White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  She paused. Her eyes turned haunted.

  “Captain Gregory died before his boots ever hit the ground. Top, our master sergeant, died after Rogan started mowing down the jungle and they dumped napalm on us. Once we got clear, we ran across a Cazador tower.”

  Everyone knew what Cazadores meant. A special forces unit of Mexican military, Cazadores hunted mages. They were elite troops—scary, efficient, and lethal.

  “It was a trap,” I guessed.

  “Mhm. They wanted Rogan so badly they built a fake factory in the jungle hoping to lure him in, and we served our greatest weapon to them on a silver platter.” Daniela’s face was grim. “They flooded the jungle with Cazadores and their hounds. Except they weren’t really hounds. They were these things they pulled out of the astral realm.”

  “I saw them in Rogan’s memories.” I fought a shiver.

  “Then you understand. You see one, it will give you nightmares for a lifetime. We learned the rules fast. Cazadores had sniffers, mages sensitive to magic. Any use of it by us brought another air strike. Any attempt at radio communication brought an air strike. Any sighting of one of us brought dozens of troops. There would be no pickup. If we called for help, we’d die.

  “Rogan had a choice. He could radio in, and if he used his full power, he’d survive within his null field long enough to be rescued. But he would be the only one who got out. Or he could try to walk out of the jungle with us. He chose to walk out. He became the senior officer after Gregory’s death, and Heart, our staff sergeant, became the senior NCO. You haven’t met Heart yet, have you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me, you would remember if you did. We were supposed to have been out in forty-eight hours. We had food for five days. People think the jungle is paradise, filled with fruit and game. Let me tell you, the jungle is hell. There is nothing to eat, there is nothing to kill, especially when you can’t shoot. Insects come at night, relentless, draining you dry. Howler monkeys follow you and scream and scream and scream every day and night. There is no clean water. We ate snakes. We ate worms.”

  The dark cave flashed before me. “Rats,” I said.

  “Yes. Some nights the Cazadores were so close, there was no fire, no light, just the jungle and the hounds, always near, always listening and waiting. Rogan could’ve pulled the plug anytime. Instead he stayed and he took care of us. When Hayashi went down with infection, there was no way to get the stretcher through the growth, so we built a frame out of wood and strapped it to Rogan. He carried Hayashi for two days on his back.”

  It didn’t surprise me. Not even a little.

  “To get off the mountain we had to clear a Cazador camp, and we couldn’t walk around it. Rogan walked into it and let them take him so they would send a scout team out in the direction he came and we could sneak past. We went around the camp and had to wait until the next night to come back for him. They had him for fourteen hours. We heard him screaming.”

  She swallowed.

  “They only had prewar images of Rogan and by that point, after five weeks in the jungle, he looked a decade older. He gave them Gregory’s name and so they tortured him for a while, until Jimenez, the man in charge, decided that if Rogan were a Prime playing soldier, he would’ve broken by then. Jimenez finally ordered him shot. You probably saw Rogan’s dog tags. They’re not his. He killed Jimenez when they cut him down off the torture rack and took his tags. It’s his reminder that he survived.”

  The tags were probably lost now, disintegrated by the teleport spell. Rogan would have to find something else to remind him that he was alive.

  “We spent nine weeks in the jungle, fighting and starving, as the Cazadores bled us like wolves bleed an injured deer. Twenty-four people went in. Sixteen came out.”

  Bug had said that Luanne was one of sixteen. Now it made sense. The sixteen who had walked out with Rogan.

  “It’s my professional opinion that Connor Rogan died in that jungle,” Daniela said. “The war took Connor, crushed him down to powder, and reformed him into Mad Rogan. He had to become that to survive. I told you that my nephew Martin will adjust to civilian life with some help. Mad Rogan will never adjust. His world is black and white. There are enemies and allies.”

  “And civilians,” I added.

  Had Rogan put her up to this speech? No. Rogan wouldn’t have made her do it. Rogan took care of his own dirty work. Dr. Daniela must’ve taken it upon herself to spell things out for me.

  “He does recognize noncombatants, although his definition of civilian is shaky. He won’t kill children. He tries not to take a life unless the person presents a direct threat, but if he chooses to kill, he does it. There are only two Primes in House Rogan: him and his mother, and she has no interest in involving herself. He has us, and we’ll do anything for him. We all tried to go our separate ways, yet we all ended up right back here. We’re good at what we do, but none of us are Primes. Rogan has to rely on himself and he likes the way he is. He thinks it keeps him sharp and alive, and he’s probably right. He doesn’t feel he needs to change and he doesn’t want any help.”

  “You’re not telling me anything new,” I said. “I already know what he’s like. I’ve seen it.”

  “Then you know there will be no normal with him. There will never be sweetness and light.”

  You might be surprised. “I know.”

  “Love makes you helpless,” Daniela said. “You think about the object of your affection all the time. Your happiness or misery depends on another person’s mood. You give up all power over yourself, hand it to the person you love, and trust that they will be gentle with it. Do you know what Major hates most of all?”

  “Feeling helpless?”

  “He’ll go to great lengths to avoid it. I don’t even know if he is capable of maintaining a relationship in the traditional sense. He’ll never change, Nevada. The best you can hope for is that he alters some of his behavior out of respect and consideration for you, but he won’t think that what he does is wrong. He’s ruthless and when he devotes himself to something or someone, that devotion is a frightening thing that doesn’t always survive collision with reality. Take my advice. Walk away.”

  “No.”

  “He isn’t here. He left you here and went home because he knows that you need time to think. He left the door open for you, so you can make a clean break. No guilt, no pressure. You can still meet someone normal and have a happy life.”

  “Are you done?” I asked.

  “Will talking more do any good?”

  “No. I heard what you had to say. Thank you for worrying about my well-being.” I pulled my blanket back and swung my legs sideways.

  “What will happen when you tell him someone aggravated you and he throws that person off the roof?”

  “He won’t. He’ll trust me to handle it, because the only way I’ll ever respect his wishes is if he respects mine.”

  “Walk away,” Daniela said again.

  “Did Rogan ask you to give me this speech?”

  “He didn’t have to. I take care of him. We all take care of him. I don’t want to see him hurt. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  I faced her and I let whatever it was that made me Prime show in my eyes.

  “I’ve sat here and listened to you talk for an hour. I heard you, I understand, and I’m done. I’m going to get up, get my clothes, and get dressed. Then you will arrange for a car to take me to where Rogan is. If you try to stop me or impede me in any way, I’ll shock the shit out of you. Do we understand each other, Dr. Arias?”

  I took a deep breath and rang the bell on the front door of Rogan’s house. After I’d gotten out of bed, Rogan’s people had panicked. Well, panicked might have been too strong of a word. They sprang into action with agitated efficiency. A pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt were brought to me, and by the time I walked out of the building, a car and a driver were waiting for me, with Melosa in the passenger seat, followed by another vehicle filled with armed per
sonnel. They delivered me to Rogan’s front door and beat a strategic retreat.

  I did get a chance to ask Melosa about Leon. Apparently he had a feeling that something bad was going to happen to me and Rogan, so he stole a Glock out of our gun cage and caught a ride Downtown. His plan was that Melosa would shield him, while he heroically shot all of our enemies to pieces. Melosa admitted that he was so crushed when he realized that aegis shield worked both ways, that she almost felt sorry for him.

  I waited, feeling stupid. Rogan was somewhere inside the house. Here I was, wearing some sweatpants and a wrinkled white T-shirt. My hair was probably greasy. The right side of my face was one big ugly bruise. I . . .

  The door swung open and I saw Rogan standing in his living room.

  It finally hit me. We’d both survived. We were both alive and he was standing there, and he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I looked into his eyes and the iced over darkness stared back at me.

  No. He was mine. There was a dragon under that ice and I would bring him out.

  I walked across the threshold. The door stayed open behind me. He was giving me an escape route.

  “You found me,” he said.

  “You didn’t hide very well. And I’m a PI.”

  “Nevada, nothing’s changed.”

  His expression was detached, his voice almost casual. He’d locked his emotions behind a steel wall of his will. Too late, Rogan. I remember the way you looked at me in that cistern.

  “Sooner or later, you will become a House,” he said.

  “So you told me.”

  “Genetics and children will become important.”

  “Children are always important.”

  “I can’t share, Nevada. I won’t.”

  “Share what?”

  “Share you,” he said, his voice harsh. Something wild was trying to claw its way out of him. The cold mask was breaking. “I can’t be with you knowing that you will go back to another man, whether you love him or not. It’s beyond me. It wouldn’t end well.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t want to share you either.”

  “I’ve given all the warnings I can give,” he said. “All in or all out, Nevada. Decide.”

  “You’re a fool, Connor.” I slipped out of my shoes and took a step toward him.

  The door behind me slammed shut.

  Fire flared in his eyes and burned through the darkness. It was more than lust. More than need. Nobody else ever looked at me like that.

  Anticipation gripped me.

  He strode toward me, confident, unhurried, a dragon in his domain.

  “Am I trapped?”

  “You walked into my lair.” He circled me, stalking.

  The first drop of his magic fell on the back of my neck, hot and soft like velvet. Breath caught in my throat.

  “I gave you a chance to escape.”

  The magic slid over my spine, setting every nerve aflame.

  “You didn’t take it.” He was behind me.

  A quick feather-light touch brushed over my shoulders and dashed down my hips. I turned. He was standing a couple of feet away.

  “Now you’re mine.”

  I moved, and my t-shirt and sweat pants fell off me.

  I gasped.

  He pulled off his T-shirt, his huge golden body hard, and waited. Giving me one last chance to walk away.

  I closed the two steps between us. My breasts mashed against his sculpted chest. The heat of his powerful body burned me. He wrapped his hand in my hair and claimed my mouth.

  Magic dripped onto my lower thighs, like molten honey, soft and hot. It pooled on my skin, heating up, the sensation so intense, the pleasure of it was overwhelming. My body turned supple. My breasts ached, suddenly too heavy.

  He smelled of sandalwood. The taste of him in my mouth was making me crazy.

  An insistent heat built between my legs. I leaned into him, rubbing myself against him, inviting, enticing, trying to seduce.

  He let out a short male growl. His hand closed on my ass and he pulled me on to his hips, supporting my weight like it was nothing. The hard length of his cock strained against my aching core. His tongue thrust between my lips again and again, ravaging my mouth. My head was spinning. I wanted to feel his steel-hard shaft, wrapped in silken skin. I wanted his pants off and my panties to disappear. I wanted him to thrust himself inside. Waiting for it was torture. My hands locked on the powerful muscles of his back and I shifted my hips, grinding against him.

  The velvet heat slid up the inside of my thighs, ever so slowly. Inch. Another inch. Oh please. Please.

  He let me take a breath. We were face to face. His eyes were dark and feral.

  “Are you going to warn me not to scream?” I asked.

  “Scream all you want,” he said.

  “You seem so confident you could make me . . .”

  The delicious heat dashed up my thighs and slipped inside of me, straight to the aching center. Molten honey drowned my clit. Pleasure burst in me. I cried out.

  He carried me across the room, deeper into his house.

  A heavy wooden door burst open in front of us. A massive bed occupied the room—tall, solid, its headboard ancient and scarred. He tossed me onto the bed. The door slammed shut behind me.

  I was in the dragon’s cave, on the dragon’s bed, and he thought he caught me. But he was wrong. I caught him.

  Connor loomed over me. His pants were gone. He was huge, naked, and corded with muscle. And hung. Oh dear God.

  He reached over and pulled off my panties. His gaze roamed my body and his eyes told me he loved what he saw.

  I wanted him so much. The anticipation was killing me. It made me shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

  The magic splashed onto my collarbone and rolled lower. Its velvet pressure cupped my breasts. My nipples turned hard. The intoxicating heat slid over them, turning ache into bliss.

  I moaned. He was on top of me, his big hands caressing me. His mouth closed on my left nipple and sucked, his tongue painting heat on top of his magic. It was almost too much to take.

  His head and magic moved lower, dragging moans out of me.

  He kissed my stomach.

  He pushed my legs apart.

  I wanted to grab his head by the hair and drag him to my aching center, but he pinned my arms down by my sides.

  He tongued the inside of my right thigh.

  The wait was agony.

  His magic crested, spilling into the crease between my legs. The velvet heat squeezed ever so gently and released, washing over me and pulling back, faster and faster. His mouth closed over me. His tongue danced across my clit.

  I screamed.

  He licked me, again and again, his magic stroking me. I writhed under him. My legs shook. The bed was gone, the room was gone, and all I could do was wait, tense and hot, centered on him and my need for release. It felt like if I didn’t come now, I would die.

  My body shuddered with the first pulse of my climax.

  The universe exploded.

  The orgasm rocked me, but that usually fleeting moment of ecstasy didn’t end. The exaltation built and built, overwhelming, pleasure so intense, so complete, I had no idea my body was capable of it. I couldn’t even breathe. My eyes snapped open and I saw him. He was above me, his eyes wild and drunk. He felt it, I realized. He felt my pleasure and he was sharing it.

  Finally, the ecstasy released me, fading in pleasant aftershocks.

  I slumped on the sheets, exhausted, my face damp with sweat. The magic pressure eased, still there, but feather-light now.

  He was next to me, his hand stroking my side.

  So that’s what sex with a tactile was like.

  He blinked, clarity returning into his eyes and turning into lust. There was something hungry, and harsh, and male in the way he looked at me. He grabbed my hips and dragged me over to the center of the bed.

  The velvet touch of magic between my legs g
rew warm, then hot, so hot I could barely stand it. It pulled me out of my drowsy bliss into awareness.

  He paused over me, muscles tight on his chest and stomach, blue eyes dark, and pulled me to him, lifting my legs onto his shoulders. His warm fingers stroked my skin as he ran his hands down the length of my legs, his touch sending shivers through me.

  The last echoes of the orgasm finally faded.

  He planted his hands on my thighs and thrust into me.

  Oh my God.

  I cried out, tilting my hips, trying to take in the whole length of him. He thrust again and again, hard, relentless, dominant, every slide of his cock sending a jolt of pleasure I could feel all the way in the base of my neck. His magic seared me. All of my nerves were on fire. I gasped with each stroke. I was hot and so wet, and he kept pumping, his magic caressing my body in a steady rhythm.

  Pressure began to build inside of me.

  He pushed my legs apart, wrapped them around his back, and then he was on top of me. I writhed under him, trying to match his rhythm. His muscular golden body caged mine, all those muscles contracting tight, devoted to a single movement.

  Ecstasy drowned me. My body contracted, trying to milk his shaft. Climax shook me again.

  He growled, holding still. His eyes told me my orgasm was rolling through him and it was about to drag him under into his own release. He fought against it and pulled back.

  Wave after wave of pleasure rocked me. I couldn’t even move anymore. I just lay there, limp and shaking, until it faded.

  His lips were on my neck. He kissed me and pulled me on top of him, and then I was straddling his hips. He was looking at me as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world.