by D. D. Miers
“Let's get out of here,” Alana said, turning away. “There's not much here worth seeing.”
They retraced their steps out of the wrecked building and through the thick crowd until they reached the empty sidewalk across the street.
“You’ll be at the meeting later this week, right?” Nolan asked.
“Yeah,” Alana sighed and rolled her neck to relieve her tension. “I’ll be there.”
“Don’t act so excited to get the chance to see me again,” he joked before turning to head back toward the mage headquarters. “I’ve got more to check out. Feel free to come along if you want.”
“You know, exploded buildings at three a.m. aren’t really my thing, but thanks.”
“Whatever.” Nolan shrugged. “If you didn't catch anything at the heart of the explosion, it's not likely you'd sense anything anywhere else. No sense bringing a bloodhound with nothing to hunt."
"Is that what I am?" Alana tipped her head to the side. "A bloodhound?"
"You're definitely a bitch," Nolan said with a wink. She scowled, but he laughed and turned away, back to his work, giving her tacit permission to go home and maybe catch a few more hours of sleep.
But instead of hurrying off, she lingered, looking up at the burning building, embers glowing against the pitch-black sky. Even the stars were obscured by the volume of thick black smoke.
Why here?
The magic definitely had the same tag as whoever had released Damon, but what did the mage building have to do with releasing warlocks? Was it Damon himself who'd set off the explosion? Was it tactical, meant to frighten them? But if he intended to cause fear and chaos, then why so late at night? At this hour, there wasn't likely to be anyone in the building. Even the most dedicated work addicts were usually at home in bed by three. If he'd set it off around eleven this morning, he could have killed dozens of the DOSA’s mages and apprentices. But he'd waited till there was no one here. Why?
Unless his goal wasn't to kill, but to destroy something in the building . . .
“Lana?”
Her head snapped up bringing her wide-eyed focus square upon her sister. “Taylor?”
“What are you doing here?” Taylor demanded.
“Just . . . wrong place, wrong time, I guess.”
Taylor raised a critical eyebrow.
"I saw the fire and stopped to check out what was burning."
“You really shouldn’t be here.”
Alana’s gaze drifted pointedly to the rubbernecking crowd around them. “And what about all of them?”
"Set a better example," Taylor said. "Hanging out around a crime scene like this is dangerous. I don't want you getting hurt."
Her genuine concern left Alana guilty for lying. She wished she could tell Taylor that they were both trying to do the same thing. Alana wanted to protect her too. Taylor stood in the middle of more than just an exploding bomb.
“Fine.” Alana waved her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m going. See you at breakfast.”
Before Taylor could counter otherwise, she turned and started walking.
"And next time you go on a date make sure you're willing to stay the night before you go home with him!" Taylor called after her.
Alana glanced back and flashed her middle finger. "At least I get dates!"
Taylor just shook her head and looked away, but the moment of brief sibling banter lifted Alana's sprits—even if just a little.
The din of the investigation behind her quieted as she turned the next corner. She rubbed her stinging eyes in an effort to ease the burn from the smoke and the ache from little sleep. This craziness had to stop. She needed a month off to recuperate. She liked to think she’d scrounge together the cash for a beach vacation, but she’d probably just crawl back to Taylor’s place and spend the entire time catatonic on her couch. All that assuming she could stop Damon before he murdered her and everyone she’d ever cared about. She was too tired to think about her looming demise right now. She couldn’t deal with Damon while the thought of doing anything but sleeping for a week made her want to lay down and cry.
She leaned against the rough brick of a nearby building as she continued to massage the migraine out of her temples, when suddenly her hand was wrenched away that had her opposite hand swinging in a tight fist.
It slammed directly into the palm of Jaxon Stol, and rather than letting her jump back, his fingers curled in a hold around her fist. “You do have a way of getting yourself into trouble often, don’t you?”
She wanted to be angry, should’ve been angry, but it was difficult when all she could think about was how much she wanted to place her head on his big, gorgeous chest and take a nap. She was too tired to even be turned on right now.
“Call it a life skill,” she muttered before her brow wrinkled in question. “You’re not the one who blew up the mage office, are you? Cause if you did, let me tell you, I am not too tired to kick your ass.”
“No,” he said through a breathy laugh. “If I wanted Nolan dead, he’d be dead. And you look too tired to be standing up straight, let alone kicking anyone’s ass.”
“Oh, yeah?” Anger flared in her chest, overwhelming the exhaustion. She pulled her hand free of his grip and shoved it into his chest, shoving him forward and pinning him between her and the wall at his back. “And if you did want to kill Nolan, would that be because he’s a mage and heads Magique or because he’s shown an interest in me?”
His molten eyes stared back at her, unthreatened. Amused, he smiled, but his intense gaze made Alana’s stomach flutter in interest. “Can I say both?”
Turned on or not, he was still a suspect. Alana shook off her butterflies, rolled her eyes, and took a step back. “Okay, what are you here for, then?”
“I need your help.”
Laughter burst from her lips, bright and unexpected. He’d said it so frankly and openly. She hadn’t thought a guy like him would ever be so straightforward about asking for help. His type tended to be annoyingly prideful and stubborn. It was refreshing to hear a guy wasn’t afraid to rely on her. If that’s what he was actually after.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, suspiciously as she waited.
“Okay, not entirely.”
“And there it is,” Alana sighed, disappointed.
“It’s . . . more of an opportunity,” Jaxon said, and smiled that infuriating smile at her again, leaning closer.
Despite herself, Alana was interested.
“Trust me, you want in on this.”
Chapter 7
As it turned out, the opportunity was in Alana’s favor.
Of the two warlocks, Damon was the one who’d unsettled her waking hours with his virulent warning. Jaxon, she’d yet to figure out, beyond the insane amount of attraction she felt whenever he was near. It tugged on her and begged her to throw herself at him, against all conventions.
Warlocks never mixed with others, especially not someone like her. Even beyond her position at TBHU making her an actual threat to his life, her condition as Fae kissed made her a magical pariah. No one wanted to get involved with her.
She headed home and, instead of passing out like she desperately wanted to, she spent the next several hours at the apartment setting up wards. She didn’t often have this opportunity while Taylor was out of the house. She’d have a hard time explaining to her sister why she flipped the couch to hide magical seals on the underside or dabbed all the door rames with salt and sage and a little of her own blood. Once all the physical components were in place, she sat on the sofa, meditating as she connected her power to the shields that would defend the apartment. They were not foolproof, but knowing the barrier was there to protect her in her absence gave her a false sense of security.
Meditating took on another level of difficulty when exhausted. She’d soon dozed off against those ugly floral throw pillows and slept through most of the day, barely noticing Taylor coming and going except for waking up at some point to realize her sister had thrown
a blanket over her.
She woke up, groggy and agitated but at least better rested, in the early evening just a few hours before she was supposed to meet Jaxon. Quietly hating her life and wishing she could just relax in front of the TV for once, she showered and got ready. She couldn’t resist dressing up a bit, imaging Jaxon’s heated gaze on her. The black leather miniskirt had been a birthday gift from Taylor that she rarely wore, but she pulled it on today along with a tank top that flattered her figure and a leather jacket.
Jaxon hadn’t given her many details of where they’d be headed. Instead, he’d teased her that the event was one warlocks couldn’t resist. Alana had quickly filled in the blanks. Something warlocks couldn’t resist would include his brother, Damon.
Having turned down his offer to pick her up at her place—she didn't want him to know where she lived just yet—she agreed to meet him outside the building they’d be spending their late evening at.
He was not punctual. Typical.
Her outfit choice quickly proved to have been a mistake as she stood outside the entrance of a high-rise shivering in the cold. Her stylish jacket barely offered any protection against the chilled wind and did not protect her bare legs in the stupid miniskirt.
“Goddamn asshole,” she said beneath her breath as more people meandered past with a curious side-glance at her.
Loudly, Alana groaned in frustration after fifteen minutes had already passed before a sleek, black car pulled up directly in front of her. She’d nearly given up hope Jaxon would even show, and barely paid it any mind as the back door swung open.
She paid very close mind though when he was the one to step out in jeans that hugged his hips and a dark T-shirt that drew her eyes across the sculpted form of his muscles.
“My eyes are up here,” he grinned, forcing her attention to rise in a slow crawl up the front of his chest.
“Have I offended you?” she teased while finally settling on the mischievous squint of his eyes.
“If I got offended every time someone stared at my chest, I’d never stop being offended. I’ve got better things to worry about.” His head nodded toward the door. “Come on, it’s cold out here.”
“I know,” she said, while hurrying along with him inside. “I was stranded out in the cold waiting for you, your fucking highness.”
He gave her a wicked. They stepped into a large, industrial elevator, while she watched with a deep curiosity as he hit the button for the top floor.
“Really? A penthouse party?” She wasn’t certain whether to be impressed or placid.
“So judgmental,” he said, as he leaned back against the far wall. “Tonight is the Cauldron Conclave. Once every fifty years or so, a dormant current of magic awakens. The location is never the same, and as far as I’m aware, this is the first time it’s been this far off the ground. It took some time to find a suitable place to tap into it.”
Alana’s mind raced with the possibilities of such magic and wondered how it would affect her or if she could use it to her advantage.
“Oh,” he said with another smile, “we warlocks can’t resist attending. My brother, included.”
“Mmm, you mentioned as much, though now it makes sense why.” Mostly.
He pulled himself lazily from the wall when the elevator’s ding sounded. With a hand at her lower back, he urged her out and into the awaiting gathering. The skin beneath her thin T-shirt flushed with the heat of his touch, but it was hard to focus on that one connection when there was so much to see ahead.
The entire open floor was crowded with magic and people. The air hummed with energy. And it wasn’t just warlocks here. Alana saw mages of all stripes, and a few other, less straightforward magical creatures. Possibly even Fae. Everyone moved around a dark dance floor, partaking liberally in a bar set up against a nearby wall. Heavy black velvet drapes segmented comfortable seating areas from the dance floor, where dim lights flickered and swayed over the heated skin of the writhing dancers. A mundane human would assume it was an average party. But to Alana the magic was as palpable as the music, which thrummed loud and low, the base vibrating against her skin. As she stepped out of the elevator with Jaxon at her side, she knew she was onto something in calling him "your highness."
Along their path, people parted, stepping clear of his direction and nodding their heads out of respect. He took it all in stride, though not without a prideful lift to his chin. Alana was also bombarded with curiously sideswept glances. She kept her head down, pulling her hair in front of her face. She didn’t want to be recognized here, or to risk someone remembering she’d been here on the arm of a warlock.
He loved every second of it.
“Over there,” he motioned with a nod of his head.
Several people stood across the room with their palms up amidst a buzzing funnel of energy. Even from afar, she felt the tinge of magic in the air, compelling her to taste it.
Until Damon stepped across the forefront of her vision. She stilled, prey to her swirling thoughts, as she looked at the face that had never left her darkened dreams. She may have been the one to start the betrayal, but he’d threatened not only her, but anyone who touched her heart as well.
she’d kill him herself.
Hell-bent, she strode forward, only for Jaxon to pull her back hard, slamming her against his chest while his lips dipped close to her ear. “Don’t.”
She fought against him with an angered but futile wrench of her arm. “What the hell did you bring me here for if you aren’t going to let me go after him?”
“I’m saving your ass. You should be thankful. That talisman he’s wearing, it—”
“Saving my ass? If I don’t get to that asshole first, he’ll kill me and my sister.”
With a gruff expression, he dragged her away from the crowd.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Keeping you alive,” he said before shoving her through the first open door they came to. Swinging her inside the narrow study, he followed close behind and slammed the door at his back, sealing them in, free of prying eyes.
“Let me the fuck out,” Alana said as he stood firm before the door like a brick wall.
“You’re being rash, and ridicul—”
She lunged at him with a lightning-fast flick of the knife she’d tucked into her pocket earlier. She aimed toward the meat of his arm with dark determination. She’d get out of that damn door if it killed her.
Set off course by his swiftly raised defense, she found her forward momentum halted as a thick arm wrapped in a coil around her waist. His form pressed against her back, flooding her with an undeniable heat. She swung in a perfect arc backward at his still stance.
In an instant she was freed and spun back with another attempted attack. Her knife sunk through the fabric of his shirt, ripping a lengthy gash over the top of his shoulder. A thin line of crimson blossomed against his skin, and in her split moment of distraction, he latched onto her knife-wielding wrist with an iron grip.
Shoved backward by his imposing stride, she gritted her teeth against the tightened squeeze that soon had her weapon falling free of her hand. “Asshole,” she breathed, before his focus changed entirely.
His hand slipped around the back of her neck and in the span of a single exhale, he dragged her hard against his lips.
Chapter 8
Jaxon's grip was as firm as the kiss, holding her in place as she struggled, fighting the swell of warmth that made her want to melt into his touch.
She'd been imagining this since she first set eyes on him, and he tasted even better than she'd hoped. The heat of his breath, his tongue against her lips, made her thoughts almost hazy enough to forget how pissed off she was. Almost.
Her nails bit into her palm as she curled her hand into a fist and slammed it hard into Jaxon's chiseled jaw. He reeled back, stunned, and Alana caught herself on a desk behind her, trying to gather her senses after the intense kiss.
“Don't ever,” she hissed, drag
ging the back of her hand over her mouth, “touch me without my permission again.”
Jaxon grinned, rubbing his jaw and swaggering a step closer. His eyes were as heated as hers, the hunger obvious. Alana felt it, too, slowly overwhelming her rage. Damn it. Was she really that easy to distract? She eyed his chest, the shift of muscles in his shoulders as he approached her, and cursed under her breath. Yeah, she really was.
Jaxon stopped an inch away from her. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin but not yet touching. His burning eyes fixed on her parted lips as he looked down at her, almost curving over her, filling her entire field of vision.
“May I?” he whispered, and Alana lost her willpower. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him back down into a rough, hungry kiss. He growled, a low and hungry sound, his hands at her hip and her throat again, pulling her tight against him. She hooked a leg around him, leaning back against the desk behind her for support. Her fingers gripped his shirt like a lifeline, like she'd drown without his kiss. His hands slipped down her sides, making her shiver as they squeezed her hips before finding purchase on her ass. He lifted her abruptly, setting her on the surface of the desk to drag her legs around his waist, shamelessly palming at her thighs.
She broke the kiss to gasp for air and he only took the opportunity to kiss a burning trail down her throat, making her gasp and shudder.
“We shouldn't be doing this,” she said, even as her fingers tangled in his dark hair. All her better senses knew this was a mistake. She needed to be going after Damon. She needed to be protecting Taylor. She did not need to be making out with the hot brother of the guy who wanted to kill her. But her body ignored it all. She'd been stressed to hell, barely sleeping, completely alone, and she was ready to say a big fuck you to anyone who got between her and what she needed right now. She needed to feel good. She needed to forget how afraid and angry she was. And fuck it, Jaxon was gorgeous and willing and the feeling of his big, calloused hands on her skin made her head spin with desire.