Storm's Heart

by Thea Harrison

  He turned off the tap when the hot water started to run lukewarm. After toweling dry, he slipped on a clean pair of black fatigues and a black T-shirt. He switched off the light before he opened the door. He waited a moment for his night sight to return then slipped into the room, placing the duffle back against the wall.

  He paused to check for her breathing, expecting the same deep, even rhythm of sleep.

  Except there was no breathing, no sense of another living presence.

  He flipped on the light.

  The room was empty. She was gone. So were her shopping bags. So were the keys to the SUV.

  So was his Glock.

  Fury erupted. “Goddamn you, Tricks!”

  Tiago couldn’t have tortured her with any greater efficacy if he had tried.

  Coming after her all the way to Chicago to make sure she was okay. Being all mean and barbaric and sexy.

  She could handle that. She had lived with and been vastly entertained by it for two hundred years. All of Dragos’s sentinels were mean and barbaric and sexy. Even that weird harpybitch Aryal, who she might have a teensy girl crush on. You know, in a totally hetero kind of way.

  But then Tiago had turned nice. She hadn’t known he had a nice speed. She had thought he had only two speeds, the killing speed and full stop.

  The warlord sentinel, being nice to her. It burned her skin as if he had poured acid all over her.

  He had come up behind her in the dark. He curled that powerful muscled body of his around her, enclosing her, and made her feel safe and warm and cared for. He caressed her hand like he cared. It made her wild to get away from him.

  What was he thinking? Returning to New York was out of question. She couldn’t go running back to the Wyr demesne just because things had gotten a little rough. That would be political suicide. She would look weak and unfit to rule, not just to the Dark Fae but to all the other demesnes as well.

  He told her everything was going to be okay. Damn it.

  How was everything going to be okay? For how long? For a few days or a few weeks, or for however long he might decide to help her out? Then what?

  He would get on with his life, that’s what, and leave her a solitary monarch on the Dark Fae throne. Meanwhile she had a hundred second cousins. No doubt some of them were lawabiding citizens, but she would bet a good number of them were every bit as ambitious as Geril or her uncle Urien had been.

  Stupid Wyr. Nothing was okay.

  She couldn’t run away to New York. Now that she was no longer drunk or in shock, she knew she couldn’t run anywhere else either. All the news networks had been telling the same basic story by the end of the evening. Human police and Dark Fae authorities were collaborating on getting a major manhunt underway to find her.

  She’d had her time-out and a chance to react, and now she had to go back to the Regent and meet up with the Dark Fae delegation. There wasn’t any other realistic option. When she had chosen to go public with her real identity, she had started down a path of no return.

  The delegation was a traditional triad that was comprised of three of the most powerful officials of the Dark Fae government. The first was Chancellor Aubrey Riordan, who belonged somewhere on a distant branch of the Lorelle labyrinthine family tree. Aubrey had been old when Niniane had been born and had retired from public office about fifteen years before her family had been massacred. In the late 1950s Urien had brought Aubrey back into government.

  Aubrey’s wife, Naida, had been absent from the group that had met Niniane when she arrived in Chicago. Niniane had heard that Naida was quite a bit younger than her husband. Niniane was interested in meeting the other woman. She looked forward to having conversations with someone that weren’t quite so weighted with political considerations.

  The second member of the delegation was Commander Arethusa Shiron, who was the current head of Dark Fae military forces. Arethusa was a cold-eyed, silent woman who intimated Niniane just by the force of her presence. The third was Justice Kellen Trevenan. Kellen was a rarity among the elder Dark Fae, for he was so old his hair had turned white.

  All three members of the delegation, Aubrey, Arethusa and Kellen, were hardy survivors if nothing else. They had all lived through her father Rhian’s reign. Her father had been a progressive ruler who had embraced change and developing Dark Fae relationships with not only the long-standing American Indian population but the fast-growing number of European settlers that spread across the continent after the American Revolution in the latter part of the eighteenth century.

  Then the members of the delegation had weathered the coup that Urien had led against her father. Urien had been the leader of a conservative faction of Dark Fae that opposed Rhian’s open door policies toward the onslaught of new European arrivals.

  To the best of Niniane’s knowledge, none of the three in the delegation had actually participated in the coup itself. They had witnessed Urien’s rise to power and the throne. They had not only lived through his segregationist rule, which had isolated Dark Fae society from the rest of the world, but they came to hold positions where they wielded considerable power. Now they were witness to yet another shift in the monarchy.

  While she didn’t want to believe they could be involved in what had happened, the fact was, any of them could have been responsible for the attempt on her life, either by acting on their own or in collusion with another. Or they might have had nothing to do with it, and her cousin Geril and his accomplices had acted independently. Or the attack could have been instigated by someone else entirely.

  It had been hard enough to face the delegation the first time when she had arrived in Chicago. The thought of facing them now made her gut clench and her palms sweat. The Dark Fae were known for subterfuge and silent political allegiances, and she had been gone for so long, she was a virtual stranger to it all. What she knew of her heritage read like a short encyclopedia entry colored with adolescent emotions and memories. It was an antiquated snapshot, two hundred years out of date, of a culture and a government that was thousands of years old and Byzantine in its convolutions.

  A traitorous part of her longed to run back to the only safe haven she had known for centuries, and it wouldn’t stop whining. See, even she thought running back to New York was weak.

  She supposed she had been happy there, or at least she had been happy enough. She’d had an adopted family of sorts. They had kept the threat level contained so that she had come to know a measure of contentment, if not peace. Living her life as she had in the confinement of bodyguards and under the constant expectation of attack, she hadn’t ever really felt free; but many people lived their lives under the constant threat of war, and they were far more constricted by poverty and a lack of opportunity than what she had enjoyed. If she hadn’t appreciated the constrictions on her life, still she had known how blessed she had been to have the resources, both in friends and finances, to more than adequately meet her needs and to indulge in a serious shoe addiction.

  But no matter how much she might want to go back to New York and hide in the safety of her former life, she couldn’t bring that kind of political tension down on the Wyr, not after they had opened their hearts so generously to her for so long. Dragos had enough on his plate as it was. He was adjusting to having a new, pregnant mate while at the same time contending with the fallout from his trespass into the Elven demesne, along with the potential political repercussions from Urien’s death.

  She knew what she had to do. She had to suck it up and go back to the Regent and get on with her sucky life, for however long it lasted. Why was she driving in circles? She couldn’t believe she was being such a flake about this. She hadn’t realized she was so messed up. Her breath shook and her vision blurred. She scrubbed at her eyes.

  She came to a halt at a four-way stop sign. She hadn’t felt up to facing the challenge of the strange fast-paced highway that cut past their second motel, so she had turned instead into a residential area. Modest houses with well-kept shrubbery dotted
tree-lined streets that were ribboned with pale strips of sidewalk. Most of the houses were dark and quiet.

  She adored neighborhoods like this. They were so exotic. Whole families lived in these houses. The parents went to work, and the children climbed into yellow buses and went to school. They shared suppers together as loads of laundry wrinkled in clothes dryers. (Imagine washing your own laundry. What fun!)

  Sometimes at Christmas she would slip into neighborhoods just like this one. She would walk along the streets and peer into windows at family and holiday gatherings, and marvel at the shiny gold, crimson and green decorated trees covered with tinsel and twinkling colored lights, while she wondered what it must be like to experience the beauty of such an ordinary, unattainable life.

  The light rain from earlier in the evening had grown heavier. She looked over the readings on the dashboard of the SUV as she searched for the windshield wiper switch. Wow, this was a really nice SUV. A hybrid. She only understood half of what the dashboard told her. The clock read 3:32 A.M.

  By now Tiago was hot on her trail and breathing fire. She could practically feel him coming up behind her. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose. The air felt charged, full of static.

  Hey, maybe she should stop to get some breakfast. If she was already in a restaurant, he couldn’t yell at her so much, could he? Besides, it would be rude if she showed up at the Regent before dawn with a furious Wyr sentinel in tow. She would wake people up and cause a ruckus.

  She accelerated when it was her turn and looked for a driveway that she could use to turn the SUV around. She remembered seeing an IHOP restaurant about a half a mile back. Gorging on pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream might make her feel better and solve all her problems. Okay, so that seemed like it was a long shot, but she was willing to give it a try.

  A violent wind rose from one block to the next. It whipped through the surrounding trees. Lightning speared the air. White light burned a jagged path across her retinas as it struck a tree. The accompanying thunderclap was like the explosion of a roadside bomb. The concussion assaulted her eardrums and shook the body of the vehicle. She startled so badly she almost lost control of the SUV.

  Then not twenty yards in front of her a gigantic bird of prey with a thirty-foot wingspan plummeted down. For one split second he was caught full in the headlights of the SUV, enormous wings splayed high in the air and razorlike sword-long talons outstretched. He was shaped like a golden eagle, but his color was a dark sooty black.

  Lightning flashed in those great fierce eyes. Thunder roared as he changed in midair and landed as a massive hawk-faced man in black fatigues and combat boots. He strode toward her, rage carving his body into a hard-edged weapon.

  She shrieked and slammed on the brakes. She hit them too hard and the vehicle went into a skid. Tiago leaped forward. His hands slammed like twin sledgehammers into the edge of the hood.

  He stopped the SUV dead.

  She sat frozen as she stared at him, her mouth open. The fancy hybrid engine bawled a complaint and stalled.

  Tiago came around to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. He gripped the edge of the roof with both hands and glared at her. He was already soaked. She watched with eyes gone huge and round as a drop of water slid down one lean, hard cheek where a muscle twitched.

  The knife wound had hurt too much for her to put on the seat belt. Wincing, she swiveled with care to face him. The rain pelted her bare legs and arms.

  Maybe it was time to get cute. Her lower lip stuck out and her forehead wrinkled. In a small uncertain voice, she said, “Sowwy?”

  If anything, that seemed to make him angrier. Worse, he looked offended. He snarled, “Don’t pull that manipulative sex kitten shit on me.”

  She shrank back, her eyes crinkled in worry. “But what if I am a manipulative sex kitten shit?”

  His grip on the car roof accentuated his heavy arm and chest muscles. He was breathing hard. His lightning-filled gaze fell, and he stilled.

  She looked down. When she escaped from the motel room, she had figured stealth and speed were more important than getting dressed, so she was still in the camo shorty-shorts and midriff T-shirt. The rain had quickly soaked her front as well. Her nipples had puckered in the chill wet and were quite visible underneath her thin sports bra and shirt.

  She looked up again into his dangerous face and said, “That’s not my fault. I’m just sayin’.”

  He shoved his head and shoulders into the vehicle as he captured her by the back of the neck. His open mouth drove down onto hers. He was digging deep inside her mouth with his tongue before she fully knew what happened.

  She made a sound, a whimper of surprise that he swallowed and gave back to her in a throaty growl that raised goose bumps along her bare arms and legs. The force of his kiss pushed her head back against his hand as he gripped the nape of her neck. She was trapped between his hand and his mouth. Her hands fluttered. She clutched at the front of his soaked T-shirt.

  His kiss was brutal, ravenous, but his grip on her was gentle. He slid an arm around her waist and eased her forward until she perched on the side of the seat. He held her in place, an arm locked at her waist and a hand at her nape, as he nudged between her legs and slid the massive bulk of his long torso flush against hers. All the while he speared into the depths of her mouth and ate at plump lips that had gone soft in amazement.

  The taste and texture of him was a shocking assault to her senses, the cold rain slippery on hot, aggressive lips. His jeans felt rough against the tender skin on the inside of her thighs, and a hard swollen length pressed against her pelvis. She felt his body move as he sucked in air. He was huge everywhere, his body over twice her size.

  She couldn’t have stopped him if she’d tried.

  She didn’t want to try. She relaxed in his hold, trusting her body to the solid support he offered. She tilted up her head to him, eyes closed to the rain, and she kissed him back with all the starved passion she had stored up inside.

  Tiago felt the tension in her body melt away as her ripe, wicked little mouth and eager tongue worked under the onslaught of his. The surrender of her body was so damn erotic he almost came in his fatigues.

  Fucking hell. He fell into a tailspin.

  What the hell was he doing?

  She’s been hurt. Careful, no frenzy allowed. She suckled at his tongue as he thrust in her, and her slender white legs wrapped around his waist. Okay, maybe a little frenzy. He groaned and rubbed the hard length of his erection against the sweet welcoming arc of her pelvis. He wanted to palm those beautiful breasts of hers and tongue that gold ring at her navel. He wanted to spread her out and feast on her with the intensity of a starving man.

  Delicate fingers dug into his short wet hair. He felt the tiny prick of fingernails in his scalp like kitten claws. He wanted them raking down his naked back. He wanted her to draw blood as she screamed and climaxed in his arms. Her breath came in jagged spurts. She was burning up, but violent shivers began to shake through her small frame.

  Sanity bulldozed its way into his thick skull. He dragged his mouth away from hers with a harsh gasp, tilting his head up to the rain as he tucked her face into his neck. “Goddammit,” he hissed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you are,” she muttered. “Not one single thing has gone right for me today. Why should this be any different?”

  He glared down at the top of her head. What the hell did she mean by that?

  She pushed her nose into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder as her trembling increased. Too many things were happening in her body. The knife wound felt like it was on fire. She was so hot yet freezing at the same time. Weakness invaded her limbs, and the sharp, empty ache between her thighs had crazy thoughts running through her head, like how easy it would be to unzip his fatigues and take that swollen, hard cock in her hand. Like how much she wanted to explore the strange sensual terrain of his flesh and pump him until he spilled all over her. Her breath hitched.


  Headlights swept over them as a car approached. He scooped her out of the driver’s seat, carried her around and deposited her in the passenger’s seat. Then he strode back, climbed in the driver’s side and started the SUV so that he could park it by the side of the road. The engine was already warm, so he turned the heater on full blast before he turned to her again.

  She was a bedraggled mess. The manipulative sex kitten had turned into a half-drowned rat. Her black hair glittered wet and sleek against the graceful curve of her skull, and those gorgeous erect nipples of hers, God help him, were dark raised pebbles underneath that porno T-shirt. She was shaking visibly. Grinding his teeth, he leaned past her to reach for one of the shopping bags she had thrown onto the passenger’s seat floor. Not caring what he grabbed, he pulled out an item of clothing and began to stroke her wet bare arms and legs with it.

  She muttered, “I had this whole thing going a lot differently in my head.”

  “I hardly dare to ask,” he said. His white teeth bit at the air.

  “For one thing, I was going to retain control of the car,” she said. Her teeth chattered. She pushed his hand away. “There you go, being nice again. Stop it.”

  “What, you prefer abuse?” he growled. “That can be arranged. Just keep pushing at me, faerie.”

  “Pushing you.” She snorted a laugh. “Don’t tempt me. You haven’t even seen me get started.”

  He cocked a sleek, sardonic eyebrow at her. “I’m actually afraid you might be right about that.”

  She grabbed the sweatpants from his hand and began to dry herself off. The material was thick and absorbent. She would have shrugged and slipped them on except she thought the twist of movement needed to pull them over her hips would hurt too much. Instead, she dug one of the T-shirts out of the bag.

  Tiago’s hands came over hers.

  “I know you’re hurting,” he said, dropping his bad-tempered attitude for the moment. He had a powerful battlefield voice, deep and rich and penetrating, but now it was throttled down to just a dark murmur that was so gentle it shook her soul. “Let me help you.”