Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  “How do you get away with calling him Bain instead of King Bain?” Trace said as they hit the sidewalk. “Are you special or something?”

  Without missing a beat, Cordray said, “We’re hunting down a cat burglar who broke into your pal’s apartment, stole what I’m assuming is a priceless artifact, and we have no clue as to his identity or why he did this, and you’re concerned with how I refer to our race’s sovereign?”

  “I can multitask.” And so the game continued.

  “So can I, but my relationship to Bain is none of your business.”

  “So, you have a relationship with him, huh?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Trace. You know what a figure of speech is, right?”

  “I’m familiar with the term, but since you’re always so damn literal, I—”

  “Jesus, you two,” Micah said. “Give it a rest. You’re giving me a headache, for Chrissakes.”

  The constant jabs had given Trace something much better than a headache. His balls actually tingled. He might even be able to get off just arguing with Cordray. How was that for foreplay?

  “Okay, so,” he said, meeting Cordray stride for stride as she picked up the pace. “You’re going to do research, Micah’s going to investigate security footage . . . what am I going to do?”

  Cordray shot him an amused glance as one eyebrow whipped into a humored arch. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a whole list of things you’ll be doing. You won’t have time to think about our friend Skeletor or what his intentions for your bufu buddy are.”

  “Bufu?”

  “Butt fuck,” Micah said flatly. “Butt fuck buddy.”

  “If only she knew.” Trace smirked and met Micah’s gaze out of the corner of his eye.

  After last night’s scene, it was clear from Micah’s limits he would never do that to Trace, nor would he allow Trace to do it to him. Fine by him, especially if Micah continued taking him on head trips like he had last night. But Cordray didn’t need to know the truth. If she wanted to think he and Micah fucked each other ten ways to Sunday, let her.

  “I don’t want to know.” Cordray’s pace picked up steam.

  Trace and Micah laughed.

  Once they made it back to where they’d parked, Trace grabbed his duffel from the trunk of Micah’s Audi and tossed it in the back of Cordray’s Range Rover.

  “Tell Sam I’m looking forward to a bowl of her famous chili,” Trace said, clasping hands with Micah in a one-armed hug.

  “Sure thing.” Micah released him. “And don’t forget, Brak’s waiting to see you.”

  Trace glanced toward Cordray, who hovered near the driver’s side of the Rover, watching him. “Yeah, tell him . . .” What? He had no idea what to say to Brak. Hell, he wasn’t even sure seeing him was a good idea right now, given how he’d melted down at Micah’s house. “Just tell him I’ll see him as soon as Satan’s mistress gives me a reprieve from purgatory.”

  Cordray crossed her arms irritably and huffed, but she kept whatever retort she wanted to sling at him to herself.

  That didn’t last long, though. Once he was in the passenger seat and they were heading off to her lair, she wasted no time starting in on him.

  “You know, after how I kept my mouth shut about what went through your mind when you blacked out or seized—or whatever happened to you—the least you could do is show a little gratitude.”

  “I’m grateful.” He turned toward her. “But that doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

  “You can say that again.” She cut the turn at a stoplight short, and the rear tires jumped the curb.

  Trace bounced and grabbed the oh-shit bar above the door. “Where the fuck did you get your driver’s license? A Cracker Jack box?”

  She shot him an icy glare then frowned as her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Why do you chew on those damn matchsticks?” she snapped, ignoring his Cracker Jack jab as she returned her gaze to the road.

  He pulled the wooden stick from his mouth and looked at it. Chewing on matchsticks had been a habit for so long, he couldn’t remember when he’d started. But he definitely remembered why. Matchsticks were a reminder of his past. For a long time after his mother’s death, he hadn’t been able to start a fire. He’d been too afraid. Even striking a match caused his heart rate to hitch. So rather than light them, he chewed them to remind himself of how dangerous fire could be. That it should never be taken for granted, or bad things would happen.

  He slipped the match back into his mouth. “None of your business.”

  “Well, keep your nasty habit away from my kids.”

  His head whipped toward her. “Your kids?”

  That’s when he noticed the car seat behind her. He leaned around, looked behind him, and found another one. Car seats. Two of them. As in, for toddlers.

  Toddlers?

  Cordray had kids?

  When had that happened?

  He leaned back in his seat and stared at her profile. He’d never even considered Cordray could be mated. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that possibility. Who could the father be?

  Maybe King Bain—

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I’m not doing it with Bain.” She shuddered as if she’d just taken a sip of two-dollar wine. “Just the thought of that . . . just . . . ew.”

  He slammed his mental door on her, kicking her out of his head. “Then whose kids are they?”

  Her blue eyes darted toward him then back at the road. “They’re mine, dumbass.”

  “You’re . . . you’ve . . .” He swallowed, not liking the ache setting up shop inside his chest. “Who in their right mind would fuck you?”

  Honestly, the job of being her baby daddy sounded more appealing than he wanted it to.

  She briefly appeared wounded before hardening her expression. “Considering you were just thinking the king and I were making babies together, I’m not sure if you’re insulting me or the king.”

  “Just tell me who the father is.” For some reason, this really bothered him.

  “They’re not biologically mine, idiot. They’re kids in my shelter. I take care of them. But for all intents and purposes, they’re mine. I think of them as my own.”

  Unexpected relief swept through him.

  “You? A mother?” Who would have thought Cordray had a single maternal bone in her body? Her entire sexy, perfect, desirable body.

  “Can you at least try to talk in complete sentences?” she quipped, turning onto the ramp for the interstate.

  He bit back a grin. “Gee, I don’t know. Could you at least try to talk to me like I have a brain?”

  “Do you?”

  And here came his tingling balls again.

  “I can add two and two.”

  “And get what? Ten?”

  He almost chuckled. Almost.

  “No, eight.”

  He felt her look at him from across the console. He met her gaze out of the corners of his eyes. The air went deathly still.

  Then Cordray laughed.

  She actually laughed.

  And the sound did something to the inside of his chest. Something warm and wonderful. Light and airy. Something that made him feel alive. More alive than he’d ever felt outside the playroom. Alive enough that he couldn’t stop his own laughter when it bubbled up inside his throat and made a break for freedom.

  This was the sound of tension breaking. Of enemies meeting each other in the middle and realizing how much fun they were having giving each other hell, even if neither was willing to admit it.

  “You’re a world-class asshole, Trace,” she said, her laughter subsiding. But she still wore an effervescent smile.

  “And you’re a world-class bitch, Cordray.” He cleared his throat as another chuckle bounced around inside his chest.

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “By better people, too, right?”

  She dipped her head thoughtfully to one side. “Given my present company, that would be a yes.”

  “Thought so.”
He turned his gaze out the window as downtown grew farther behind them by the ninety-mile-per-hour second. Cordray had one hell of a lead foot.

  After a couple of minutes of silence, he shifted in his roomy, leather seat and got more comfortable. “So where is this shelter with all these Cordray-influenced rugrats running around? I assume that’s where we’re going?”

  She drummed her long fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s in McHenry.”

  McHenry was a bit of a hike from Chicago, but the way Cordray was driving, they’d be there in no time.

  “You’ll be working off your community service there,” she said.

  “Doing what? Teaching them the way of the Force?” He lifted his right hand.

  She shot him a semi-amused glance. “I don’t think they’re ready for that just yet, but don’t worry. I’ve got plenty to keep you busy.” She smirked like she was enjoying having him under her thumb a little too much. “I own twenty acres of land. Lots of trees, lots of grass, a massive garden, and horses. You’re going to be very busy.”

  “Got any pigs?”

  “No, why?”

  He shrugged and propped the heel of his boot on the dash. “Just wondering where you keep your relatives.”

  “Ha ha,” she said flatly. “You should be a comedian.”

  “Maybe in my next life.”

  “Do you mind?” She reached across the console and knocked his foot off the dash.

  He lowered it to the floor. “My boots are clean.”

  “That’s not the point.” She huffed. “Just . . . sit there like an adult.”

  He rolled his eyes and looked out the side window, muttering, “Gee, are you sure I can?”

  She ignored him, and nothing was said for a while as they flew at Mach 1 along the interstate. The eastbound lanes heading toward the city were getting busier, but nothing like how congested they would be during rush hour.

  “So,” Cordray said a couple minutes later, “do I need to worry about having you around my kids?”

  “Why? Do you think I might taint them with my disease?”

  She sighed irritably. “What I meant was, after what happened to you last night—your seizure or whatever that was. Are you sure it’s safe for you to be around children?”

  And there it was.

  Fear.

  Of him.

  The story of his life.

  Trace frowned and averted his gaze back out the passenger window. He’d been an outcast all his life. Teased by the other kids when he was younger, made fun of and bullied by Mason and his cronies, and then avoided as if he’d carried leprosy when the strangeness within him began to show itself. Back when he couldn’t control it. Back when it scared the living shit out of him as much as it did everyone else.

  Everywhere he went, he left destruction in his wake. It was inevitable. Sooner or later, his power got away from him, just as it had when he thought he’d killed Apostle, as well as when he found his father in Bishop’s lab. In both instances, his power had risen like it wasn’t even a part of him, as if it were a separate entity merely using his body as a vessel. And he’d unleashed it. He’d let it do as it pleased, killing Deacon and his dreck friends and turning that traitorous vampire working for Bishop into splattered protein residue.

  But such occurrences were rare. For the most part, he’d learned how to control the beast.

  “I’m not a danger to your kids,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” The word left his lips on an irritated hiss as his frustration over being such a freak of nature simmered just under his skin.

  “I’m just being careful, Trace. These kids are everything to me. They’re why I get up every day and do what I do to make this world a better place. When you’ve got nothing else to live for, you—” She sucked in her breath and snapped her mouth shut as if she’d said too much. Then she sniffed proudly and lifted her chin. “But then you probably wouldn’t know anything about needing something to live for, would you?” Contempt dripped from every syllable.

  Was she jealous? Of him?

  “You’d be surprised.” For over a century, the only thing that had kept him going was the smallest shard of hope that one day his life would hold meaning. That he would meet his mate and find his place in the world.

  Then he’d met Micah. But even though Micah and Sam had filled a gaping vacancy in his soul, there was still a void neither could permeate. An emptiness only a mate could fill.

  He glanced sideways at Cordray. She was more than enough female for twenty normal males, but just enough for him. Strong and fearless. Bold. Rough. Not too soft, not too hard, but just right in a way that made his dick stand up and take notice every time she was near. And now that he’d seen her without all that makeup she normally wore, he realized she was strikingly beautiful. Everything he’d always wanted in a female. The longer he was around her, the more he wanted to let his fingers do the walking all over her ample curves.

  The only problem was, if he touched her that way, she’d probably cut off his hand. Or castrate him. Since he would rather not part with his dick over a novelty, it was better to pretend he hated her than actually admit he found her attractive.

  Too bad, because he wouldn’t mind seeing what sex without submission felt like. He never got hard outside the playroom, but around Cordray, he was hard all the time. Maybe not fully erect, but it wouldn’t take much to get him there.

  “Yeah, well,” Cordray said, “just make sure you don’t lose your juice around my kids.” Resolve tightened her jaw. “My ranch is a haven for young vampires who get caught up in the human system. It’s for our orphans. Those who have no one else and have lost their parents and everyone they’ve come to know as family. They need stability. They need to know the world is safe. I give them that. I become their family, and I won’t let anyone hurt them. Not even you, Power Ranger.”

  “How maternal of you.” He tried to sound unimpressed, but the fact that she looked out for the abandoned children among their kind touched his heart.

  At one time, he’d been young and alone. Terrified and unsure. Abandoned. If not for those who’d taken him in, looked after him, and helped him understand and control his power, he might not have survived beyond his transition.

  The work Cordray did was a noble endeavor. One he wanted to support.

  He turned his attention to the stretch of interstate in front of them. “So, how many kids do you have?”

  “Right now? Only seven. But I’m equipped for at least thirty. I’ve taken care of as many as twenty at one time, so seven is pretty manageable.” She held up her index finger. “But don’t take manageable to mean easy. They’re a handful. Each one has his or her own problems to deal with. Their own needs to fulfill. I currently employ two full-timers who help shoulder the load, and I have several volunteers who tend to the grounds and do other small tasks.”

  “With all that help, it sounds like you don’t even need me.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty for you to do, trust me. Our annual fundraiser is coming up in a couple of months, and it’s all hands on deck. We’ll be lucky to get everything done, so you’ll have your hands full. There will be gift bags to fill, party favors to wrap, phone calls to make, and about a thousand errands to run, and not nearly enough volunteers to do it all and keep up with the day-to-day operations. You’ll be helping out and picking up where everyone else has had to drop the ball.”

  Trace glanced down at his large hands. Those babies weren’t made for wrapping party favors and filling frilly-cutesy gift bags. “Great. Lucky me,” he muttered.

  Ten minutes later, Cordray took the McHenry exit and headed west. Shortly thereafter, she slowed and turned off onto a long, white-gravel driveway that led to a house twice the size of Micah’s that sat in front of two smaller buildings: A barn that looked like an Old West general store and a structure that looked like a small apartment building or dormitory.

  The Range Rover rocked as the left tires rolled through a sh
allow pothole. Water from yesterday’s heavy rain sloshed out to the side.

  “I’m having a fresh load of gravel brought in for the driveway this week,” Cordray said. “The winter took a toll on it, so it needs repairing before the spring rains make it even worse.”

  “Let me guess. That’s going to be my job.”

  She gave him the wink and a finger-gun. “Bingo.”

  “Why don’t you just have it paved?”

  “And ruin all my fun watching you toil over it? No way.”

  Trace rolled his eyes. So this was what hell looked like? On the surface, the place was nice. Deceptively innocent. Homey even. But once you passed through the gate, purgatory began. Hellish, burdensome, backbreaking purgatory.

  The next three months were going to be a nightmare. He could just tell.

  She pulled into the attached, four-car garage and parked next to a white Yukon Denali with the word Asylum painted in black and navy blue letters on the doors. The A formed the roof over a small house.

  “Asylum?” he asked.

  She shut off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition, palming her key ring as she opened her door. “It’s the name of the shelter.”

  “Fitting.” He pushed open the passenger door and pulled himself out of the seat.

  Cordray opened the back hatch and grabbed her duffel. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He reached in and grabbed his own bag. “Just that asylums are normally associated with the insane.”

  She rolled her eyes and gave him a sour look as she shut the hatch. “You’re like someone searching for the end of a circle, you know that?”

  “How so?” He spied a sick-ass Ducati in the last bay and leaned to the left to get a better look.

  “You never stop.”

  Taking her jab in stride, he nodded toward the motorcycle. “Whose wheels?”

  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder then turned toward the open bay door. “Mine.”

  Trace’s steps stuttered as he took a second glance at the tricked-out Ducati. Nice ride for a wicked female. “I guess it’s better than your usual broomstick, huh?”

  Other than a tolerant sigh, she gave no sign that his comment bothered her as she continued around to the back of the house. “Much better.”