Twisted Devotion: A Fae Paranormal Romance

by Jessi Elliott

  “I fed this morning, so usually we wouldn’t have another feeder for a few days, but I’ll have Gloria arrange one for you for tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have fed before I came. I can—”

  “Relax, Red. That’s what they’re there for.”

  I press my lips together and nod. “Thank you.”

  “Unless you’d rather feed from me,” he says in a light tone, as if he didn’t just suggest something so wildly personal it would make most of our kind uncomfortable.

  When I open my mouth to force a laugh, nothing comes out, so I’m left standing with my mouth hanging open as I stare at him in disbelief.

  He laughs. “Or not.”

  When I finally force my mouth shut, I lick the dryness from my lips and take the empty glass from him. “I think I’m going to need another glass.”

  His lips curl. “That is both something I’m happy to accommodate and jump right on board with.” Grabbing his own glass and the bottle out of the bar fridge, he pops the top off again.

  “Might as well keep it on hand,” I tell him.

  He arches a brow at me. “Oh yeah?”

  “You keep making comments like before, and yeah, I’m gonna need something to take the edge off.”

  “I was only teasing you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Were you?”

  His gaze lifts from the wine bottle to meet mine. “Yeah, no. I was serious. I find it amusing that you’re so freaked out by the suggestion.”

  I scoff. “Because feeding is—”

  “Personal,” he mimics in a condescending tone. “Whatever. It’s a necessity. Can it get kinky sometimes? Hell yeah, but what can’t?”

  My brows scrunch closer. “Uh, a lot of things.”

  He grins. “Then you’re not having enough fun with your life.”

  I down the second half of my wine. “That’s not your concern. It’s your life that’s my concern.”

  “Hmm,” he hums, slowly moving closer. “And what if I wanted some fun in my life that included you?”

  He drops his gaze to my mouth, and it—with the help of the wine—spreads warmth through my veins. Son of a bitch, he smells amazing. Like eucalyptus and mint.

  “Jackson,” I warn.

  “Kelsey,” he says back in a low voice.

  I grip the counter, pushing myself away from him. “Back off. This isn’t happening.” I need to keep my resolve strong. I’m here to complete a job, not to have sex with the subject of my assignment.

  His eyes flick back to mine, and for a moment, I see disappointment there, as if I’ve insulted him. Maybe I have. Perhaps that’s what it’ll take to get him to stop talking like he’s going to have his way with me, which he isn’t. Even if there is a tiny part of me that’s curious about what it might be like.

  “Duly noted.”

  “Good.” I glance at the clock on the wall behind Jackson. Damn. I can’t even fake being tired and retreat to the privacy of my room when it’s only just after six. That’ll look embarrassingly obvious. Do I really care though? “I’m going to head to bed,” I blurt.

  He arches a brow at me, but I don’t give him a chance to respond before I set the empty wine glass on the counter.

  “Good night.” It feels weird to say when there’s still a streak of daylight in the sky, but I do it anyway and walk out of the kitchen.

  Once I’m in my room, I close and lock the door, leaning against it. My head falls back and I groan out loud, hoping to hell that Jackson isn’t listening. What in the actual fuck was that? So much for keeping my cool. It’s only day one and he’s already gotten inside my head.

  I spend the next couple of hours in bed, flipping through sitcoms on the television. I feel like royalty, which is absolutely ridiculous, but also kind of fun. It allows me to get my mind off Jackson for a while.

  My phone chimes with a text. I swipe it open and laugh. It’s Tristan, checking in. Or, his way of a check-in these days, which means a picture of Adam grinning at the camera. I’m not mad about it, though. The kid is cute.

  Is he behaving? he asks in a separate message.

  For the most part, I type back.

  Keep him in line, Kels. Don’t let him get away with anything. You’re there to ensure his safety, but I know how he can be. Push back whenever necessary.

  You know me. I won’t.

  I toss my phone to the end of the bed and get up to change into my sleep clothes. I step into the walk-in closet and pull an emerald silk set out of the wardrobe. After I’ve changed into the tank top and shorts, I pop into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth before crawling under the covers.

  I turn the television off and roll onto my side. Closing my eyes, I steady my breathing and try to relax. Here’s hoping, with last night’s restless sleep, that tonight is better. I’d rather not go to the facility tomorrow exhausted.

  I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling as the clock on the nightstand ticks the minutes away. My nerves are all wired with pent up energy and frustration—most of it toward Jackson. It’s such a damn shame that someone so attractive is so irritating. I’d love nothing more than to put him in his place, seven ways to Sunday.

  My lower stomach clenches and warms simultaneously, sending a loud and clear message to my nipples, making them harden and tingle.

  This is not happening. I am not getting turned on thinking about Jackson Hawthorne.

  Son of a bitch, I totally am.

  I want to roll over and scream into my pillow. More than that, I want to slip my fingers past the waistband of my shorts and ease the friction gathering between my legs. I bite my lip, not sure if I’m trying to talk myself into it or out of it.

  Before I come to a definite conclusion, my hand is already cupping my mound. I turn my head into the pillow to muffle the groan that escapes my lips. It’s been awhile since I’ve done . . . this, but my body sure as hell remembers what it feels like when I do.

  I take it slow, wanting to draw out the hazy sensation I know is coming. I trail my fingers along my thigh, gently dragging them back and forth across my skin until it breaks out in goosebumps, making me shiver. I press my thumb softly against the bundle of nerves at my center and slide a single digit past my folds, grazing them leisurely. I suck in a breath as a hot wave of pleasure runs through me.

  “Oh god,” I mutter to myself. I should not be doing this here. And yet, I don’t stop. I pull my thumb back and circle my clit hard and fast, not stopping until I’m panting.

  My breath catches when I pick up sounds I most definitely shouldn’t be overhearing from another room.

  Evidently, Jackson is as frustrated as I am.

  Holy shit.

  I can’t stop listening to the deep grunts and soft groans. I can’t stop stroking myself, either. With my free hand, I reach up and pinch my nipple, rolling it between my fingers as I add a second finger inside my core and pump faster.

  At some point, I stop trying to muffle the sounds I’m making. My heavy breathing and moans fill the room, and the sounds that Jackson is making only pushes me faster to the edge.

  I hear a deep fuck from his room in the same moment I clench around my fingers.

  All of a sudden, it becomes a race to see who will finish first with the other listening.

  My fingers are moving so fast, my wrist starts to tingle and my other arm drops to the mattress to grip the sheets. With one final tweak of my clit, I moan loudly and come apart.

  As I lie in the mess of sheets I created, catching my breath, there’s a brief moment of silence.

  And then Jackson chuckles.

  Chapter 7

  When my alarm wakes me the next morning, all I can think about is last night. I can’t believe it happened. I can’t believe I want it to happen again. We weren’t even in the same room and we drove each other over the edge. Well, at least he did me.

  Oh god. What if that was completely one-sided? There’s no way. Still, doubt trickles in and latches on like seawee
d to swimmers in a lake. I hate that I’m bothered by this. I was the one who told him that I’d never sleep in his bed. I figured that made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything recreational with him.

  I shouldn’t be bothered by this. I can’t be bothered by this.

  Tiptoeing downstairs into the kitchen, I’m relieved to find it empty. I’m not sure what days Gloria works, but she isn’t around, so I help myself to the coffeemaker. I fill the water section and scoop coffee grounds into the filter before turning it on. Before long, the kitchen fills with the most amazing aroma known to, well, me.

  I lean against the counter and stare at the pot as it brews, the scent alone scaring away the yawns and encouraging my eyes to stay open.

  “I thought I smelled coffee.”

  I freeze at the sound of Jackson’s voice. My breathing halts as I feel him—literally feel him—walk closer. The air around me gets thick and my pulse quickens in response, my entire body going on high alert.

  “Good morning,” he says in a voice still gruff with sleep as he reaches past me into the cupboard above my head and pulls down two mugs.

  “Morning,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the pot.

  “You know what they say about a watched pot,” he teases.

  “Funny,” I say back without looking at him.

  “You like to watch?” he asks, leaning in closer, and I try to ignore how his minty smell overwhelms my senses. “Or is it just listening that gets you off?”

  In a flash, I spin around and swing at him, my palm cracking against his cheek.

  He sucks in a sharp breath, surprise and a flare of anger radiating through him as he reaches to touch the handprint I planted on his face. Granted, I didn’t hit him as hard as I could. That would surely knock him on the floor. Just hard enough to get my point across.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, his jaw tight.

  I lift the coffee pot off the warmer and fill my mug, sliding it back into place before practically fleeing the kitchen.

  “In case you were wondering,” he calls after me, making me pause despite my desperate need to put distance between us, “I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in a long time. At least, not alone.”

  I hurry out of the room without a word and lock myself in the bedroom until the last minute before we have to leave for the facility.

  When I emerge from upstairs in just enough time to depart, Jackson has the car keys in his hand.

  I laugh under my breath and shake my head at him. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Hand them over.” I’m relieved the facility isn’t close enough to shift to, given how much I dislike the ability gifted to me with fae life. Technically, we could shift there, but with the distance, it would deplete our energy significantly. And to do it on an almost daily basis would require far more frequent feedings.

  Jackson’s eyes narrow ever so slightly at my demand for the keys. “It’s my car.”

  “And you’re my responsibility.” I hold my hand out toward him. “Keys, Jackson. Now.”

  “Nope. You have to earn the privilege of driving my baby.”

  “You’re acting like a baby right now. This is ridiculous. We’re going to be late.”

  “Yes, we are. We’d better get going.” He winks at me before turning on his heels and heading for the door. One second, he’s right in front of me, and the next he’s gone—disappearing into thin air.

  I hurry outside, but he’s already behind the wheel. Damn shifting ability. Maybe one of these days I’ll get accustomed to using it enough that it doesn’t make me want to puke.

  Jackson rolls down the passenger side window. “Want a ride?”

  “Bite me,” I mutter.

  “You’d enjoy that,” he taunts. “Now, get over yourself and get in the car. I have things to do today.”

  I cross my arms, approaching the car. “You know,” I say, my breath a cloud of white in the chilly morning air, “most people with a protective detail would be grateful for their presence. I’m pretty sure they’d sit in the backseat, too.”

  He smirks. “I think you’ll find—if you haven’t already, of course—that I’m not like most people.”

  Can’t argue with that.

  I glare at him for another minute before scowling and getting into the passenger seat. I stick my bag between my feet and buckle my belt, refusing to acknowledge Jackson. I don’t need to look at him to know he’s wearing a smug expression.

  “All set, Red?”

  I don’t tell him to stop calling me that—it’ll just make it stick harder. The nickname isn’t anything original, and it doesn’t bother me, so there’s no point in wasting my breath to make it a big deal. Hell, knowing him, that’s probably what he wants.

  “Drive,” I tell him. I may have lost this round, but I have a feeling whatever game is developing between us—no matter how hard I’m trying to fight it—will be a long one.

  The car ride is filled with silence. It’s deafening, and I hate it.

  After what seems like forever, Jackson merges out of traffic off the highway. We drive down the narrow country road, making several winding turns before pulling off the dirt road onto a gravel drive. From there, it’s about another twenty minutes before we arrive at the facility. Jackson pulls into the small lot and picks the first open space out of the ten or so spots, and cuts the engine.

  He unbuckles and reaches for the door, but I reach over and pull the door closed before he can get out. “Hold up. I don’t know these people. What do they know about me?”

  His gaze swings toward me, filled with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re worried they won’t like you.”

  I scowl, glancing toward the building. “Hardly.” I look back at him. “I want to know what I’m walking into.”

  “Have a little faith, Red. These people are on the same side as you.”

  I arch a brow at him. “Which side would that be?”

  He grins. “Mine, of course.”

  “Right.” I draw out the word, and it’s filled with sarcasm.

  He pins me with a level stare. “Ask me who signs their paychecks.”

  “I don’t care. You don’t sign mine.”

  He shuts his mouth. There’s a brief moment of bliss before he says, “I do, actually.”

  My eyes widen. “No.”

  Jackson chuckles. “Are you just used to saying that?”

  “You’re paying me?” Shock laces my tone. I was under the impression Tristan and Nikolai were the ones employing me. Probably because they were the ones who roped me into this gig.

  “I’m paying half. Westbrook Inc. is contributing the rest.” When he catches my glare, he adds, “It’s only fair, Kelsey. It’s me you’re guarding. The money from my half comes from the profit made by my business.”

  I allow myself a few seconds to process this new information before I say, “Fine. But let’s get one thing straight. I may be partially employed by you, but you listen to me.” To do my job effectively, Jackson needs to get in line. We can’t have stunts like we did this morning. He needs to take this arrangement seriously if he wants it to work. Which, considering his life could depend on it, I assume he does.

  He sighs heavily like a child being scolded. “Didn’t we already go over this?”

  “I want to make sure we’re perfectly clear.”

  “Crystal,” he says.

  “Do you promise?”

  “I don’t need to promise, Kelsey. I can’t lie to you. Now, can we please go inside? I have a meeting this morning and I’d rather not be late. I didn’t think you’d want to be late for your first day, either.”

  I battle the urge to flip him the bird then get out of the car, shouldering my bag and slamming the door shut. Already, I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.

  The gravel crunches under my boots and my eyes scan the property. We’re surrounded by trees—much like Jackson’s house—and there’s a thin layer of frost covering the ground. It’s been a seasonably warm winter with little
snow, which I’m grateful for, but I can’t help but think this view, these pine trees, would look gorgeous under a blanket of snow.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a subtle movement along the tree line and my focus narrows in on it. There’s a man dressed in all black crouched close to the ground. He straightens and, even given the distance, I notice when his gaze lands on us.

  I’m already moving toward him. “Jackson—”

  He raises a hand, having followed my line of vision. “Relax. He works for me. I’m surprised you caught him. My security team is typically too discreet to be noticed.”

  “I’m paid to notice,” I comment and exhale slowly, some of the tension in my chest alleviated. With that false alarm cleared up, I continue toward the building, my eyes darting back and forth as I examine the property.

  They’ve done some serious renovations to the place since I last saw it. Granted, it was run by fae-hating vigilante humans at the time.

  Now, the exterior is a soft, inviting gray stone. There are double doors at the front of the building, and windows everywhere. We can’t see in from the outside, but I gather as we walk into the lobby that everyone inside can see out.

  The lobby is a small, inviting space, decorated with neutral colors. There’s a fireplace at one end of the room surrounded by a couple of black leather couches and a coffee table scattered with magazines. A reception desk sits at the other end with a door adjacent to it, which is where we’re heading.

  I chuckle at the essential oil diffuser sitting on the reception desk. It’s as if they’re trying to make this place feel like a spa. The quiet piano music filtering through the room gives an added layer of comfort to the lavender-scented atmosphere.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne,” a petite blonde girl says from behind the dark oak desk.

  Her sugar-sweet voice makes me cringe inwardly. No one is genuinely this happy in the morning. I try to take a look at her aura, but come up blank. Perhaps she’s hiding it from me because I’m a stranger.