by Dana Archer
My hand trembles, but I caress the skin by Ilan’s eye. From this distance, I can see jagged lines of black in his orange eyes, spindles radiating out from his pupils. The longer I stare at them, the less defined they become. An undulating wave of black moves through Ilan’s eyes, captivating and entrancing me.
“You’re wickedly beautiful like this, Ilan. A primal male.” I skim my fingers to his slightly open mouth. “And mine.”
“I am yours.” Ilan crawls over my body and holds my face between his hands. “And if all goes well, tomorrow night will guarantee us forever.”
While Ilan doesn’t explicitly say we won’t be soul-bonding tonight, I don’t doubt this is what he’s implying. He all but told me this yesterday.
I lower my gaze, glancing down the length of Ilan’s naked body. The space between my legs aches, and a sensation of emptiness grips me.
Lust is more satisfying than regret. I embrace raw desire, wrapping it around me.
I glide my hands over Ilan’s sides, glorying in the strength coiled within his body. He’s a warrior, honed by time. And tonight, I will be the object of his conquest. I move my hands to his firm backside and tug.
Ilan doesn’t budge. He tips up my chin. “We’ve found Gabriel, and we’re planning a rescue mission. Soon, we’ll eliminate every threat against us.”
I close my eyes on a sense of foreboding. I’m not sure why the ominous feeling grips me. Rescuing Gabriel is a great outcome, the best we could hope for. “And Owen?”
“He’s alive. He’s well. And he won’t stop fighting for his life. He’ll be fine.”
Ilan’s leaving something out. I hear it in his voice. It’s out of my control, though. So is missing out on soul-bonding with Ilan tonight. No amount of pleading and coercing will make it happen. We don’t have time. I get that, even if I’m not happy about it. Rescuing his brother takes precedence.
I nod, accepting Ilan’s predictions for Owen, Gabriel, and us.
He studies me for a moment, then drags his knuckles over my cheek. “Nothing will stop me from claiming your eternity. I promise you that.”
“And I believe you, and I trust you.” I curl my fingers around Ilan’s wrist. “But right now, I need to feel alive, Ilan. I need to soar with you.”
“Sara.” Ilan’s agonized voice makes me think he too is regretting not having time to soul-bond. He needs me too. I see that in his eyes.
Ilan lowers his head and kisses me until he grunts against my lips and thrusts his tongue into my mouth. Aggression and love fuel Ilan’s full strokes. His intimate and complete exploration stirs my desire to give myself completely to Ilan. Anything he wants to do to me.
He moves his hand to the base of my spine and holds me as he lowers his body to mine.
“Ilan.” I groan against his lips, unsure how to express my wants. Or even if I should be thinking them. I can’t deny them, though.
I want Ilan to unleash his primitive instincts on me. Right now.
I dig my nails into Ilan’s backside and pull him closer, but he presses his palms into the pillow on either side of my head and eases back, breaking our kiss. Satisfaction shows on his face.
He pushes his chin against my cheek, urging me to turn my head. I do. The bite he’s left on my shoulder thumps. Ilan latches on to it, pressing his teeth against the raised points but not breaking the skin.
The pressure of his mouth clamped to the vulnerable spot where my shoulder meets my neck spreads tingles outward. Energy rushes through me, settling in my fingers and toes, heart and soul. After a moment, I want to squirm away from this intensifying sensation. There’s no escape, though. Ilan has me exactly where he wants me.
“Ilan, please. Give me everything.” I don’t know how else to express my desire for pleasure, love, and belonging.
Ilan does. He takes me to the edge of heaven with skilled hands. Once I’m there, I leap into ecstasy. The lust consumes me, stealing the light and my breath and dropping me into the dark. With Ilan’s arms around me, I don’t fear it. I own it. Just as I own Ilan. Even if it’s not permanent. Yet.
Thirty-Four
Ilan
The small child in my arms isn’t my son. Soren will never be my son. Biologically speaking, anyway. He’s Brock’s son. Soren might even follow in his footsteps, commanding the floor of the Shifter Council despite being marked with the blood of his enemies. There’s no rule saying a man of the law can’t eliminate his adversaries. He just needs to be creative, using legal edicts and decrees to guide his actions or justify any deaths he causes.
I plan on doing the same as I walk the line between assassin, agent, lover, and…father. I will act as Soren’s father, drying his tears and guiding him, exactly as Jarah did for me. Soren will thrive with my guidance and Sara’s love. He’ll grow into a better man than I ever was.
“I promise you that, Soren. You’ll be a man my twin would be proud of.” It’s all I can do to honor Brock’s memory.
I rest my forehead to Soren’s for a moment, letting emotions I’ve never felt weave through me. Though Brock and I never got along, he was still my twin. We shared a womb. That bond is powerful, elemental. Maybe not exactly one based on love, but the loss of Brock settles over me with a regret that’ll follow me until the world ends. I accept the grief of his loss and the gratitude I have his son to raise as mine. Soren fills a void in my life I hadn’t known was there.
“Bottle’s ready.” Sara walks from the kitchen and moves into my line of sight. “I’ll take him from you.”
I adjust Soren’s body and hold out my hand for the bottle. “I’ve got him this time.”
“Oh.” A small, pleased smile playing on her mouth, Sara passes over the bottle. “Here you go, then.”
Taking the bottle, I make my way to the couch across from the roaring fire. Sara’s surprise over my actions is one I’ll have to counter. I have no problem caring for Soren. He needs this as much as I do, to feel the touch of the pack, and Sara needs the option of escaping this conversation. I won’t force her to stay for it, not when I feel her desire to slink away already beating at me. Only, I don’t know why. Or what we have to talk about.
I thought I’d explained my reasoning for waiting to soul-bond with her last night. She seemed to understand. She didn’t even argue. I didn’t sense any deception in her emotions either, but Sara’s holding something back, something that’s bothering her.
The moment Soren latches on to the nipple, I focus on where Sara’s standing near the window. “Talk to me, Sara.”
She crosses her arms over her chest but doesn’t look at me. “About?”
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.” I felt it last night, but the moment she reached for me, the urge to uncover the reason had been shelved.
Her shoulders slump. “How well do you trust Jarah?”
“With my life.” I don’t have to contemplate the answer.
She hugs herself tighter. “What about with mine? Or Soren’s?”
If I wasn’t holding Soren, I’d go to Sara and pull her into my arms. Fear and guilt bleeds from the piece of her soul I hold within mine. “Yes, I trust him with yours, with Soren’s. Now tell me why you feel the need to ask.”
“Nolan said he scented Jarah at the Bear Claw where Daegan was attacked.”
I stare at Sara’s back and fight the urge to ask her why she’s believing a stranger over her mate. Jarah is no threat, not to me or to Daegan. These details might be new, but they don’t sway my loyalty. “Scents can linger in a place where we’ve spent time.”
Sara glances over her shoulder. Lip caught between her teeth, the battle shows on her expression. “But Nolan said his wolves sensed a bear shifter. That he was very old, and they didn’t want to go after him.”
The memory returns. Still, I shake my head. “Jarah is my father in the truest sense of the word. He raised me, instilled values into me that have shaped me into the man I am today, a man worthy of a true mate. You’ve convinced me of that, Sara. That I’m no
t evil. I have Jarah to thank for ensuring I wouldn’t turn evil despite being an assassin. Not my birth father. He snatched Brock from his cradle and ran with him when he found his breeding partner’s dead body. He left me, Sara. He didn’t want to touch me because I was covered in her blood. So he left me to die.”
My chest heaves as the memory of my birth father’s explanation of why he left me returns. Wetness on my arm draws me from the past. I glance at the baby in my arms. Formula dribbles from the corner of his mouth where his lips are loosely closed around the nipple. Soren’s watching me, not drinking and taking the nourishment he needs to grow up strong and powerful.
Sara kneels next to the couch and dabs up the formula with a square piece of cloth, the same kind she drapes over her shoulder when burping Soren. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about shifters since diving headfirst into this world, it’s that shifters will do anything to protect what’s theirs. Their mate, their children, their family.”
“Exactly. And Daegan and I are Jarah’s children. Biology has nothing to do with it.”
Sara sits back, crouching on the balls of her feet. “But he also has a true mate out there somewhere. He’s said he hopes to prove his worth so he can be godlike too.”
“Yes, but—”
“If it came down to my life or Dante’s life…who would you choose to save? Your true mate or a man you will never share a soul bond with?” Sara looks at me, sympathy in her eyes. “If I asked Nolan the same, he’d tell me his mate, his children. He’d do anything to free them. Are you going to tell me you’d choose differently? Or that Jarah would? Because I’d call you a liar if you did.”
Refusing to answer, I turn my attention to Soren. I wiggle the nipple in his mouth as I’ve seen Sara do when he gets too sleepy to keep sucking. He holds my gaze for a moment, then pulls on the nipple, making little bubbles form in the liquid inside the bottle.
“Jarah told me about how the human government’s interference has prevented him from curtailing the witches’ power. He’s been forced to find other ways to watch them.” Sara fills the silence with more of her justification for why she’s planting the seeds of doubt about Jarah.
His tattoo shops. I know about them. Jarah has dozens across the globe that cater to shifters. Instead of responding to Sara’s comment, I focus on her, waiting on the conclusion she’s come to. This is what’s been bothering her. She’s taken the knowledge she’s picked from all of us and formed a hypothesis.
“The artist at the Bear Claw is a woman he’s known since she was a child. She’s powerful…sweet. Kind. That’s how Jarah described her.” Sara leans forward, an expectant look on her face as if waiting for me to see the connection.
“You’re thinking his interest in this young witch is personal.”
“Yes.” Sara nods. “I think it might be worth talking to her.”
I ease the bottle from Soren’s mouth before he sucks on air, then turn to Sara. “I think you’re right.”
Sara’s relief washes over me, chasing away the anxiety she’s been suffering under, but my reasons won’t reflect hers. This human witch knows something about Daegan’s attack and how Nolan knew he was there in the first place. Daegan would never voluntarily invite his pride mate near a human witness, witch or not. He doesn’t trust his pride mates. I can’t blame him. Led by a ruthless killer and corrupted by their insistence to cling to the old ways, they’re dangerous to anyone weaker than them. And humans could die with a flick of a shifter’s claws. Alive one minute, dead the next.
Thirty-Five
Ilan
The run-down trailer indicated as my destination is not what I’d expected a well-paid tattoo artist to be living in, especially once I learned Jarah gave Nadia York a very large signing bonus to entice her to stay in this area, not move to where her coven lives in Delaware. I can’t help but wonder what she did with the money. Or why Jarah hasn’t questioned the same. He knew exactly where Nadia lives, even warning me the GPS would try sending me to the other side of this mountain if I simply typed in her mailing address instead of her coordinates.
Of course, if I hadn’t convinced Jarah to stay by Daegan’s side, I could’ve asked him. Sara’s insistence I consider the possibility of Jarah having an ulterior motive stopped me from inviting him along. Besides, Dr. Riley Kagan seems confident Daegan will wake today, going by his brain activity. Dante and Jarah want to be there when he does.
Ezra regained consciousness last night, and while he didn’t have anything that would help us identify who shot him, I was able to offer him my thanks. And my promise of help, whatever he needs. The blank IOU is the dangerous kind to give to another predator, but Ezra’s earned my gratitude. What he did is something I’ll never forget. All I’ll have to do is look at Sara and Soren to be reminded of what I almost lost.
With my car parked in the stone driveway behind a base-model sedan, I get out and make my way to the front door. It opens before I get there. The sight of the woman standing there stills my steps. Even my wolves turn their attention from the woods around us to the female glaring at me. Power emanates from her, enough power to tighten my chest and make it uncomfortable to breathe. Nadia is strong, holding a well of energy within her.
It’s her eyes that freeze me in place, though. I looked into these eyes a few days ago. A different woman, a different house, a different situation, but I won’t soon forget the eyes of the pregnant human widow I’ve become responsible for.
“Nadia York?” I say the name to ensure I’m talking to the powerful witch and talented tattoo artist I was supposed to find at this address and didn’t accidentally stumble upon Gail Farmer’s relative by mistake. Because I swear this woman could be Gail’s twin.
The female tugs a hair tie off her wrist, revealing a spider tattoo, and gathers her long, dark brown hair into a high ponytail, exposing more tattoos on her neck, then scans the woods as if wondering if I’m actually talking to her. Or maybe to make sure we’re alone.
“Who sent you here?”
There’s a warning in Nadia’s voice I feel in my bones. This petite human wearing purple sweatpants and a ripped Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt will hurt me if she doesn’t like my answer. Or at least try to hurt me. I have no desire to test her either. Magic is dangerous, and I have no idea if this woman knows how to channel her talent or not.
“I came on my own.”
“Who gave you directions to my house, then? ’Cause there’s no way you could’ve stumbled upon me.” Nadia waves her hand at the narrow road in front of her place. “GPS doesn’t work well in these parts, and this house isn’t on a map.”
“Jarah.” As a firstborn, he has no last name, at least not in the shifter world. Among the humans, he likely does. I don’t know it, though.
The pulsating energy dancing along my skin cuts off. Immediately. Nadia flicks her gaze to the woods again, then disappears inside the trailer, leaving the door open.
The strong scent of herbs hits me the moment I step into the dimly lit trailer. Some of the smells I recognize, some I don’t, but the presence of the herbs along with the variety of crystals and stones scattered throughout this place answers my question. Nadia is a practicing witch, or at least dabbles in the craft. And the latter might be worse.
“I have tea steeping in the kitchen. Come in and join me.” Nadia opens an accordion-style door and walks into the room beyond.
A richer, earthier scent of herbs chokes the air in the kitchen, but after a couple of breaths, the pungent smells fade and a sense of calm settles over me. I drag my tongue along the inside of my bottom lip, tasting the concoction in the air. Oh yes, Nadia knows what she’s doing, all right.
She motions to the two-person table in the corner of the small room. “Sit. If you’d like tea, you can have my cup. I’ll set some more to steep.”
“No, thank you, Ms. York. Water is fine.”
Nadia smirks. “It’s not poison, you know. It’s licorice tea. My gut’s a mess today. Guilt will do that to you.
Licorice tea helps.”
“What do you have to feel guilty about?” I take a seat at the table, my back to the wall, and study the young woman standing by the sink.
She pauses with her hand wrapped around a glass for a long moment before turning the water on, letting it run for several seconds through a filter, then fills the cup. “Jarah sent you, huh?”
“No. I came on my own. I told you that.”
Nadia sets the glass in front of me, then fixes her tea. Tension builds an awkward silence between us, but I don’t break it. Guilt clings to this woman, from its telltale stench emanating from her pores to the tremor in her hands.
“So Jarah’s not blaming me, then?”
“What would Jarah blame you for?” I ask instead of reminding her for a third time Jarah didn’t send me.
She shrugs and joins me at the table. “Like you said. He’s not the reason you’re here. So let’s focus on you. What’s your name, and why are you here?”
“Ilan Kane.” I take a sip of water as Nadia brings her tea to her lips and inhales. “And I wanted to ask you what you know of the torture that occurred in the tattoo shop where you work.”
Nadia’s hands shake so severely, tea sloshes over the side. She sets the mug down on a curse, wiping her fingers on her sweatshirt, and jumps from her seat. With a firm tug, she yanks a few paper towels off the roll by the sink, then blots up the mess on the table. “Torture? I don’t know anything about torture.”
“Then what do you call it when a man loses his hands and feet, is nearly beheaded, and skinned?”
Nadia jerks her head to me. Her widened eyes show betrayal. She reaches for the back of the chair and drops on it, nearly missing the seat. “Daegan? They did that to Daegan?”
“Who is they?”
“Shifters.” Nadia scrubs the side of her hand against her mouth. “They told me they wanted to interrogate him. Not torture him. They never said anything about torture. I wouldn’t have agreed if I knew they were going to hurt him. I don’t care what’s at stake. I could’ve figured something out. Daegan’s a nice guy. Sorta scary in a serial killer way, but still a nice guy. He chose the coolest pictures to get inked with too. Even tipped good.”
