I’m ready to go further, but Anna’s legs are pressed together. When I move a hand down the back of one of her legs to bend her knee, she lets me. I gently pry her leg open enough to expose her inner thigh. Her hands are tight in my hair now, and I love knowing I’m making her crazy.
This is the one thing I can give her. The one thing I’m good at. I’ve never been more eager to make someone experience such bliss.
I kiss the inside of her thigh, running my tongue over the silky skin there. Anna lets out a gorgeous moan and she quivers, sliding down the wall. I move my hands back up to her waist to catch her. My mouth comes down inside her thigh, even closer, and Anna exhales a strangled breath.
“Kai! I . . . I . . . you have to stop.”
Bugger. I need to reassure her. I want to keep my face right where it is and show her just how okay this is, but I know better. I force myself to stand and look at her. To remind her it’s just me, and I won’t do anything she doesn’t want.
Anna’s chest is rising and falling quickly. Her cheeks are pink. Her pheromones are flooding the air and making my head spin like an aphrodisiac. I lean against her, dipping enough to align our hips and drive them together. Her head falls back as she feels me against her, and I know I can bring her pleasure just as easily this way as the other. But I want to be touching her with my hands if not my mouth.
My hand covers her warm stomach. “Let me touch you. Just on the outside. Let me make you feel good.” She groans sweetly, a sound of need, and my hand trails down.
So close.
I keep my eyes on her face, though her eyes are closed. I love watching her reactions.
I don’t expect it when she begins to shake her head. Or when she says, “No. No, we can’t.”
Something is wrong. I drop my hand. “What is it?” I step away, worried I’ve upset her. “I’m sorry, Anna—”
“No,” she says in a quaking voice. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m not sorry.”
I blink. My skin flushes from fire to ice as she bends and pulls her clothes back on. I’m not at all certain what’s going on. She pulls me into a hug, and I have to remind myself she is prompting this touch, so it’s okay. I let my arms go around her trembling form.
“You’re shaking,” I say, still confused.
“Yeah, well, my body is pretty angry at me right now.” She laughs shortly, without humor. “But I don’t want to take any chances when it comes to the hilt.”
Any remaining fire is put out at the mention of that thing, and my heart gives a lurch. The prophecy says the Neph of light and dark has to be pure of heart, I assume to be able to use the Sword of Righteousness. I hadn’t really thought about what that would entail.
“You think it’s that sensitive?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s meant for angels, you know?”
Ugh, damn that stupid sword.
“Are you okay?” she asks me.
Actually, no. I don’t think a moment of pleasure with the man she loves will render her impure, especially if she remains a virgin, but I understand her apprehension. A lot is at stake. I can’t imagine the pressure she must feel.
I hold her face and run my thumb over her cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” she says. “I love you. I want all that with you. Maybe someday?”
I shut my eyes against her hopeful words. I dare not believe there is a someday. There is here and now, and we’re promised nothing more. Especially with the prophecy hanging over us.
She stretches up and kisses me. “I think I need chocolate.”
This gets a laugh from me. Only Anna.
“Will you make me some brownies?”
“Me?” She must’ve misspoken.
“It’s my turn to watch you cook.”
I can’t help but grin. “I assume you actually want to be able to eat these brownies?” But Anna only laughs.
She takes me by the hand, leading me down the hall toward the kitchen. Her defusing tactic has worked, taking my mind off the disappointment of the moment.
And one thing’s for certain—after tonight I’ll never look at brownies the same way again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Saving Z
“This is our last night, but it’s late and I’m trying not to sleep
’Cause I know when I wake I will have to slip away.”
—“Daylight” by Maroon 5
Tonight was the most extraordinary night of my life, but also the most difficult, psychically. I can’t explain the monster that lives inside me, or the battle I wage against it.
I remember when Father called me a caveman to Anna the night he met her, and he laughed, but not because he was taking the piss. He laughed because he knows what I feel, how constant my longings are, and it’s funny to him. Amusing that I fight for self-control every waking moment, that at any second I could turn into a raging Lust Hulk, never satisfied.
Only not green. Lucky me.
There were times tonight when my fraying willpower was nearly shredded by innocent touches, and it kept me on edge. I know it was beyond stupid to chase her to the airport and beg her to come home with me. The smart move, the safe one, would have been to let her go back to Georgia. But as I hold her in my arms, in my bed, listening to the sound of her soft breathing, I can’t bring myself to regret our one night together.
We’d both finally fallen asleep a bit ago, but I woke during the night, filled with familiar paranoia. It’s worse with her at my side. Even though I know the Dukes and whisperers are in Vegas tonight, I can’t stomach the thought of Anna being in danger. All because of my selfish desire to have her.
She is complex, my lovely Anna. All gentleness. A bleeding heart for injustice. A brilliant capacity for forgiveness. But despite her gentleness, I’ve seen how her hands ball into tiny fists when she’s ticked off. I’ve witnessed the fire in her eyes when she’s lost to the hunger of her demon side. I understand that hunger. That need to lose oneself completely to pure physical sensation with no regard to consequences. That urge to say fuck it all.
The only difference is that she wants to lose herself in drugs and I want to lose myself in skin.
But obsession is obsession. To each his own.
Anna mews next to me like a baby kitten and snuggles closer, her knee rubbing my thigh. And, oh, bugger me . . . her hand lands on my lower stomach. Just a few inches south, and I would be a happy man.
I look over at the Sword of Righteousness hilt lying on the bedside table. It’s mocking me, I swear. I know it keeps her safe, but I kind of hate that thing. I feel like it knows what I’m thinking, all the things I’d like to do to its sweet Anna.
Things I daresay she’s not ready for.
The hilt doesn’t seem to give a shite that I love her. It only sees that I’m a greedy bastard who wants every bit of Anna for myself. I want to savor each moment she looks at me and sees past the lust in my eyes—sees the boy I once was, and the man who now desperately needs her.
I close my eyes and try to rest, but her hand is quite distracting. I lift it to my chest instead. In her sleep she prods her nails into my skin and I think it’s the sexiest and most adorable thing I’ve ever experienced. Then again, I’d thought the same thing when she was cooking earlier. And when my mouth was on her thigh, her hands pulling at my hair. And again when she licked brownie batter. Let’s backtrack to the bit about her thigh . . .
Don’t think about that, mate.
Don’t think about the scent of warm pears that surrounded you like cognac.
Don’t think about the silk of her skin against your tongue, how close you were to that place of hers where nobody else has been.
Don’t think about the sounds of her moans, how you were just about to blow her ever-loving mind, or how you couldn’t wait to catch her when her knees buckled as her whole body trembled with pleasure.
Definitely do not think of that.
I shove the heel of my hand ag
ainst my eye and will away the images.
Damned hilt.
No, I’m not perfect when I’m with Anna. I still experience thoughts about every filthy, sexy thing imaginable. That’s everyday life for me. But she makes me wonder what it would be like to make love. She makes me want to take my time with every millimeter of her body in the most maddening way until she’s begging for more.
I let out a quiet sigh.
She makes me want more from life. Things I’m not bloody allowed to want. Things I can never give her. I conceded tonight to be her boyfriend. Okay, to be honest, it was my idea because it’s the one thing I can give her—my heart and my loyalty. I asked if we could be together, and the way she lit up about attaching that label to our relationship made me both joyful and sad, because she deserves more.
I took her to band practice with me tonight, which was awesome, aside from that awkward moment when Anna Malone got jealous and stormed out. Otherwise, it felt amazing to be out with Anna, sharing my life with her. But she deserves a boyfriend who can openly claim her on a daily basis, not just when the demons are away. And that is why fury will always live inside me. Anna might be too good, too measured, to be angry about our circumstances, but I’m not.
I crack open an eye and glare at the hilt for good measure. Then I hold my girl closer, glad we took this chance to be together. I won’t think about tomorrow yet.
When I finally let myself relax again, sleep almost immediately pulls me under.
There is pure terror in Anna’s eyes when her father rings at the arse-crack of dawn. I don’t know if she’s more afraid that Belial’s sending me on a mission with Kope or that he’s sending me on a mission at all. One of our Neph allies, the daughter of Duke Sonellion, has been thrown in prison for lewd conduct. It’s not looking good for Zania. In the conservative Middle Eastern town where she’s being held, she’s likely to be publicly beaten and executed, or sold into slavery. Her father refuses to save her since she’s given in to her alcohol addiction and seems to be of no further use to his cause.
I want to wipe the fear from Anna’s eyes, but I can’t make promises. I can’t promise I won’t punch Kope when I see him. Nor can I promise we’ll be safe in Syria. I won’t lie to Anna, and she’s no fool. Getting Zania out of prison won’t be easy.
I want to tell her how much it means to me that Belial has asked me to go, that he trusts me with this, but I’m not sure I can put it into words without sounding like a complete idiot.
Perhaps I should be afraid, but I’m not. I face the possibility of death every day. Life has been a perilous walk under Father’s keen eye, his whisperers always watching. But this journey—this mission—it’s dangerous in a way that’s worthy of death. It’s the first time I’ve ever been called to help others, rather than hurt them. A chance to die in a way that would bring honor is worth it. Her father’s belief in me has filled me with so much pride it’s embarrassing.
When Kope shows, the sight of him makes me so hot with anger I want to pummel him to a bloody pulp. And if I did, he’d probably just stand there and not fight back, infuriating do-gooder that he is. He brings out feelings of inadequacy in me that I don’t want to acknowledge. He was chosen to be at Anna’s side as she traveled the world. He was the one facing danger in order to find allies for when it’s time to fulfill the prophecy. He was her protector and teammate. Not me. And I hate him for it.
I hate him for all the years he’s denied the urge to dive into the bed of every woman who makes eyes at him. I hate him for not beating the shite out of every man who stirs his wrath. Why can’t he fuck up, just once?
As Kopano stands before me in the living room, all suave and put together, Anna’s the only thing keeping him in one piece. Her, and the reminder that her father wants Kopano to lead this mission into Syria. Frankly, I don’t want to get on Belial’s bad side.
A makeup artist shows, hired by Belial, to turn Kope and me into passable Syrians. She’s even brought traditional Middle Eastern clothing. I shake off my anger and let the lady have a go at me.
Turns out I’m still sexy with a big-arse beard and brown eyes instead of blue.
Flying is relaxing—whisperers stay low to earth and don’t bother with the friendly skies. I know I should be nervous about what’s to come in Syria. Or annoyed by the looks other passengers keep giving me, thanks to my Middle Eastern clothing. I wonder if Kope is getting the same treatment where he sits in the back. I want to yell at all of them, “I’m not a bloody terrorist, so piss off with the crazy stares.” Wankers. Instead I shake it off, close my eyes, and rest.
Anna’s parting words at the airport fill my head: It was always you for me. Only you. And with that lovely thought floating through my mind, I sleep better than I have in ages.
As it turns out, Kope is a good man to have at your side in the Middle East. His Arabic is flawless. I know only a few phrases, so I keep my mouth shut and let Kope do the talking. We travel through Damascus to pick up our weapons from Belial’s human contact, and then stop near a busy mosque to search the area.
My eyes scan the scene, searching for the other Neph we’re to meet here. A bloke in a maroon head wrapping stands out with his boxy body type and the roundness of his face, though his skin’s been given a bronze dusting and he’s wearing a brown beard like me. The son of Duke Mammon, from Australia. I know him as the doorman for the summits.
“There,” I say to Kopano under my breath. “Near the corner.” The man looks over when I speak. I stretch my hearing and open it around him. “Is that you, Flynn?” I ask.
The man gives a single nod. “’At’s me, mate.” He rubs a hand over his mouth to hide the fact he’s talking, and in an Aussie accent. “I’ll follow you out and keep my distance. I’ve scouted the area already, and there’s a hill nearby where I can watch from afar. Maybe thirty minutes outside the city. I’ll give a yell if anything looks suspicious. There’s three guards outside the compound, and it sounds like at least two inside. I don’t think they’re treating their prisoner nicely, if you know what I mean.”
Ah, shite.
Kopano goes rigid. “We must go,” he says. “Now.”
The two of us head for the car while Flynn climbs aboard a small scooter/moped contraption.
We navigate away from the busy area and head toward a smaller town on the outskirts of the city. It feels like it takes longer than thirty minutes on the dry, bumpy road. The city lights and sounds and scents of spices are long gone. The landscape is more barren, though beautiful in its own way. Far ahead of us, Flynn takes a dirt path that leads toward low hills. It’s now dusk, and I feel the stares of suspicious eyes peeking out of squat shanties.
I keep a strand of my hearing in a flimsy line behind me, concentrated around Flynn, who’s found a spot on higher ground, covered with trees, for his lookout. I can see the rise of his hill clearly as we take a potholed side street to a small, darkened building. A wire fence surrounds the compound, guarded by three men with semiautomatic guns slung across their chests. They all stand a bit taller at the sight of our car. We pull aside and park.
We’d decided before arriving that I would listen for warnings from Flynn while Kope focused on the mission Belial planned for us.
I don’t scare easily, especially where humans are concerned, but these men with their weapons and dark gray auras appear stark raving mad. Not the sort of combination that puts a bloke at ease. I treat them like the Dukes, not making eye contact but keeping my shoulders squared as we step out, so as not to show weakness. I’m ever aware of the daggers at my ankle and waist and will not hesitate to use them.
Kopano stands tall, briefcase in hand, and walks forward without an ounce of trepidation. He could be a prince of Africa with the air of importance he’s giving off. I’m surprised when he barks out a phrase in Arabic as he approaches them on quick feet, sounding bored and angry. Gone is his gentle spirit. I think I recognize the word girl.
The guards exchange glances and frowns. We stop in front
of them. Before any of the gits can respond, Kope is barking again as if they’re wasting his time. The three of them jump a bit, clearly frazzled by this seemingly powerful man pretending to hail from Egypt. Kope lifts the briefcase, snaps it open to reveal piles of foreign bills, then slams it shut and says something else in that badass deep tone.
And I can’t help myself. I’m impressed. Maybe he took acting classes at Harvard. Whatever it is, he’s bloody brilliant.
Finally one of the guards speaks. Kope responds, sounding annoyed, but then stands back and lifts his arms. He never lets go of the briefcase. They pat him down, taking a handgun from his waist. I reluctantly lift my arms as one approaches me, and I allow him to confiscate my knives. I feel naked as the weapons are stripped from my body—and not the good kind of naked. I take note when he puts the daggers in his left pocket.
We’re in. Excellent.
They lock the gate behind us and rush into the building with guns in hand, strapped over their shoulders. Didn’t anyone ever tell these minions not to run about with their fingers on the triggers? Unnerving. I’m ready to get Zania and get the hell out of here.
One of the guards shouts something to a man who stands as we round a dark corner. The new man looks us over, his eyes a little wild, then gives a hard nod toward a doorway. Kope marches past him and I follow.
Bloody hell . . .
My stomach sours, just as it does when one of Marissa’s new girls is being trained into obedience. But Marissa doesn’t allow the men to beat her girls to this extent. Zania is little more than a brown pile of bones on a dirt floor. Naked. And no, her nakedness does not rouse my lust. Not a bit.
One of the guards nudges her with his boot and yells something. Kope waves him off with a harsh swipe and squats beside her. He speaks to her in a rough tone and she curls tighter. At least it’s a sign of life. Kope repeats the phrase, slower and more quietly this time, and I think I understand enough of the context to put it together.