made the connection between the two kids portrayed on the screen and those outside in the yard—and then, they didn’t look too much like the two meticulously groomed trueborn aristo gems displayed in that picture. And, honestly, who would expect two shaper abducted children to be merrily playing in a diner’s yard all on their sweet lonesome?
Alex let out a long breath, feeling the claws retreat from under her human skin, while anxiety still pricked along her nerves as if she’d just taken a dive into ice cold water.
Still, it was only a matter of time until someone did make that connection. One close look was all that was needed.
Part of her wanted nothing but to jump up and leave, yet running off like their pants were on fire would just call the wrong kind of attention to them. So instead, she tipped back her head and drained her coffee in a big swallow, setting the mug down beside her plate. And really, it would be a shame to let that last pancake go to waste.
She licked her greasy fingers and caught Darken staring at her from dark, luminescent eyes. It was an unnerving stare, too.
Ignoring him, she focused back on her treat. With the side of her fork, she cut a slice, pronged it, and raised it to her mouth. His gaze followed her movement.
Her hand tightened on the fork. Giving him a nasty look—which he failed to take as a hint—Alex chucked the pancake into her mouth and started chewing, too aware that his eyes were glued to her lips.
Oh, for the love of—
Finally having enough, Alex slammed her fork down on the table with a clang.
He blinked.
“Could you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me! Do you know how hard it is to eat when somebody keeps staring at you all the time? It’s unsettling!”
“Excuse me,” he said stiffly. “I was in thoughts.”
“Well, think with your eyes elsewhere, then.”
Darken cleared his throat and pointedly turned his head, looking out of the window; which wasn’t much better since it presented her with his glorious profile. He really had a nice profile: strong, chiseled features, finely shaped eyebrows, and a masculine chin. He hadn’t shaved since that night she’d first seen him in the Jester’s Inn and his stubble had grown out into a real three-day beard. It made him look like a rouge. A dangerous, sexy kind of rouge—pretty much up to no good.
The sunlight from the window bathed his face, dripping liquid gold into the dark brown of his eyes, like mixing coffee with whiskey and putting you into the danger of getting drunk by just staring into them for too long.
It reminded her too much of the way he’d looked at her in the car, in that breathless moment when he had leaned over to her. That had been one hell of a gaze. She’d been hit with a lot of come hither stares in her life, but this one put them all in the shade. Even the memory produced a light shiver over her skin.
Of course, it had just been play. But still … if he looked at a woman like that in play, how would he look if he meant it?
Not that she had any real interest to find out. Jester forbid! An arrogant trueborn jerk wasn’t exactly the man she wanted to get hot and heavy with, and she seriously doubted he was into perky shaper girls either.
And yet … she couldn
’t help imagining how it would taste to lick that stubble, how it would feel to touch her lips to his, how—
Oh, get a grip, sugar!
Just a moment ago she’d chided him for staring at her and now she was ogling him like some moonstruck fool. She knew it was her backlash-addled shaper brain speaking, that feral, hormonal-driven part of her soul reacting to plain physical attraction, but that knowledge didn’t make things any better.
Ripping her eyes away, she tackled the remains of her pancake. Unfortunately, now that she’d gotten herself started it didn’t taste even half as delicious as she imagined his touch to be.
Oh yeah, just great! To distract herself, she raised her hand and waived the waitress over.
“Can we get some more coffee, please?” she asked, deliberately ignoring Darken’s aggrieved huff.
The plump woman approached the table with a pot in hand, shooting nervous glances at Darken. And you could hardly fault her for it. In his stiff, long black coat complete with the black gloves he looked like a textbook example of a hitman—and halfborn or not, it was hard to miss the sharp, aggressive vibes he was sending out like a silent battle cry.
When she reached the table and leaned over to fill his mug, he turned his head and amber fire rolled over his irises. The waitress let out a little shriek and recoiled as if burned on a hot stove, spilling coffee all over the place. With shaking hands, she set the whole pot down at the end of the table and hurried away, throwing fearful glances over her shoulder.
Alex suppressed an eye roll. And here she was trying to be inconspicuous.
She glanced at the pot at the other end of the table, then at Darken. “Could you—?”
The pot clanged against her mug.
Wow, someone’s really getting impatient.
She filled her mug, then reached for the cream, but before she could touch it, Darken snatched it up, added a very accurate amount of two teaspoons matching her own previous procedure, and stirred it.
