Tales of the Golden Judge: 3-Book Bundle - Books 4-6

by Hart, Melissa F.

  “You're up.”

  She spun around, and there was the man who had spoken to her before. In the low light of the dawn, she could see him more clearly, and if anything, he was even more appealing now. Dressed only in a pair of well-worn jeans that hugged his body, she could see his powerfully muscled torso and strength of his arms. His face was sensual, with a mouth that seemed made for kissing, and his eyes were that golden honey color that she had dreamed about through her fractured sleep.

  “So I am,” she agreed. He was a predator, but there was something about him that set her immediately at ease. She was almost tempted to go sit down on the couch to see if he would join her, but that was perhaps a little forward. Instead, she looked him up and down, realizing that he was returning the favor with an appreciative glint in his eye.

  “You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “It's my job.”

  “Your job?” Yvonne's eyes widened when she realized what he meant. “You're a judge!”

  Judges, formally known as the Golden Order, were the protectors of the shapechangers. They were law keepers, justice-seekers, and when the occasion called for it, they were also executioners. Their appointment was typically for life, handed down from one to the other, usually along a family line, but not always.

  In return for their lifelong commitment to justice and the protection of a vulnerable people, they were given special powers that none of the shapechangers had. Some controlled ice, sending blades of glacial sharpness through the air, and others controlled the wind, whipping up fierce tornadoes to overthrow their enemies

  This man, this weretiger, controlled one of the most volatile elements of all, that of fire, and now he smiled at her, summoning up a playful flame to dance on his fingertips.

  “Morgan Durrant, at your service, ma'am,” he drawled.

  “You sound like the new sheriff in town,” she teased, and he nodded, coming to sit on the couch that she had so recently vacated. He sprawled on the couch, legs spread wide, regarding her with those yellow eyes that captivated her.

  “In some ways I am,” he agreed. “There's been some trouble here, and Carson Keynes called me.”

  Yvonne frowned. Carson Keynes, a werewolf who controlled ice, was one of the judges of the city, and he was notoriously prickly and independent. He wouldn't have called in outside help unless it was serious, and from the grim look on Morgan's face, it looked like it was.

  “What kind of trouble?” she asked.

  He scowled. “It's nothing for you to worry about.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “When something tries to take my head off by the shores of one of my favorite haunts, you can bet your head that it's something to worry about,” she said sternly.

  He looked abashed, but still stubborn, and Yvonne could feel her hot temper draw a spark.

  “You saw me, didn't you?” she asked softly.

  “What do you mean?” He looked wary, but she could already tell what he was thinking.

  “You saw me change. You saw what I changed into.”

  Slowly, he nodded, and she felt her temper glide a little higher.

  “You think I can't handle myself. You think I'm helpless, like some little songbird.”

  “I hardly think that,” he said. “I saw you lunge for the thing, whatever it was, as soon as you got yourself clear. That's not the work of a songbird.”

  “But you're still holding out on me.”

  He snorted, and she could sense that this man definitely had a temper of his own. As fluid as fire, he rose to his feet, and he approached her slowly. There was something indolent about him, something that said that it could pounce if it wanted to, that it could take what it wanted and leave nothing at all behind.

  “I owe no allegiance to you, little swan,” he told her, his voice soft and mild. “I don't think you can tell me to do anything.”

  She held her ground, even if there was something shouting in the back of her brain and telling her that she needed to be away from him, far away. She hated that part of herself, the part that was descended from the swans. It held the memory of a thousand, thousand hunts, of fear, terror and flight.

  “You can feel it now, can't you?” he asked, his voice soft and rough. “You know what I am and you want to run... No, you want to fly.”

  Yvonne grit her teeth and clenched her fists. “What the hell do you think you know about me?” she demanded, watching him as he crept closer and closer. “What the hell do you think you know about what I want or what I need?”

  His laugh was close to a purr, and he stopped a few feet from her, watching her with bright and amused eyes. “I knew it on the beach,” he said smoothly, showing his teeth a little. “I smelled you, little swan.”

  “What did you smell on me, then?” she asked, and she knew that her voice came out soft and longing rather that hot.

  “I smelled fear, first,” he admitted. This close to him, she could smell him as well, a musky male scent that surely no male wereswan had ever given off. Her assignations before this had always been with shapechangers closer to her own family, birds and others. There had been no hunters as large or as fierce as Morgan Durrant, and now she felt her knees turn to water.

  “Fear, and then overwhelming bravery,” he continued. “I could scent that in the air, do you understand? I could sense the challenge in you, and the total lack of concern for what would happen. No, not just lack of concern, you were eager for it, weren't you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but he nodded, suddenly convinced of his own words.

  “Yes, you wanted a challenge. You needed someone to spar with, someone who would give as good as he got. Have you ever had that before, little swan?”

  “What do you think?” she asked, glad that her voice was challenging and hard again. “What do you think you know about me, Judge?”

  “Are you inviting me to make my guesses?” he asked innocently. “Remember that we of the Golden Order see far and deep. Perhaps you would not like what I found...”

  Yvonne tossed her head, and as she did, she saw those extraordinary eyes drop down to the gap in the blanket where she held the edges together. A thought came to her and she smiled, soft and inviting.

  “Tell me, then, Judge,” she said. “I want to hear your words of wisdom.”

  He straightened, and there was something serious about him now. She could imagine this grave look on his face when he laid down the law, when he settled disputes between two warring factions and when he needed to kill for the protection of his people. There was a deep weight to his gaze, and despite her bravado, she quivered. Those golden eyes saw everything, and suddenly, she was... not afraid, but nervous.

  His gaze traveled up and down her body, and finally, their gazes locked. She looked deep into him, and she could feel his own gaze on her, seeking, searching, and surprisingly gentle.

  “You're swan-blooded,” Morgan started, and his voice was as rich and vibrant as a shot of whiskey. “You're descended from the line of Odile, the white swans, and your beast blood runs strong in your veins. Some of the wereswans choose to live as lovely humans, finding their lovers from the highest places in society. They turn their back on their blood to live as the beauties in the penthouses, on the television screen and in the mansions.”

  She started to protest, but he was already shaking his head.

  “Not you, though,” he said softly. “Not you, never you. Some people call the swans cold, but no one could ever look at you and think that. I knew that from the moment I saw you, lovely and bare on the shore. I knew that you were fire, made to burn an unwary hand. I knew that you could give me word for word, blow for blow.”

  Yvonne licked her lips and found her voice. “Is that what you want, Judge?” she asked softly. “Do you want to fight me?”

  He laughed. “Everything with you is a fight,” he retorted. “It would not matter if I turned into a tiger, or into a rat or into a swan like yourself. You are a fighter. You do not feel
alive unless you are pushing and challenging yourself, learning more, and gaining every advantage. If a thing is too easy, you don't want it.”

  Yvonne laughed, surprised. “You see truly, Morgan,” she said, and she was rewarded by a devilish smile.

  “You called me by my name. Now are you going to let me call you by yours?”

  Yvonne realized that he didn't know who she was, and she grinned. “It is Yvonne,” she said, “Yvonne Desmarais. I am of the line of Odile, as you said, and yes, I am a fighter.”

  He nodded, and his gaze turned stern again.

  “Well, Yvonne, daughter of the line of Odile, I am Morgan Durrant. I am tiger-blooded, and my family has roamed the mountains and the jungles of the world. I was made a judge on my eighteenth birthday, and I have held this position and the power of fire in my hands for the past eleven years. My authority is absolute for those who change their shapes, and I say that there is nothing more for you to do about the thing that attacked you.”

  Yvonne's temper licked up as if it had never been quenched by his charming words, and she stepped up to him until she was looking up at his face. She didn't care how much larger he was than her, or how easily she knew he could tear her to bits. She didn't care at all, and when she spoke, it was with a swan-like hiss.

  “That thing that attacked me was attacking me,” she snarled. “It came after me. Perhaps it knew me or knew my family, or perhaps it only saw a woman standing on the beach and vulnerable. No matter what it was or who it was, it was after me, and by God, I have a right to know!”

  “What could you do if you knew?” Morgan insisted. “What in the world could you do if you knew the name and the face of this thing? It almost took you apart. It almost ate you whole.”

  A part of Yvonne agreed with the judge. She could still feel its weight on top of her, its savage strength and its raw power. There would always be a part of her that wanted to flee and to fly away, but she had had her whole life to quell that cowardly instinct.

  “It almost ate you whole as well,” she said, and she had the satisfaction of seeing that blow strike home. She pressed her advantage, deliciously aware of how large Morgan was, and how powerful. Now she had made him still and quiet.

  “I saw you fight that thing,” she said confidently. “You were riding a rough edge, judge. It was powerful, and you were powerful, but you didn't drive it off, not until I came to your rescue...”

  “Rescue!” he sputtered.

  “I would call it that,” she purred. “You had your jaws latched on nothing, and you would have done very poorly if I had not entered the fight.”

  “Perhaps I would not have had to enter the fight at all if a little swan had not chosen to go swimming all bare and beautiful,” he said, teasing, and her temper lit like a bonfire.

  “You loved watching,” Yvonne snarled, her voice rising. “You loved it in the moonlight, and you praised me for it. Do not come sniveling to me about needing to battle because some lunatic decided that I was easy meat!”

  Her voice died down, but they could both hear the echoes in the cabin of her rage and her fury.

  It had happened too often in her life. She was beautiful, and she was swan-blooded. It meant something when she was drawn to the predatory males, the wolves and the coyotes and the bears, and too often she had been blamed first for teasing, and then for saying no when she’d had enough.

  “I am not responsible for what a monster does,” she said angrily.

  “You're right,” he said, shaking his head. “You're entirely right, and I misspoke. You are not responsible for that monster's actions, or for mine. You are only responsible for your own. I forgot that, and please, forgive me for my mistake.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, searching his face to detect any hint of mirth or insincerity there. She found none. “I've never heard a man with predatory blood in his veins say something like that before,” she said softly.

  “Then you have been in very bad company, little swan,” he said, taking a step back. “A judge is meant to protect everyone, and if that has been your experience, I am even sorrier.”

  “Morgan...”

  “You'll get nothing from me except what you want,” he said sincerely.

  “That,” she said softly, “is what I have been waiting to hear for my entire life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Instead of replying, Yvonne let the wool blanket she had been holding on to fall to the floor, and in the slowly lightening room, she knew that Morgan could see every part of her. He could see the small soft swell of her breasts, the width of her hips, the sweet curve of her belly, the shimmer of the pale hair that hung down her back. She was tall and beautiful, and she could read his desire the way she could read a book.

  Morgan started to say something, but then she was in his arms, nuzzling her face against his chin and wrapping her arms tight around him. He felt just as good as she thought he would He was all hard muscle against her soft curves, and when she buried her face into his chest, he made a deep guttural sound that pulsed all the way through her.

  “What are you doing?” he growled, and despite the sternness of his words, she could feel his cock stir under his jeans. With a soft smirk, she pressed herself against him even more closely, fitting herself to his body until he sighed.

  “I'm doing what I want,” she retorted. “I see something that pleases me, and I want it.”

  “You want me?” he asked softly, and she gazed up at him, challengingly.

  “Do you think you are up to it?” she taunted. “Do you think you can please me?”

  His eyes were golden fire, and she knew that she was not mistaken when she felt the air around them warm.

  “I know I can,” he said, and she laughed.

  She drew back for a moment, hands on her generous hips, and she looked him up and down, much as he had done to her. She could sense the heat coming off of him, and his desire was like a shimmer of heat in the air between them.

  Yvonne saw more than that. She saw that he would not move if she did not want him to. He would not touch her, would not lay one finger on her if she told him to go, and in that moment, a part of her broke open to him.

  “Show me,” she said, her chin raised high in challenge, and a savage grin broke across his face.

  He stepped close to her again, and he swept her into his arms, swinging her high and bringing her over to the couch.

  “I'll show you whatever you want,” he promised, lying her down on the plush cushions. “I will give you whatever you want, Yvonne, I swear it, and the moment you don't want it, the moment you want to stop, I will stop, do you understand?”

  She nodded, and with nothing more than that, his mouth was on hers, his tongue pushing between her lips. She opened her mouth to welcome his onslaught eagerly, drawing his tongue in and sucking on it lightly. Yvonne reveled in the taste of him, and she found herself clinging to his shoulders, urging him ever closer.

  “Let me taste you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let me... let me touch you, little swan...”

  She swallowed hard, and it wasn't until she nodded that his mouth trailed from her lips to her neck. He lapped gently along the pulsing vein there, and he stopped to measure her pulse, simply taking in the feel of her.

  Yvonne felt as if he were waking up every nerve in her body because even as his mouth continued its tender ministrations, his hands trailed down the curves of her naked body, leaving her skin awake and tingling with need.

  The palm of one hand ghosted over her mons, just slightly brushing the tangle of pale hair there, as his mouth traveled leisurely down her body to one pert nipple.

  “You're lovely,” he said softly, his breath brushing softly against the tender skin there.

  She started to reply, but then he slid his tongue over the bud of her nipple, circling it gently before drawing it into his mouth. Yvonne sighed as he suckled, closing her eyes and giving in to the powerful things he was making her feel.

  There wa
s something so soft and sweet about the way that he touched her that she sank back into the couch, willing to let his hands roam as they wished. He toyed with her for long minutes, lapping at first one breast then the other, dragging his calloused palms up and down the sensitive skin of her belly and her sides.

  He stretched her nerves to breaking, and then, when she thought she couldn't take it any more, he started over. His lips were on hers, and her entire body sang with tension and need.

  Yvonne opened her eyes to look at him, and she grinned. “Whatever I want, huh?”

  “Always,” he said, and there was a promise that she would think about later in the way he said it.

  “Sit up on the couch, right now.”

  She shifted so that he could obey, and when he sat on the couch, both feet on the ground, she slithered up to him, kissing his lips and biting them just hard enough to make him moan.

  “You're beautiful,” she said softly, “and oh how I will enjoy you.”

  Morgan was going to pay for the torturous pleasure he had given her, and Yvonne swore to herself that she would not stop until he was as awake and as needy as she was. She could see the bulge in his pants, and when she passed her hand over it gently, his entire body shivered.

  “Hands down by your sides,” she whispered. “That is what I want.”

  When he stilled, she slid on to his lap, straddling him and resting her bare sex directly against his clothed cock. Split like this, they could both smell her, but she ignored his moan to begin kissing him again. His dark hair was thick with just a hint of curl, and she ran her fingers through those thick locks, tugging gently until he was looking up at her.

  Yvonne leaned down to kiss him, taking her time about it, and as she did so, she rocked her hips against his cock.

  “Put your hands on my hips,” she whispered huskily, and he did so, squeezing the flesh there gently and then harder as she moaned with pleasure. The feel of his cock against her most secret place excited her, and she pressed harder against it. Her lips trailed down his neck, and as his hands pressed and squeezed her hips and her rear, she bit him.