by Anne Malcom
There was no point in dwelling on how she read an ancient book in a dead language she didn’t know, or how she lost twelve hours of her life doing so. It was more important to utilize what she’d learned.
The true story of how Malena and her sisters, Belladonna and Ucillia, gained their dark power by subverting the most sacred of the witches’ laws. By twisting the natural and pure power given to them by nature herself and tarnishing it with evil and death.
One thing that had irked Sophie more than that, than their obvious, almost indestructible power, were the similarities she drew with Malena.
She was a witch, a powerful one, who hated being told what to do and eventually rebelled.
Granted, Sophie had never turned a bunch of humans into vampire hybrids, intent on creating an army to enslave humanity, but one time she did enchant a whole One Direction concert to be completely silent and not move for twenty minutes.
Plus, Malena had partnered with the king of Hell for that little jaunt, whereas Isla had been Sophie’s partner in crime. Not quite a Hades level of evil, though some people might disagree with her there.
But the council had executed her sisters for her crimes, not just Malena herself—that’s how deep their sickening need for power went, to the point where it endangered everything The Four had gifted witches, and now their choice was pretty close to ending life on earth as they knew it.
Plus, they’d locked Sophie up for ten days while The Sex Pistols were touring. The council had caused all the havoc those thousands of years ago, and it wasn’t even them who cleaned it up. They shifted blame better than the current president.
“And the Herodias sisters were banished to the cave, which was neither in the space of living nor dead, since their crimes to both life and death meant they would never embrace the reaper for the stillness of death, nor ever taste the beautiful chaos of life. Forever bound, or shall the earth be tainted and ruined should the chains of their prison be broken.”
Sophie shivered under the hot spray of the shower, the words of the book burned into her brain. Not just because they felt like a harbinger of doom, but because it wasn’t the Herodias sisters she saw being trapped in the mid-world between life and death, it was her.
If she didn’t find a way to understand and control her power.
But there just wasn’t time.
Between assassination attempts, her best friend’s looming death the wolf who wanted to mate her, her day job, and listening to the latest Thirty Seconds to Mars album.
Her Jared Leto thoughts were cut short when the shower curtain screeched open and a wolf stood in front of her.
She raised her brow, congratulating herself for not flinching or even letting out the little scream she caught in her throat.
Sophie had been caught by surprise enough times to master a poker face, though the beings who usually caught her had murder in their eyes, not lust. To be fair, there was a fair bit of murder too. She guessed the wolf was none too happy about being left with a coven of pissed-off witches.
“I’m trying to shower here,” she said blandly, making every effort to keep her voice even and not husky with the desire she felt with the heat of his gaze.
He let out a growl. “This is all you have to say for yourself?”
She shrugged, and the motion meant his gaze was wrenched from her eyes to her breasts. Her nipples immediately hardened as the beast took over his eyes, lighting them pure gold.
He stepped into the small shower cubicle under the spray and she backed herself into the wall, his arms framing either side of her shoulders, boxing her in as the water cascaded over him, over his clothes, his boots.
The wolf didn’t seem to notice.
It was as if he wouldn’t notice if a plane crashed in the next room. Sophie doubted she would either.
“You’re going to beg now,” he growled, making sure not to touch her, other than the hot air radiating from him that had nothing to do with the steam from the shower.
Sophie blinked up at him, her knees quivering, heart smashing against her ribs.
Do it! Her vagina screamed. Get on your knees and beg, then give him the best BJ of his life to apologize for siccing a coven of witches on him.
Sophie hated that she leaned forward, catching herself before she did exactly what every cell in her body, every organ it seemed, was screaming her to do.
“I will never beg,” she hissed, jutting out her chin and holding onto her history to remind her how matters of the heart ended.
In death.
And she sensed this would be one she couldn’t come back from.
When did this stop being about the vagina and start being about the heart?
His jaw was granite and his face shimmered with the force of the beast inside him willing a change, battling for control. It had to hurt, Sophie knew. In fact, she could feel the pain as his bones protested, as his desire choked at him to do the one thing the animal inside him willed him to do.
Claim.
The secondhand pain was even difficult to bear.
But he did.
For her.
She ignored whatever feelings she had at that. She had to.
His golden irises moved down her body slowly, in direct conflict with the chaos in his eyes. They traced her collarbone as forcefully as his large callused hands might. Then they moved, circling her nipple in a gaze so intense that Sophie audibly gasped.
If her eyes had not been glued to him, she would’ve sworn he’d touched her, tweaked her nipple, suckled it. But his hands stayed at either side of her head, caging her in.
Her thighs throbbed with need and her breath became shallower as he steadily moved his eyes downward, past the droplets of water snaking past her belly button, over the ridges of her hips.
“Wolf,” she gasped as his eyes focused on her core with a force that must have been supernatural. His mere gaze was edging her toward climax.
That was impossible.
Didn’t you just think about the fact that nothing was impossible? the rational witch inside her asked. She never got much stage time.
“Beg,” he growled again, his voice a caress and a whip at the same time. His eyes were still on her pussy, as if they were devouring her. He licked his lips.
Sophie struggled to stay upright, to not wrap her legs around his waist and ride the hard length pressing against his jeans.
But that would mean you give in. You surrender. That would mean he owns you.
She ripped her eyes upward. “No.” She ground the word out with physical pain.
Again the beast ripped at his irises, his body as tight as a nocked bow. She thought for a delicious moment that he might break his word, that he might yank her to him and devour her like the wolf in the story, destroy her.
Parts of her ached for that.
But he stepped back.
“You will,” he promised.
And then he left.
Then he fucking left.
Chapter Six
“Do you have a death wish?” Sophie demanded, whirling on the wolf the second she sensed his presence.
She got the idea that he’d been following her the entire time and she was only just realizing it, and that pissed her right off.
They were in the strangely deserted alley outside Dante’s Inferno. Not the book, the bar. Run by a demon. True story.
“Do you?” he demanded, fury injected into his voice, his eyes pointedly going to the bar behind them.
“Not today,” she snapped. “I’m meeting my bestie for a drink, not that the werewolf who’s about to be smote off the face of the earth needs that information to pass on to Hades, since I’m sure he knows already. He keeps dibs on Isla. His most coveted soul. If she has one.”
Conall did not seem to appreciate her tirade, which was fitting, since she didn’t appreciate his… everything.
Well that was a total lie, since she infuriatingly appreciated everything about him. He’d obviously changed out of his drenched clothes af
ter he’d left her naked and wanting in the shower. He’d trimmed his stubble slightly, but his hair was still beautifully wild.
“This is not just a drink,” he ground out.
She tilted her head. “And I agree to disagree.” He wasn’t to know that nine out of ten times she and Isla had a ‘drink,’ it ended in some kind of battle. Or explosion. Or small civil war. “And you can keep playing with your own demise by following me, wolf.”
Then she turned on her booted foot before she did something incredibly stupid like run up to him and kiss the life out of him instead of stamping the life out of him as she should’ve.
He followed her into the bar, every inch of his body radiating in fury. His entire being screamed at him to snatch her, with force if need be, and take her away from danger. Because he knew blood would be spilled that night. His beast could sense it. And was hungry for it.
Sophie seemed to be hungry for it too.
And he was hungry for her.
Leaving her wet, naked, and near mad with desire hours before had been hands down the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.
The entire afternoon was spent trying to sate his need with his hand. Then, when that didn’t work, he’d hunted a cluster of demons.
Tearing them limb from limb hadn’t helped him at all. He was worried he might tip over into insanity if he didn’t have her soon. Only one memory of being inside her was worse than having none, because he knew how perfect his woman was, how it felt to have her milk his orgasm from her body. And that was worse than anything his imagination could conjure up.
But he would not force her, not even when her eyes and body begged for it. Only when her words did.
He might yet go insane, but rather that than hurt his mate.
So that was why he sat there in the corner all night, not moving a muscle as demons, vampires, warlocks, and every other kind of creature frequenting the bar tried to hit on what was there.
Tried being the operative word. And the only reason he’d stayed seated.
Every single immortal who sauntered up to his witch either got turned around with a confused look on their face, as if they didn’t remember their own name, or doubled over in pain.
That pleased him.
Then there was the redheaded vampire who sauntered in, battling a demon on entrance after declaring her coupling with a Praseates.
Daring, and almost suicidal.
Definitely crazy.
Dangerous.
So obviously she was Sophie’s friend.
He clenched his fists against the table, cutting into his palms as his claws extended.
Even he had encountered the infamous she-vampire. She was as mad as she was strong, legendary in battle, and known for causing more trouble to both the mortal and immortal worlds than any other creature on this earth.
Hades himself included.
The demon the vampire had punched was writhing on the floor. She regarded him as little more than a doorstop as she glanced up at Conall’s mate, drinking a cocktail with an umbrella sticking out of it of all things, looking bored. Like she’d seen this before.
My warrior.
“Cute boots,” the vampire noted.
Sophie glanced down, extending her long leg so she—and every hot- and cold-blooded male in the bar—could see it. Her beautiful face scrunched up. “Thanks. They’re new. I was wondering if they went with this outfit.”
Conall’s claws cut into the wood.
Outfit.
Was that what she called it?
His mate showed a lot of skin. So much so it caused him to near decapitate anyone who glanced her way—which was everyone. He might like it, if she had been properly claimed by him, so everyone would see what was his, but everyone most certainly couldn’t fucking touch.
As it was, she wasn’t claimed by him, hence the homicidal thoughts at every new torture device designed to taunt him with her perfect body.
That night it was a black sheathe that barely covered her peach ass and molded to every one of her sinful curves.
Conall’s shaft throbbed painfully.
The boots in question were thigh high, only showing a sliver of skin despite the dress’s lack of coverage. It only made her look more naked somehow. And Conall more crazed.
There had been further conversation about the boots, like they were in a Macy’s instead of a bar with an incapacitated demon bleeding everywhere.
The vampire was grinning with a look of pure madness. She was where Sophie fit into this rebellion. He was sure of it. She was the reason his mate was in danger.
His immediate instinct was to end her. Right now.
But they were friends. Such an action would hurt Sophie and likely make sure he lost her forever.
“Oh, can you do some mojo to make sure his healing is at the rate of a human?” the vampire asked Sophie conversationally. “Or even a… I don’t know, what heals slower than a human?” she mused while twisting her heel into the demon’s rib cage.
Both she and Sophie acted like this was nothing.
Sophie scrunched her nose with an adorable edge that did not betray the fact that they were talking about the torture and potential death of a demon. Not that Conall liked them. He despised them, in fact. He’d just never encountered such women. They were more bloodthirsty than even wolf females.
Which was why he hadn’t been mated with one. Not bloodthirsty enough. He’d thought his mate would be calmer, to tame him, but now he knew she had to be even wilder than him so they could embrace chaos together.
“Not much,” Sophie answered the vampire’s question. “Human it is.”
Immediately the scent of her magic enveloped him. It was a homing beacon to him now; he’d recognize it even when surrounded by other spellcasters. It was sweet, intoxicating, with a hint of menace that both excited and terrified him.
Because it was yet to be determined whether the menace would control Sophie or she would control it.
“Thanks,” the vampire said once the spell was done.
Sophie was studiously ignoring him, but even now he scented her desire for him.
She raised her glass to the vampire. “Anytime.”
If that was how their ‘drinks’ began, Conall hated to think how the rest of the night would go.
How many deaths would add up to be given to Hades?
He didn’t much care.
One thing he was certain of was that it wouldn’t be his mate’s.
The death began quicker than anticipated, nowhere near the end of the night. Conall had been so concentrated on listening to the conversations of witches and curses and Russia, he had not scented the enemies until they had burst through the doors of the bar.
Obviously their target was Sophie.
He was across his table and ripping the throat of a demon out in less than a second.
The vampire reacted just as quickly, blocking a werewolf in mid-transition from coming near Sophie. Conall roared at the danger, half changing so he could take down a vampire with its fangs extended.
Sophie’s magic blanketed the air as he ripped through his foes to get to her, save her.
But she was not in need of saving. No. Her hair fluttered in the wind though there was no breeze that night. Her palms were cyan blue and her eyes were glowing.
Fucking glowing.
And every single attacker who even veered toward her toppled to the ground. Some without their heads. All of them dead.
He didn’t have time to marvel at her magnificence. Even with her power, the vampire’s fighting skill, and the demon behind the bar, there were more enemies than perhaps they could handle.
No! the beast roared. His mate would not perish. Not that night.
He tore at enemies with a ferocity that he didn’t realize he was capable of without changing completely. Vampires tore at his skin, demons broke bones, but none of it slowed him, nor even gave him pause.
The air was thick around Sophie, sweet and sour as she dealt death like she cont
rolled the deadliest blackjack known to immortals—and the house always won. The redheaded vampire tore into the growing mob with more viciousness and strength than he’d seen from some of his fiercest warriors.
She hadn’t blinked when a horned demon—not wearing a human form, almost unheard of—started for her. He knew that most immortals—most smart immortals—would’ve known that death was certain and would’ve run. Demons in their true forms were stronger than most turned wolves.
But the vampire was either stronger than most, stubborner than most, or more stupid.
He reasoned it was a combination of all three when the demon threw her across the room and Conall caught her, setting her on her feet as he saw her chest bone jutting outward. A nasty wound, even for a vampire. He scented death on her.
His need to protect Sophie yanked at his gaze as she was quickly surrounded by attackers. She was fighting them off, but he would not let her do it alone. Though the vampire would likely die without his help, and though he hated them, this particular one was the only friend he had seen Sophie with, and after the scene with the witches, he knew she needed friends—strong ones.
The vampire must have sensed that, as she grinned up at him. Grinned amongst the death and destruction around them and within her.
He was wrong—she was not strong, stubborn, or stupid.
She was just insane.
“Chill, Cujo. I’ve got this one,” she said, winking. Her eyes went to Sophie, whose own irises were glowing as the air became bitter with a more dangerous magic. His beast roared at him. She was in more danger from what was within her than every immortal in this room.
The vampire’s eyes were grim. “Go and make sure the magic inside Sophie doesn’t have her head twisting all types of ways, won’t you? We’ve got enough excitement for tonight.”
She stepped back toward the demon that would likely kill her, and Conall’s beast took control as he sprinted toward his mate.
Toward the witch who was quickly replacing his mate.