by Jory Strong
A rough, soul-stealing kiss later and he was propelling Aislinn through the bead curtain and to the vacant apartment above the shop.
“Hard to believe we once called him The Pro when it came to women,” Conner said, laughing. Ianthe and Miguel joined him, her heart swelling at being part of this group of human detectives with their supernatural mates and friends.
* * * * *
Dylan’s cock hardened against Seraphine’s thigh.
He laughed when she murmured, “Nice.”
“More like impossible,” he said, rising onto an elbow. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Her smile sent more blood straight to his dick. “Of course you’re not,” she said, eyes opening to meet his. “You’re a guy.”
“I haven’t heard any complaints on that front.”
The hand that had been cupping her breast left in favor of settling on her abdomen in a self-administered test to see just how long he could last without brushing his palm over the narrow strip of pubic hair leading to her clit and opening.
Lowered lashes and parted lips were meant to test his restraint. He couldn’t resist kissing her, delving into the hot depths of her mouth with his tongue even if it made his cock scream neglect.
She laughed as though she could hear an echo of the thought, and said, “You know you don’t have to deny yourself.”
Jesus, he wanted her. Isolated from all reality but her, he wanted to believe a future together was possible.
How the hell had that happened? A glance at the makeshift tethers still attached to the headboard and he had part of the answer, but only part.
“I saw you with a blond last night.”
Where the fuck had that come from?
Yet he knew the answer instantly, recognized he’d lobbed the bomb like a cop with a suspect so he could catch her reaction—slight surprise but total lack of guilt.
“I owe him a debt. He wants to be my lover.” Her hand covered his, trapping the heat that seemed to radiate from his ring. “There’s no chance of that now.”
Dylan glanced away, not denial, at least when it came to the heartmate stones. This thing with her had gone a little too far for him to manage that, but…
“Fuck, Seraphine. I don’t want to hurt you the way my old man did my mother. He was a repeat offender when it came to being unfaithful.”
“You could never be that,” she said with complete certainty, bringing his gaze back to hers.
“I could.”
Christ. He’d gone beyond the point of no return.
“I have. Despite promising myself the whole time I was growing up that I’d never be like him.”
Her expression shuttered and it was like being a kid again and watching his mother slowly die inside. He started to roll away, to break the physical contact, but Seraphine stopped him with a hand cupping his jaw, with the rub of her thumb across his lips. “You’ve got a core of honor. I don’t believe you’d willingly cheat on someone you loved.”
Believe it. And he felt like he was ripping his heart open.
Christ he didn’t want to revisit this but he owned her that much.
“There was a girl I was serious about in college. Heather. She was a wannabe witch.”
Seraphine’s brows lifted. He grimaced, rejected telling her anything more about Jacqueline than, “There was a so-called witch who ran an occult bookstore. Heather and a few other girls she hung out with got sucked into Jacqueline’s sphere of influence. I ended up going to one of their ceremonies—half curious and half trying to find some leverage to get Heather away from Jacqueline. Heather and the other girls were in robes, Jacqueline was naked, doing some kind of spell, or so she said.”
His dick actually started going soft remembering it, saying it, but back then… “I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I found some excuse to go by her place. Heather walked in while I was fucking the witch.”
He pulled away from Seraphine’s grasp and sat. She followed, arms going around him, breasts pressed to his back, lips on his neck, his shoulder, as feminine fingers toyed with a nipple, sending streaks of fire to his cock so it became engorged again.
“Did it ever occur to you that some part of the so-called spell was meant to enrapture you? And that in close proximity you were manipulated by a charm or a separate spell?”
He snorted. “Impossible.”
She bit him and son of a bitch if that didn’t turn him on.
“As impossible as this?” she murmured, abandoning his nipple to curl her fingers around his dick and cause him to moan as his hips jerked.
“I can’t exactly think straight with you doing that,” he countered.
She released him but that was worse, because then he couldn’t avoid revisiting just how quickly he’d recovered and been ready for another round of lovemaking.
The thoughts of the day before, about sex magic being a witchcraft he could get behind, returned with the impact of an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye. “Are you saying—”
“No, I think this is a side benefit to us both being in possession of a heartstone.”
She took pity on him, or at least his cock. She took possession of it again, her touch all that was necessary to have pre-cum beading on the tip and his shaft pulsing against her hand.
“I’ll never believe you willingly cheated. Your disbelief in magic and your fear of being like your father would have made you vulnerable.”
Believe it, meant for her, because he didn’t want to hurt her.
Countered by a swell of aching hope, ordering him to believe her, so he could cling to the possibility of having something he’d denied himself for so long, a family rather than an endless stream of drinking buddies and one-night stands.
“Unless time travel is a possibility, there’s no way of proving it one way or the other,” he said.
“Disbeliever,” she teased. “Could you find her if you were willing to confront her?”
“Yeah. I doubt she’s gone anywhere.” Not with a steady stream of coeds.
Seraphine slid backward and he couldn’t stand the loss of contact. He turned, carrying her down to the mattress, a hand tangled in her hair. A touch of his mouth to hers, a thrust of his tongue, and all discussion of magic and his past disappeared in the oblivion that came with the slide of his cock inside her.
* * * * *
Conner and Miguel looked up from their focus on Miguel’s computer screen when Trace entered the bullpen. “Aislinn at home?” Conner asked.
He let his scowl answer the question. Fucking no, she’s not at home. And despite Ianthe and Khemirra’s assurances they could keep her safe, he fucking hated it!
Miguel laughed. “I guess sex doesn’t solve every problem. Damn, talk about bursting my bubble.”
“Hey, it might not work for him, but that doesn’t mean we’ll get the same results.”
“True.”
Conner grinned. “Could be we need to give him some pointers.”
“That’ll be the day,” Trace said, his aggravation burning away as he flashed back to the exquisite pleasure of having sex with his wife.
His wife. Damn but he loved her so much even the thought of losing her was agony.
“You got anything?” he asked, fiercely determined to do whatever it took to make her safe.
“As a matter of fact, yeah, Miguel just hit something.”
He joined them at Miguel’s desk. Son of bitch, it was the assistant, only she wasn’t going by the name Camille Cunningham.
“She paid somebody good money for an identity makeover,” Conner said. “I know you and Dylan ran her. We ran her too, but this time Miguel put the picture Aislinn drew through a facial recognition program. Birth name, Claudia Jergensen. Charged but not convicted in the death of her husband. Guy was fifty years older than she was at the time. Look at who defended her.”
Helene Lindley.
“Got you,” Trace said. “What are the chances they aren’t in this together? Anyone call Dylan and Seraphine?”
Trace sighed. “Jesus I hate this.”
“It’s almost over, right?” Miguel said. “Dylan’s close to knowing the truth. He’s got to be. Having met Seraphine, my money is on her.”
Trace gave it all of a second of thought. “Yeah, it’s almost over. He’s more than halfway to knowing and accepting the shi—the stuff we know exists.”
The twinge of guilt made him kiss the purple heartmate stone in the ring he now wore as a wedding band, offering a silent apology to Aislinn. “Where are Brady and Storm?”
“Brady took a call-out on a dead junkie camping near a park,” Conner said. “Guy was discovered lying facedown on a blood-soaked blanket when a kid’s soccer ball left the field of play. Storm is out with Tristan and Pierce. They’ve trying to get a visual on either Lindley or Cunningham.”
Trace couldn’t suppress the grimace. “Do I want to know?”
Conner shook his head. “Probably not. Something to do with fey magic. Bottom line, we can’t issue an all-points because we’ve got nothing solid on either Lindley or Cunningham, and if they spook, we’ve got to assume they have means to get out of the country. Besides that…”
“We can’t put other cops at risk,” Miguel said. “At least until we know the threat has been reduced to the usual kind we face when we deal with killers.”
Trace rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s hope something breaks soon.”
The phone on Conner’s desk rang as if in answer. He reached over and lifted the receiver. “Stern.” He hit the speaker button. “Trace is here. What have you got?”
“A dead junkie, as reported,” Brady said. “Probably never saw it coming. Stabbed through the back. The knife sliced through his ribs like they were butter instead of bone, and into his heart with just enough force to leave a cut at the front of his shirt but not get buried in the dirt. Area brushed clean on either side of him suggests the killer was standing over him, straddling him while he was either zoned out or passed out. My gut says this is the warm-up event.”
Trace’s heart lurched. He wanted to race back to Inner Magick and haul Aislinn home, or better yet, deposit her at Severn’s estate with Sophie because he could be sure no harm of a demonic nature would come to her while surrounded by dragons.
“Thanks, Brady,” Conner said. “Your gut’s probably right. For all we know, tonight’s victim is already on tap.”
“The fun never ends with this job.” Brady hung up.
Miguel scrubbed his hands over his face. “We have no idea exactly when the other prostitutes were taken. I’ve gone back to Talocan but Lupita Perez is gone. Or hiding. The lords—”
“TMI,” Trace said, holding up his hand. Christ, he might be married to a half-elf but he did not want to be sucked into Miguel’s dreamscapes or his travels with a demon—former demon lover. There was only so much a guy should have to get his head around.
Miguel accepted the interruption with a grimace of his own. “I hear you. The point I was leading up to was that we can’t be sure Brady’s DB is Cunningham’s kill, assuming she’s the one in possession of the blade.”
Trace’s shoulders sagged. “I want to get back to understandable crimes done by the usual subset of losers. I’ll call Dylan.”
He used his cell phone. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“What do you think?”
At least something was going right. “How’s the cut?”
Dylan glanced down at it with a sense of foreboding that even Seraphine’s body against his couldn’t shake. “There’s another DB?”
“A junkie. Brady’s on scene.”
“The cut hasn’t bled.”
Soft lips touched his shoulder. “It wouldn’t,” Seraphine murmured. “Not behind the wards protecting my house.”
His pulse quickened. He wanted to pull denial over him like a kid’s blanket, making him invisible to nighttime monsters.
“Hold on a second.” It was a good thing his pants hadn’t made it much past the front door.
He left the bed, not sure whether he was glad or not when Seraphine remained, allowing him to face this one on his own. When he reached his trousers he tugged them on, sparing himself the possibility of an indecent exposure charge.
The cat appeared, sitting at the end of the hallway and watching him with unblinking eyes. It gave him the heebies and it wasn’t even black.
He stepped outside. The cut opened immediately.
It wasn’t the rush and pour of immediate death but the seep and ooze that marked time. And it came with a vibrating hum, the press of internal organs and muscle against skin too tight to hold them in human shape.
A sheen of sweat instantly coated his arms and chest and back. He clamped Seraphine’s token against the wound to drive back the whispers and screams.
“The blade’s been used,” he managed, his voice coming from a long way off, and he didn’t bother calling himself a coward at his hasty retreat inside, the door closing with a loud slam.
Normalcy returned. He might have laughed except he was afraid he’d sound like a madman.
“Cunningham is a solid,” Trace said. “She showed up at Inner Magick a little while before the kids found the dead junkie. Ianthe was with Aislinn. She’s positive Harper’s assistant has killed with Lucifer’s Blade.”
“Fuck. What happened?” No way would Trace sound this calm if Aislinn had been injured.
“Cunningham saw Ianthe and left. Ianthe tried to follow but couldn’t go far, not without the risk of Cunningham slipping back into the store. It’s looking good for Lindley too. A while back she defended Cunningham, birth name Jergensen, on a murder rap. Best guess, she cleaned her up, gave her a new name and background, then installed her as Nicole Harper’s aide, though we might never have confirmation of that. Tell Seraphine. If she can help us find them, or confirm the lawyer practices black magic too, it’d be a big help.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Don’t come in.”
He wondered what his partner knew, what he guessed, but the brief foray outside was enough for Dylan to say, “I won’t.” Though he hated it! Hated it!
He jammed the phone into his pants pocket. He might have railed against fate or bad luck or the supernatural bullshit, but he turned and saw a nightgown-clad Seraphine approaching, concern on her face, her breasts pressed to sheer material, nipples hardening at having his eyes on them, and all protest left him.
It was replaced by fear. By hope. By the return of fear and with it the realization that despite his earlier protests, he had to know if there was some chance of a future with her.
Chapter Fourteen
He needed to confront the witch—Jacqueline—and find out once and for all whether he was his father’s son when it came to women, or his own man. He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting Seraphine as he’d done Heather. He didn’t want to marry and have children, only to have that life crash and burn around him, taking his professional one with it, given how closely the two were entwined.
Seraphine reached him, arms going around his waist. Offering comfort, solidarity.
He closed his eyes. Accepted the embrace and found the courage to tell her the rest of the story.
“My mom died my junior year in college, right after Heather found me with Jacqueline. She didn’t show up for work and finally they got worried enough to send someone to the house. The coroner said she’d overdosed on prescription meds mixed with alcohol.”
Her arms tightened. She knew what he feared but didn’t volunteer it. He did. “There was no suicide note. Nothing to prove whether it was accidental or intentional.”
“Oh Dylan,” she whispered, lips touched to his skin, tears in her voice.
Fierce emotion gripped him,
at having the mess his parents made of their relationship bring pain to her. Fuck it. Their lives. Their choices.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said.
Except the guilt lingered, tangled up with his cheating on Heather, his fear that somehow him mother died believing her son was the same kind of man her husband was, because she’d met Heather, she’d seen how in love they were, and then he’d refused to answer any questions about her.
Seraphine let it go without pushing, for which he was grateful. He relayed Trace’s information and the request.
“The fastest way to an answer is to do a summoning.”
He wasn’t ready to know more, or to witness it. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to confront the past.
She sensed his thoughts. Or guessed at them, given the tremor he couldn’t suppress. “I might be awhile,” she said, fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck. “I’ll give you the charm I wear. It’s stronger. You can test it by stepping outside. I think it’ll shield you from the whispers and screams.”
“But not from some witch’s sex spell.”
“It will while it’s touched to your skin. You’ll have to break the contact to learn the truth.”
The pound of her heart was a steady, calming rhythm that miraculously slowed the race of his. He couldn’t fucking believe—
Yeah, he could.
“You’ll stay here while I’m gone?”
“Yes. I’ll stay here.”
“You won’t leave the house.”
“I have zero intention of leaving the house. Go, I’m completely safe here.”
He covered her lips with his, delved into the heaven of her mouth and within minutes had her against the back of the door, the nightgown no longer hiding the narrow landing strip on her mound, his trousers no longer a barrier to penetration.
He slid home, moaned at the exquisite feel of her wet heat and the clamp of her channel on his cock as her legs locked their bodies together. He’d never get tired of this.