EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2020 Katherine McIntyre
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0188-2
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Melissa Hosack
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my wonderful crit partners and beta readers who encourage my inner weirdness.
TEMPTING BALLAD
Discord’s Desire, 4
Katherine McIntyre
Copyright © 2020
Chapter One
The hunger had gotten bad as of late, a thump-thump-thump no amount of shows or random fucks could sate.
Renn settled into place behind his drum set, a beautiful Aquarian model. The worn seat was a comfort, and the sticks in his hands felt right. They’d hit the East Coast on Tuesday and had been touring ever since. Less than a week in the Tri-State area brought the memories flooding back, as if he hadn’t locked them up in a box and punted them off of Mount Everest. He let off a rattling roll, needing to channel the energy into something. The percussion reverberated up his arms, soothing his nerves.
Trev crouched by the amps, fiddling with them, and Jett plucked a few strings of his bass, testing the instrument before the show. Kieran performed his vocal warm-ups, which always looked like he prepped to deep throat the microphone.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The threesome from last night might’ve gotten him off a couple of times, but the fling didn’t do anything to slake this damned hunger. At this point, he was starving. Hell, he’d been starving ever since the rendezvous in Vegas six months ago with the person who’d become number one on the band’s shit list.
Except Leo Kincaid was all sorts of forbidden territory. Damn if that didn’t make him all the more tempting.
“Ready to show Providence their wild side?” Kieran purred into the microphone.
“Save the speech for the fainting flowers in the audience,” Trev called over, strumming his guitar. His slender fingers flew across the taut strings.
Jett cast him a flat-lidded look. “We all know you don’t need the fill-up like some of us do. We heard Danica’s screams at three in the morning last night. We need a bigger RV.”
“If we get a bigger RV, I’m throwing a full-blown orgy,” Renn jumped in, tapping at the drums. The rhythm synced with his amped up nerves.
Jett passed him a withering glance. “Don’t you already do that anyway? I’m pretty sure your threesome last night was the fourth this week. Your dick’s going to fall off.”
“Let’s hope not,” Renn responded with a grin, all teeth. “The world would weep.” He tapped off a couple of drumrolls. He and Jett might bicker like the Odd Couple, but they’d become way too much alike where it counted. Kieran and Trev were the deep ones, while he and Jett patrolled Sarcastic Street, making the occasional turn onto Superficial Alley. Emotions and past history were like dead bodies, meant to burn in the flames until they became ash.
Jett snorted. “I’m sure another horny satyr would fill your shoes.”
“Try finding another satyr who can play the drums like me,” Renn challenged.
Kieran clapped the side of the mic. “Pay attention, assholes. It’s showtime.”
“Yes, Dad,” Renn called. Each of them settled into place, the time for last minute checks over. They planned on starting their set list off with Violent Rose, a song most of their fans knew. Whether the crowds showed for the music or the sexual release, either way their fans left satisfied. Truth be told, so did the band. The fill-up of all the lusty energy usually did the trick when Renn got juiced up to the point he could devour. Ever since they arrived on the East Coast, nothing could turn the faucet off on those nerves.
They got the cues from the stage manager, and Ren perched behind his drum set, ready to play his heart out. About the sole way he’d release the energy at this point. The curtains began to glide open, and the sapphire blue spotlights shone down on them. The venue, Alchemy, brimmed with chic, all slender black fixtures, black walls, and dim lighting. It was more intimate than some of their larger gigs, which Renn was grateful for today. The second the curtains peeled away, the crowd roared, all the black silhouettes revealed as the spotlights glided over their faces.
“Hey, Providence,” Kieran called out, turning up the dial on his charismatic stage tone. “Hope you’re ready for one unforgettable show.”
The crowd roared, and Renn rippled his drumsticks, firing off a roll. Violet and cobalt lights glided over the faces, some human, some fae. Ever since the Accords had been broken—technically their fault—the Courts had been in chaos, which increased the attacks from the hunters.
“Let’s get this orgy started,” Kieran called out, some whistles and screams following. “We are Discord’s Desire!”
The crowd screamed, fervor running through his veins like an adrenaline drip. Renn bounced his legs in his seat, needing to thrash away at the drums, needing to move, move, move.
The first chords of Violent Rose began with Trevor’s skillful strains, and Renn’s hands moved on reflex from the number of times he’d played percussion for this song. He came in with the thump-thump-thump background beats, the slow rise until he got to unleash himself at the refrain. Kieran’s voice entered the melody, steering their leaky rowboat the way he always had.
Already, the crowds had begun writhing. Buttons popped, sleeves rolled, and skirts hiked higher up thighs as everyone drowned in the atomic bomb of lust that detonated through the venue.
As the chorus swelled, Renn let loose on his Aquarian, tapping between the bass drum and the tip-tip-tip of the cymbals. The frenzy of the surrounding noise placed him at ease, and he lost himself in both the melody they created and the waves of passion pouring from the audience. Once the song drifted to an even tempo again, Renn continued to scan the crowd.
The spotlights glided from the front to the back in slow, languid strokes, illuminating faces if only for a second.
The moment the spotlight reached the middle of the crowd, Renn almost lost his place in the song. Muscle memory alone kept him tapping at the drums in front of him, pushing the kick at the right times.
Otherworld be damned, he hadn’t seen that face in far too long.
The pale green skin looked sea-toned under the blue spotlight, and those intense eyes glowed like living flame. His firm lips were pressed tight together, but Renn knew the fangs hidden behind. The man was pure muscle, broad shoulders, and tall enough to loom, even though the tailored suit he wore even to a punk show hid defined abs, cut biceps, and some sexy as fuck ink. Everything about the yaksha, from his thick black hair to the hard lines of his chin, made Renn salivate.
What Leo Kincaid was doing at one of their shows was beyond him. However, he’d bet on his Aquarian that the man brought a mess-load of unwanted trouble.
They played and played and played until their muscles ached. By the time their set ended and they finished breaking down, Renn was ready to burst out of his skin. Kincaid must’ve shown up to their show for a reason, yet the sharp twigs of logic went up in flames from the desire muddling his mind. The idea of heading out after the show only to find the man had bolted drove him crazy.
Not like he could tell the rest of the band. They’d be livid if they saw Kincaid again.
Sur
e, the man had used them a little. They’d stolen a mirror they hadn’t known was the Accords between the Seelie and Unseelie—all part of the plan to destroy Kincaid’s old business partner and Trevor’s former owner, Tymarch Alberich. But then Kincaid broke the Accords, causing a massive upheaval between the Seelie and Unseelie. What would the fae do without their binding rules? Just the sort of revolutionary actions meant to upheave social systems. No big.
Renn finished packing up his Aquarian and patted the top. “I’ll load her in the rest of the way later. I’m going to snag myself a snack before everyone clears out for the night.”
Liz rolled her eyes. “You act like there’s a pussy shortage out there or something.”
“With the speed he goes through them, there might be,” Kieran said in a stage whisper.
Renn lifted his middle finger, a grin sparking to his face. The way his heart sped could be blamed on the thrill of the forbidden, or the memory of the mind-melting sex he had last time he’d seen Kincaid. Those images were scorching enough to even get him through a Boston winter.
Drops of sweat pasted onto his skin from the show, a full body workout of jamming at the drums. His hair was a wild tangle of product and headbanging, but Renn didn’t give a damn about appearances. Kincaid had already seen him stripped down and glistening, and besides, he had it on good authority the businessman had a thing for sloppy band guys. Fuck, the mere thought of that night made him hard.
He slipped down the corridor and out the door leading to the main floor where the crowd thrummed. In the aftermath of their set, couples made out in the middle of the floor, and moans, slurps, and other questionable noises filled the air. The whole thing was a buffet for his senses, and despite the restlessness riding his veins, the show had calmed his frayed edges. This anticipation was a different variety, one that sent his nerves humming, like they sang a melody of their own.
Eyes lit as folks in the crowd caught sight of him, but Renn cut them off at the quick by blowing kisses and offering bows as his feet carried him forward. He scanned the bar filled with people hunched over nursing a pint or crowded around a stool throwing back shots. Folks leaned against the walls and the corners, some getting busy on their knees. Not a single glimpse of the man.
Renn’s heartbeat sped, and his whole body protested. That fucker couldn’t dangle himself in the crowd and then disappear.
Even if that’s what Renn did after their first hook-up. ‘Hit it and quit it’ had been his mantra from the beginning of time, so when Kincaid gave him his private line and told him to get in touch afterward, Renn tossed the card in the trash.
He’d been regretting losing his number every day since. How was he supposed to know he’d met the one guy who made him want a repeat?
Renn strode through the thick of the crowd, even though he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the man. And Kincaid would stick out on sheer size alone. He twisted around bodies with ease, dodging past the chaos of making out and fucking that steamed up this section of the floor. Maybe he could catch Kincaid before he drove off.
He plunged into the cool night air, the sharp scent of autumn leaves and cigarette smoke greeting his nose. His skin pebbled with the stark contrast from the humidity inside. As he wove past too many people lighting cigarettes post show, his nose wrinkled. Ugh, the smell was worse than dog puke. Kincaid wouldn’t be lingering out front, that was for sure.
Renn slipped around to the side, his shoulders heaving, and he stopped still.
Leo Kincaid leaned against the brick wall, his silhouette sharpened by the inkspill shadows. From where Renn stood, he got a perfect view of the prominent chin, the slightly crooked nose, and the sensual lips bordering on cruel. He’d slipped out of his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves to the elbow, revealing corded forearms and the tendrils of a tattoo.
Renn sauntered toward him, his entire body lighting up in the presence of this man. Kincaid didn’t even have any sex mojo like him or Ky, so why his body reacted like this was pure mystery.
Kincaid lifted a cigarette to his lips, and Renn exhaled loud enough to shatter the quiet between them. Those spotlight eyes turned his way, and his mouth dried at the sheer power behind the man’s presence.
“Ditch the cigarette,” Renn said, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his patched-up leather pants. His Doc Martens scuffed the asphalt as he closed the distance between them.
Kincaid’s lips pursed, amusement gleaming in those eyes. “Oh yeah? Any reason I’d give a damn about, or do you just feel like being bossy?” His deep bass rumbled through the air, and Renn sucked his lower lip through his teeth. He’d murder someone to hear that voice whisper dirty things in his ear.
Renn reached out and grabbed him by the lapels of his button-down. “Yeah, because I don’t want to fucking taste an ash tray when I make out with you.” This close he caught the scent of rosewood and bourbon, a blend he hadn’t been able to replicate since their time in Vegas. If he hadn’t been turned on before, his erection could be used as a battering ram now. And he hadn’t even tasted the guy yet.
Before Renn could lunge in for the kill, Kincaid’s fingers wrapped around his neck and those hungry lips descended. The firm grip, how the man didn’t just kiss, he devoured—Renn couldn’t get enough. He gasped into Kincaid’s mouth, sinking into the kiss as he tasted the sweetness of bourbon on his tongue. Most of the time when he dove into his post-concert hook-ups, Renn took the lead, but with Kincaid, he might as well try to rein in a tsunami.
If he were honest, he preferred it. Renn melted into the man’s grip, the pinch at his nape hard enough to bruise. He leaned against him, the feel of Kincaid’s rock-hard body enough to rev his motor. His fingers slipped to the buttons of Kincaid’s crisp black shirt. The man grabbed his wrist, stopping him still with an iron grip Renn had sorely missed. A grin tugged at Renn’s lips even as he continued kissing him. At any moment, his bandmates might stroll out and catch them together and he knew for a fact they’d be pissed.
Renn didn’t care.
Kincaid’s fingers slid through his hair, and he grabbed tight, the slight sting amplifying Renn’s desire. He reached down to palm Kincaid’s cock. The feel of that steel length made him salivate and had him panting with need.
Kincaid tugged him back by the hair, their mouths separating.
“Miss me much?” he whispered in Renn’s ear.
Renn’s eyes rolled back, and he let out a low groan. “What can I say? You leave a mark.” He smirked, an amused grin rising to his lips at the memories of the bruises Kincaid had left during their rough and so fucking hot spin in the sheets.
“Cute,” he responded, running his fingers through Renn’s hair. He just about melted at the touch and was five seconds from slamming down on his knees and getting their personal party started. However, Leo continued, “As much as I’d love to pound you against this wall until you’re spent, I’m here for business.”
Renn let out a huff of breath as he stepped a pace away. Well, that was a disappointment. He crossed his arms over his chest, the thin fabric of his tank top sticking to his chest. “Sorry to interrupt then,” he responded, wondering how many he’d have to tag team tonight to work the mere memory of this kiss out of his system.
Kincaid reached out again to grab his nape. “Business with you. And while you were easy enough to track down, this information wasn’t.”
Renn’s eyebrows drew together. If he attempted to drag the band into more of his Fae Anarchy bullshit, hard pass. He made the mistake of looking into Kincaid’s eyes though, which might as well be a Gorgon stare with the way he froze. Seriousness emanated from them, pinning him in place more than his grip ever could.
“I need your help in convincing a family in the Unseelie Court to align with me,” Kincaid said, his voice spellbinding. “And the Cantrells, your family, have a shared mutual enemy with them.”
A pit in his stomach opened up, deep enough to dive into. There was only one blood feud that mattered to him.
&
nbsp; “Join me, and we can find your sister.”
Oh, fuck.
Chapter Two
On principle, Leo Kincaid didn’t gamble. When he made a move, it was meticulously researched, airtight for leaks, and remained under his control, always.
However, the Ashewarrens wouldn’t grant him an audience, which ground his plans of an alliance to an overwhelming halt. The Cantrells and the Ashewarrens’ affiliation was common knowledge in their community of high-ranking esteemed families, one of the rare public bonds formed between Seelie and Unseelie.
Lucky for him, since he’d been looking for an excuse to track down Renn Cantrell.
The man stood before him, shock staining his features after the frag grenade Leo had dropped. Truth be told, while he had arrived for pragmatic reasons, the moment the curtains opened and he caught sight of the gorgeous satyr behind the drums, his libido thrummed at the same quickened tempo as the band’s music.
“How do you know about my sister?” Renn asked, taking a step back as if he’d been burned. “Even the band doesn’t know about her.”
Caution gleamed in Renn’s dark eyes. Hell if Leo didn’t want to close the space between them and return to those sweet lips and that lean, lithe body flush against his. Instead, Leo had to ruin the fantasy, because he’d been a slave to his goal for far too long now, one that would probably kill him in the long run.
“I’m thorough and detail-oriented.” Leo leaned against the brick wall and cracked his knuckles. His upper lip quirked. “Thought after our night together you’d remember as much.”
Renn let out a huff of a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not fucking fair when you not only derailed this party train but then doused it in gasoline and tossed the match.” Based on the desire flaring in his eyes, that was a blatant lie. If he pinned Renn against the wall, clothes would be hitting the asphalt or the floor of his hotel room—he didn’t care where.
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