by Jill Shalvis
out.”
When Thomas stepped forward, the squeal of a guitar ripped through the bar. And the dancing and the drinking and the mating games of the Other began with a fierce rumble of sound.
Niol’s gaze searched for his prey and he found Holly watching him. All eyes and red hair and lips that begged for his mouth. He strode toward her, conscious of covert stares still on them. He could show no weakness. Never could.
I’m not weak.
He was the strongest demon in Atlanta. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give the paranormals any cause to start doubting his power.
His kind turned on the weak.
When he stopped before her, the scent of lavender flooded his nostrils.
She looked up at him. The human was small, to him anyway, barely reaching his shoulders so that he towered over her.
She was the weak one. All of her kind were.
Humans. So easy to wound. To kill.
He lifted his hand. Stroked her cheek. Damn, but she was soft. Leaning close, Niol told her, “Sweetheart, I warned you before about coming to my Paradise.”
There was no doubt others overheard his words. With so many shifters skulking around the joint, a whisper would have been overheard. Shifters and their annoyingly superior senses.
“Wh-what do you mean?” The question came, husky and soft. Ah, but he liked her voice. He could all too easily imagine that voice, whispering to him as they lay amid a tangle of sheets.
Or maybe screaming in his ear as she came.
He cupped her chin in his hand. A nice chin. Softly rounded. And those lips…the bottom was fuller than the top. Just a bit. So red. Her mouth was slightly parted, open.
Waiting.
She stepped back, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Niol—”
He stared down at her. “Yes, you do.” He caught her arms, wrapping his fingers around her and jerking Holly against him. “I told you, the last time you came into my bar…”
Her eyes widened. “Niol…”
Oh, yeah, he liked the way she said his name. She breathed it, tasted it.
His lips lowered toward hers. “If you want to walk in Paradise, baby, then you’re gonna have to play with the devil.”
“No, I—”
He kissed her. Hard. Deep. Niol drove his tongue right past those plump lips and took her mouth the way the beast inside him demanded.
The saga continues in Beth Williamson’s
THE REDEMPTION OF MICAH,
out now from Brava…
Two hours later, Micah sat in the parlor and listened to the sounds from the bathing room upstairs. Miracle was singing at the top of her lungs while Candice hummed along. There was splashing, giggles and fun going on, yet he didn’t join them. He couldn’t.
He ran his hands down his face and looked around at the opulent furniture left behind when Madeline moved to Denver. The room reminded him of his mother’s house and how they’d lived their lives in oblivious ignorance. Taking whatever they wanted without ever giving back.
Perhaps having Eppie but losing her inch by inch was his penance for such a childhood. Or perhaps it was punishment for his other multitudinous sins. No matter, it was his life and he’d come to accept it, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Miracle was everything sweet and good in his life, and he treasured her beyond words. Just thinking about her soft hugs made his throat tighten.
God, he loved that little girl more than life.
With a sigh, he stood and headed toward the stairs. Each night he sat with Miracle as she visited her Mama before bed. Her childish voice would detail every second of her day to an unresponsive Eppie. One day perhaps, it would be more than a one-sided conversation.
Micah knew exactly how many breaths she took each hour. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, waiting and hoping. The hell of it was, he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. Micah wasn’t ready to let her go but seeing her trapped between two worlds was killing him. He missed her, he loved her and dammit all, he wanted to see her open her eyes again.
It had been a true blue miracle the baby survived the trauma to its mother’s body, even more amazing was that the child was born healthy and perfect. When she was pregnant, watching Eppie had become a habit because he could watch his child. Their child. The baby made from a love that shouldn’t be, but was. Miracle had been active, sometimes for hours at a time. During that six month period, Micah never got tired of sitting by Eppie’s bedside and watching, placing his hand on her belly, telling them both he loved them.
Micah wanted so many things, but the two that burned down deep in his gut was the fact he wanted to convince Eppie to marry him and he wanted to tell her he loved her. He’d been hesitant of revealing his feelings before, afraid of being rejected, of losing what he could have.
Regret was something he knew well, ate it for breakfast, lunch and dinner each day. It brought him nothing but misery yet it was still his constant companion.
He entered Eppie’s bedroom and was immediately awash in her scent, that unique smell that always made his heart beat faster. A gas lamp burned on the side table, bathing her in a golden glow. Just being in the room with her made him feel better.
She still looked beautiful, even if she’d survived for nearly three years on broth, milk, and water. Micah knew every inch of her body from the adorably crooked little toe to the sweet spot behind her right ear. He ran his fingers down her cocoa colored cheek, the skin as smooth as her daughter’s.
“Hey there, Eppie girl.” He sat down in his usual chair and put her hand in his. Squeezing the limp fingers, he started talking of Daisy and Miracle’s antics. “That crazy dog actually came back and started digging when I was fixing the damn hole. Miracle wasn’t happy about tying her up but she did it anyway. She’s a good girl.”
“Who’s a good girl?”
Eppie’s voice, long since unheard, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Jesus Christ.” He jumped out of the chair, knocking it backwards a good three feet, along with his stomach. Micah looked down into the eyes of the woman who held his heart. “Eppie?”
She blinked and glanced down at herself, then back at him. “Why am I lying in bed? Have I been ill?”
“Are you really talking to me, honey?” His heart slammed into his throat as it pounded so hard, even his bones vibrated. “Eppie, oh my God, tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“I’m not sure who you are or why you’re in the bedroom with me, but I’m fairly sure you shouldn’t be calling me honey.” Eppie cocked her head and narrowed her gaze. “Who are you?”
And keep an eye out for the latest from Shannon McKenna,
TASTING FEAR, coming next month from Brava…
Liam sounded exhausted. Fed up. She didn’t blame him a bit. She was a piece of work. Her mind raced, to come up with a plausible lie. Letting him see how small she felt would just embarrass them both.
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered.
He let out a sigh, and leaned back, leaning his head against the back of the couch. Covering his eyes with his hands.
That was when she noticed the condition of his hand. His knuckles were torn and raw, encrusted with blood. God, she hadn’t even given a thought for his injuries, his trauma, his shock. She’d just zoned out, floated in her bubble, leaned on him. As if he were an oak.
But he wasn’t an oak. He was a man. He’d fought like a demon for her, and risked his life, and gotten hurt, and she was so freaked out and self-absorbed, she hadn’t even noticed. She was mortified.
“Liam. Your hand,” she fussed, getting up. “Let me get some disinfectant, and some—”
“It’s OK,” he muttered. “Forget about it.”
“Like hell! You’re bleeding!” She bustled around, muttering and scolding to hide her own discomfiture, gathering gauze and cotton balls and antibiotic ointment. He let her fuss, a martyred look on his face. After she’d finished taping his hand, she looked at his battere
d face and grabbed a handful of his polo. “What about the rest of you?”
“Just some bruises,” he hedged.
“Where?” she persisted, tugging at his shirt. “Show me.”
He wrenched the fabric out of her hand. “If I take off my clothes now, it’s not going to be to show you my bruises,” he said.
She blinked, swallowed, tried to breathe. Reorganized her mind. There it was. Finally verbalized. No more glossing over it, running away.
“After all this?” Her voice was timid. “You still want to…now?”
“Fuck, yes.” His tone was savage. “I’ve wanted it since I laid eyes on you. It’s gotten worse ever since. And combat adrenaline gives a guy a hard-on like a railroad spike, even if there weren’t a beautiful woman in my face, driving me fucking nuts. Which puts me in a bad place, Nancy. I know the timing sucks for you. The timing’s been piss poor since we met, but it never gets any better. It just keeps getting worse.”
“Hey. It’s OK.” She patted his back with a shy, nervous hand. He was usually so calm, so controlled. It unnerved her to see him agitated.
He didn’t seem to hear her. “And the worse it gets, the worse I want it,” he went on, his voice harsh. “Which makes me feel like a jerk, and a user, and an asshole. Promising to protect you—”
“You did protect me,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, and I told you it wasn’t an exchange. You don’t owe me sex. You don’t owe me anything. And that really fucks me up. Because I can’t even remove myself from the situation. I’m scared to death to leave you alone. And that puts me between a rock and a hard place.”
She put her finger over his mouth. “Wow,” she murmured. “I had no idea you could get worked into such a state. Mr. Super-mellow Liam let’s-contemplate-the-beauty-of-the-flower Knightly.”
His explosive snort of derision cut her off. She shushed him again, enjoying the feel of his lips beneath her finger. “You’re not a jerk or a user,” she said gently. “You were magnificent. Thank you. Again.”
He looked away. There was a brief, embarrassed pause. “That’s very generous of you,” he said, trying to flex the wounded hand. “But I’m not fishing for compliments.”
“I never thought that you were.” She placed her own hand below his, and rested them both gently on his thigh. Her fingers dug into the thick muscle of his quadriceps, through the dirty, bloodstained denim of his jeans. Beneath the fabric, he was so hot. So strong and solid.
She moved her hand up, slowly but surely, stroking higher towards his groin. His breath caught, and then stopped entirely as her fingers brushed the turgid bulge of his penis beneath the fabric.
Here went nothing. “I think I know what you mean, about the hard place,” she whispered, swirling her fingertips over it. Wow. A lot of him. That thick broad, hard stalk just went on and on. “Or was this what you meant when you were referring to the rock?”
His face was a mask of tension, neck muscles clenched, tendons standing out. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice strangled.
Aw. So sweet. Her fingers closed around him, squeezing. He groaned, and a shudder jarred his body. “I can’t seem to stop,” she said.
“Watch out, Nancy,” he said hoarsely. “If you start something now, there’s no stopping it.”
She stroked him again, deeper, tighter, a slow caress that wrung a keening gasp from his throat. “I know,” she said. “I know.”
He reached out, a little awkwardly, clasping his arms around her shoulders, staring into her eyes as if expecting her to bolt.
He pulled her close, enfolding her in his warmth, his power.
Suddenly, they were kissing. She had no idea who had kissed who. The kiss was desperate, achingly sweet. Not a power struggle, not a matter of talent or skill, just a hunger to get as close as two humans could be. He held her like he was afraid she’d be torn away from him.