King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel Page 17

  “I won’t do this Rowan.”

  She reached for him, and he watched the leaf she’d held dance in the air, twirling slowly as it fell to the ground between them.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Not yet.” Her hand was warm on his forearm, and a muscle worked its way along his jaw as he struggled to remain calm and in control.

  “You don’t know what you ask.”

  Her eyes changed. “I know exactly what I’m asking. I know exactly what I want.”

  “I’m not a nice man, Rowan. In fact I’m the most flawed creature you’ll ever meet.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t scare easy.”

  She had no clue what he was. What he was capable of. What he’d done in the past.

  Her eyes were luminous, huge jewels hung in a face so exquisite he knew he would never forget her. How could he? She was perfect. Just as she was. Right now. At this moment.

  She stared up into his eyes, then slowly dropped her gaze to his mouth. Azaiel’s groin tightened even more, and he inhaled sharply as she moved closer. He needed to stop whatever the hell this was before it was too late.

  “Move back,” he bit out.

  “No.”

  Anger boiled inside him. She was just a little girl playing a game she couldn’t win. He was Azaiel, one of the original Seraphim. There was no middle ground with him, and his passions ran hotter than she could handle.

  “What game are you playing, Rowan?”

  “I’m not playing a game.”

  “This can’t happen,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I think it can.” Her eyes focused on his lips once more, and he thought he was going to go crazy.

  “Your family is right inside—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my mother or my crazy cousins.” She licked her lips, and they glistened, plump and ripe and inviting. “I don’t want to discuss the curse or Mallick or . . .”

  “Kellen?” The man’s name on his tongue was bitter, and he scowled down at her.

  Rowan’s hand crept up, and, when she touched his cheek, energy rolled over his tall frame in a wave of hot need. She stood on her tiptoes, and if Azaiel were smart, he would have disengaged himself from Rowan’s touch and stepped back. He would have put some distance and perspective between the two of them.

  But Azaiel wasn’t smart. Or even in control. He was under a spell. Rowan’s spell.

  And at the moment she was all that mattered.

  “I especially don’t want to talk about Kellen.”

  Her mouth was open, ready and wet. “I want to feel something other than the cloud of doom that’s been hovering above me my entire life. I want to feel alive.” Her hand slipped along his jaw and crept into his hair. “I want to feel something other than dread and fear and anger. I want passion, Azaiel.” She paused, the tip of her pink tongue edging out from between her teeth. “Can you do that for me?” She shuddered.

  Move away. The thought roared through his mind.

  Her body slid up along his hardness, and he knew she felt his arousal. In fact the little jezebel worked it, her softness rubbing against him provocatively. “Please?” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “Just for this moment?”

  Maybe he should give her a taste of just how much of a bastard he really was. That should put an end to her feminine games. Azaiel had always run hot. Where Askelon had been cautious, he’d jumped in without thought. It’s what had gotten him into trouble all those centuries ago. Mad passion combined with absolute power was not something he’d handled well.

  He’d paid the price. He just wasn’t sure he’d learned the lesson.

  “I think you could make me lose my mind,” she whispered.

  Her lips were near his mouth, and her scent was driving him crazy. If Azaiel were a stronger man, he’d pull away. He’d tell the woman to leave him the fuck alone and concentrate on her problem.

  His fingers slid up her face until he cradled her head between his hands. For several long moments he stared down at her, willing his body to relax. To obey him, not the witch.

  When he had a handle on his emotions his thumb gently swept toward her mouth, and he sank into her warm wetness. It was time to teach Rowan a lesson better learned now than later.

  Azaiel was no gentleman. He was not her knight in shining armor. He would kiss her until her knees buckled, and she was putty in his hands. He would make her want and rage with need.

  And then he would leave her. And if she were smart, she’d never come to him looking for comfort again.

  “I think,” he said finally, his voice rough, “that it’s time for you to stop talking.”

  What the hell am I doing?

  Rowan paused, for one breathless moment, and let the situation roll over her. She was throwing herself at someone she barely knew. Sure he was a “hot as hell” someone, but still. Rowan didn’t do shit like that. Not anymore.

  Rowan had perfected the masquerade that had become her life over the last six years. She’d grown into the skin of someone who bore no resemblance at all to what she’d been. In California Rowan James was average. Ordinary. Less than ordinary. She’d morphed form a hell-raising teenager into the kind of woman who dated someone like Mason and had a pet gerbil named Tiger.

  She’d not used magick in years, and she sure as hell hadn’t contemplated getting naked with a tall, god of a man who held more secrets than she did.

  And yet there she was. Back in Salem, knee deep—hell, ass deep—in magick, men, and danger. And she liked it. The thrill. The power.

  It was as seductive as she remembered.

  But Azaiel . . . she gazed up into golden eyes shot through with black . . . he was more dangerous than all of that. She should be running the other way, yet . . . her fingers trailed over his taut, hard chest . . . she couldn’t move.

  He made her feel things that she shouldn’t. Not with the threat of Mallick hanging over her head. Not with her mother returned to Salem. Not with Samhain so close.

  And yet . . . it felt amazing to feel again.

  Azaiel shuddered beneath her fingers, and as she slid along his body, the evidence of his passion was hard to ignore. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, so what was the problem? He was a man. She was a woman. They were both adults.

  For a second reality punched her hard, and she paused, breath held in her throat. He wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. She felt his power. Felt how his energy bunched and pulsed with something she’d never experienced before. What was she doing? Was she as crazy as her mother?

  But then his hands were on her body, traveling down her back, past her waist, until he cupped her butt and pulled her in closer. She gasped at the intimate feel of him. He was hard, unyielding. One hundred percent male.

  Rowan opened her mouth—to protest? To pull away? But it was too late. Azaiel’s lips descended, and he opened her mouth with his own, his tongue probing, seeking the heat inside her.

  He tasted like heaven, and waves of hot, wet need rolled over her, weakening her limbs until she leaned into him. Until her breasts were crushed to his chest, and that moist, throbbing place between her legs was intimately introduced to the hard bulge at his groin.

  His large hand kept her anchored, fingers splayed across her butt, while his other sank deep into the thick hair that clung to her neck. He held her so that she couldn’t move—a little too tightly, truth be told—so that when his lips trailed red-hot fire across her neck, she could do nothing but whimper. When his tongue licked and suckled near her ear she surely would have fallen if not for his ironclad grip.

  Shivers of delight wound their way across her skin, and she shuddered as his mouth clamped down near the pulse that burned at the base of her neck. Her hands crept up, and she clung to his powerful shoulders, animalistic sounds falling from her lips as she moved against him.

  And when he licked his way back to her mouth she opened wide and claimed him. Tongues slid, teased, and tasted. They heaved against
each other and, with a growl, Azaiel picked her up, and they moved deeper into the shadows. He shoved her against the shed, his large frame hovering against hers as his tongue swept along her mouth before plunging deep inside once more.

  Rowan’s head spun. Her insides were hot, like molten lava, feeding the ache between her legs until she could barely stand it. She tried to close her legs, tried to put out the fire, but his knee was there, pushing into her, rubbing against her . . . and warmth flooded her in a wet weep of desire.

  “Oh God, Azaiel,” she whispered, her hands capturing his face so that he stilled for a moment. So that her eyes connected with his and said the words she couldn’t. Stop. This is crazy. This is amazing.

  His had morphed to full-on black but they glittered, as if backlit with specks of gold. Thick strands of dark honey-colored hair fell over his brow, and she brushed it back as she gazed up at him. Their hearts pounded heavy, a rhythm that was in sync, and the thin sheen of sweat that coated his skin only emphasized the perfect features of his face.

  The man was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He looked as if he’d been carved from angel’s stone.

  His gaze never wavered, and she caught a glimpse of the intensity that ruled the man who held her. It scared her. His strength. His total control.

  Suddenly a tingle of apprehension shot through her. A warning that maybe she was pulling on the tiger’s tail. It was a cold shot of reality, and her heart turned over. Shame scorched her cheeks.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Rowan’s throat constricted, and she pushed against his chest, but his large frame didn’t budge. She needed to jump off the crazy train and get away from him. She needed to clear her head.

  “I warned you.” His voice was harsh and held a hint of something that was dark.

  Rowan opened her mouth, wanting to explain. Wanting to apologize for her behavior, but he gave her no chance. His mouth was on hers once more, and he moved so that she was crushed between the shed and the hard wall of muscle that was his large body.

  His hands were everywhere, on her face, in her mouth, caressing her breasts, and flickering along the quivering muscles in her lower belly. His mouth wreaked havoc, his long, sensuous tongue spreading fire across her neck, and she shuddered when he blew against her ear and suckled the tender spot just below.

  “I warned you,” he repeated, his hands tugging at her shirt, and with a curse he ripped it from neckline to hem. She froze when she felt cool, crisp air rush across her naked skin.

  “Azaiel,” she whispered.

  Then his mouth was at her breast as he pushed aside her bra and enveloped a turgid peak deep into his warmth. He teased and suckled, each draw hitting her hard between the legs. Never had she experienced such sensation. Such raw passion.

  The man was a bloody plus eleven if that was possible.

  Her hands were anchored in the thick hair atop his head, holding him steady as he fed from her breasts, while his free hand sank into the hot crevice between her legs. Even through her jeans she felt the burn of his flesh, and each stroke of his finger drew such friction across her that she ached with pleasure and rocked into him. Pushing. Straining. Groaning.

  Deep inside her body, a tremor grew—a spiral of pleasure that quickly spread. He rubbed and sucked and tugged at her, and it expanded into a ball of exquisite pressure that spun crazily, each pass of his hand stoking and intensifying. She moaned, her hips bucking as the tidal wave built and rolled through her, faster and harder until it broke, and she was limp in his hands.

  Slowly he pushed her bra back into place—though his right hand still cupped the juncture between her legs as he gazed into her eyes. His expression was unreadable, and she swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable and ashamed. She’d literally thrown herself at him. What did that say about her?

  She watched as the black slowly faded from his eyes, leaving only the eerie gold that was so unique.

  “I only wanted a kiss.” She was horrified to hear her whispered thoughts echo between them. Her cheeks burned scarlet, and her hands crept up to her chest.

  “I could have had you, right here against this shed.” He paused, his gaze running from her head to her toes. “If I’d wanted to.”

  The inference wasn’t lost on Rowan. “You’re an asshole,” she spat, her anger overriding anything else.

  Azaiel nodded. “I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse, but you should remember, I did warn you.” His voice lowered. “I’m not a nice man, Rowan. I haven’t been for a very long time. You would do well to remember that.”

  A throat cleared behind them—a masculine, pissed-off kind of sound—and Rowan froze.

  Azaiel’s eyes widened for just a second before he straightened his body though she noted he was careful to keep her concealed as he cocked his head to the side. “Enjoy the show?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Rowan banged her head against the shed and squirmed so she could see around Azaiel. A tall man glared at her, his handsome face familiar . . . as was the expression that sat upon it. Anger. Pain. Disappointment.

  “Kellen,” she said hoarsely.

  Azaiel stiffened. She stared up into a face of stone, the warmth they’d shared only moments earlier long gone. He stepped away, and Rowan glared at him, hating the way his control had never wavered. Hating the way he’d made her feel. Hating that he appeared to be not affected at all.

  He nodded toward Kellen. “She’s all yours.”

  And then he left her alone in the early-morning gloom with the twin brother she’d nearly killed six years earlier.

  Chapter 18

  She watched Kellen warily. From her vantage point she didn’t see any weapons, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t packing. In fact it most likely meant he was armed to the teeth. He wore a plain black T-shirt and military-style pants in the same shade. The boots on his feet could hold a dagger . . . or two, and she knew from experience Kellen’s pants were usually weighted down with a host of weaponry—all of it aimed at killing.

  She clutched the edges of her T-shirt, tied them together, and zipped her leather jacket tight. Behind him lights from inside the house glowed softly, and she noticed that the light in her Nana’s rooms were lit as well. Small darts of it filtered between the boards that had been pounded across the shattered glass window.

  Was it less than a week ago she’d been in ignorant bliss?

  “What are you doing?” Kellen asked harshly.

  His anger was palpable. She got it. But she sure as hell didn’t plan on taking the brunt of it.

  Rowan pushed away from the shed and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The gloom was considerably lighter than only fifteen minutes ago, and she knew sunrise wasn’t far behind. She cracked her neck. God, she was so tired.

  “Just getting some fresh air. You?”

  His face darkened. Okay, maybe he was more than a little pissed. “I don’t care about your fucking boy toy, Ro. Let’s talk about our mother.”

  Her heart clutched at the sound of her nickname and, for a second she thought that maybe things would be all right. That maybe he didn’t hate her as much as she feared and that he’d forgiven her for the last time they’d been together.

  “If you’ve harmed one hair on Marie-Noelle’s head, I will make you pay.” Kellen spoke slowly, enunciating his words so that there was no doubt as to the depth of his anger toward her. His eyes flashed, and he took a step toward her. She noted the way his right hand was loose near his pocket. That wasn’t good.

  Okay, so the whole hate thing was still ongoing.

  Rowan studied her brother. He wasn’t the lanky young man from her past. A natural athlete who’d excelled at football, he’d always been tall and sported a fluid grace that had earned him a full ride to Harvard. Handsome and a born leader, his dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and absolute charm had made him very popular with the ladies.

  But that was a long time ago. Back before Mallick and his curse and their mother’s downwar
d spiral had created a rift so wide, she was pretty sure nothing would be able to fix it.

  Gone was the young, easy-going man he used to be. He was now a hardened, powerful man whose body had matured into that of a soldier who could dish out a hell of a lot of hurt. There was a cruelty to his eyes now, and she didn’t doubt he could kill with his bare hands.

  Didn’t doubt that he had killed with his bare hands. Demons, of course, nasty otherworld creatures for sure, but still, killing changed a person.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Kellen. She’s good. Even has a bloody gargoyle protecting her.” She held her hands apart. “Big, nasty-looking thing.”

  Kellen’s mouth tightened even more. “She has a name.”

  “Marie-Noelle is fine.” Rowan nodded toward the house. “Go see for yourself.”

  “Why did you bring her here?” he bit out. “It’s dangerous.”

  Her own anger thrust against her chest, and that part of her stirred—the one that she mostly kept hidden. Heat rushed through her veins as she stared at a brother who, spiritually, was so far away from her, he could be living on another planet. She took a second and sought the control inside of her. This would not be a good time to go off half-cocked and start something with him.

  “She’s damn lucky we went after her last night. Didn’t anyone fill you in on what the hell went down?”

  He ignored her words. “You should have called me the minute you got back to Salem.”

  “Really?” she snorted. “Because we’ve been so incredibly close the last six years?” Oh God, why did it still hurt so much?

  “Because I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her.”

  Rowan ran her hand through the tangled mess of hair at her nape, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that his words pained her. More than she wanted them to. Suddenly, she was so tired of it all. Of the past and how it constantly bit her in the ass. Chewed her up and spit her out like yesterday’s meal.

  “I don’t want to fight, Kellen. You know she’s safer here with us than anywhere else.”