Crowned by Fire

by Nenia Campbell

  With his chest bare, he looked even more dangerous. Lean and lightly muscled, he moved as lithely as a jaguar, causing the vials at his waist to shudder with movement as he shifted his weight to one hip. He had hair on his chest—not a lot, but more than she would expect. She had to look away from the line disappearing into his pants. Predator stirred a little, blinking her eyes sleepily, and wasn't at all displeased by what she saw.

  He was studying her just as intently. Muscles in his arms bunched as he wadded up the towel and tossed it aside. When he turned away, she noticed the front of his jeans bulged oddly, baring the zipper track of his fly, and she wondered, with a start, if it was because he had an erection.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom, shifter mine?”

  Catherine's mouth went dry. She slammed an imaginary cage door in her mind, locking Predator away. “Looking for you.” The witch—and his errant cock—were none of her concern.

  The witch raised one of his auburn eyebrows—they were the same color as the hair on his chest. “Is that right.”

  “Cassandra said to call you down for dinner. That's real classy, by the way, locking her out of her own house. Hey.” He had let his eyes slide from hers and was looking around, doing his best to ignore her as obviously as possible. Her temper flared. “Hey!”

  The witch turned, his nostrils flaring a little. “I thought we were done here.”

  His cool dismissal stung more than it should have. “Well, we're not. What happens now? We've seen your half-sister. She's told my fortune.”

  He frowned. “I don't know.” He glanced away from her again, apparently intent on ignoring her.

  Catherine snapped her fingers to reclaim his attention. “What's your problem?”

  “I'm thinking,” he said. “You said you can see auras?”

  She blinked, thrown by this apparent non-sequitur. “Yes. I told you that.”

  “And you said that all shifters can do it.”

  It wasn't a question the way he said it. Not quite. He was obviously probing for information to support an assumption he had already made. But for what? And why?

  Carefully, Catherine said, “All the shifters I know.”

  “Your family?”

  “Yes, my family.”

  This answer finally seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded, although the frown hadn't left his face and he still looked troubled. “Hmm.”

  Asshole. He was goading her on purpose. Impatient now, as well as annoyed, she said, “Why do you want to know?”

  The witch shrugged and stepped away from her. His sides flexed as he did, and she was angry at herself for noticing, for looking. He mistook her snort for impatience; when he turned around, his face was hard. “Your reaction to Cassandra's reading was strange. I was merely curious.”

  “What do you mean, strange?”

  “As she said, it isn't supposed to hurt. But were picking up on her readings. You read her mind as she read your future.” The witch's eyes narrowed and she made a small sound when he slammed his hand against the wall behind her. “Weren't you?”

  “I—I'm not sure.” She wished he was wearing a shirt.

  “I am.” He leaned in, his hand curling into a fist as he bore his weight on that arm. “It's just as I've been telling you all along. There is witch blood in your veins. You can no longer deny it. The proof is everywhere.”

  It made sense. Too much sense. But she couldn't accept it. To do so meant death. She shook her head furiously. “You're wrong.”

  “You can stop pretending,” he said. “I knew you for what you were the moment I saw the way that black magic reacted to your body.” He ran his fingers down her arm. “If I were going to turn you in, I would have done so already.”

  “Get out of my way,” she said numbly. “I'll get angry.”

  “What are you going to do, Catherine?” And the possessive way he said her name made her spine tingle. He never called her by name, not if he could help it. “If you try to hurt me, you hurt only yourself.”

  She grabbed onto his arm and he flinched, but not before she got a glimpse of the full spectrum of his emotions—jagged shards of anger, small burrs of fear, white-hot lust, and something else; something so wrapped up in resentment and self-loathing that she only got the faintest glimpse. But whatever it was, it was enough to scare her.

  The witch jerked back as if she'd burned him—and in a way, perhaps she had. “What was that?” he demanded. “What did you just do?”

  Catherine shook her head helplessly.

  “You did something. I felt it.”

  “I don't know,” she whispered. “I don't know what I did.”

  The witch growled in frustration. Sometime during this invasive inspection he had moved closer. Close enough that she could see the starry flecks of yellow that flared like sunbursts in his cat-like eyes, and the grim resolve in the set of his jaw.

  “You're all I think about,” he rumbled, as ominous as thunder before a storm. “Day and night. I'm starting to think that I've been cursed by you, my witchy beast.”

  “That isn't my problem.”

  “I am your problem,” he snapped. “And right now, I could just kill you.”

  “You keep saying that. Why don't you just do it?”

  She braced herself as he slammed her wrists over her head and stepped closer, molding his hips against hers. “I'd rather do this.” When she drew in a startled breath, he covered her mouth with his. She could feel his hard cock jutting into her belly, and it made her feel dizzy.

  When he finally pulled away, she said, “You're insane. You hate me.”

  “No.”

  His thumb stroked the inside of her wrists as he kissed down her throat. She winced, both at the burn of his silver ring and because she was prepared for the sting of his teeth, but he didn't bite her this time. She shuddered when he pressed his cool lips to the tops of her breasts. Her nipples hardened, jutting against the wispy fabric.

  The witch noticed, and his eyes focused with intent. He rubbed one between his fingers, until the cotton began to chafe, and she felt each pass of his thumb as much between her legs as she did in her breast.

  “I hate what you do to me.”

  He yanked her hair out of its bun, snapping the hair-tie around his wrist. His lips closed around the lace edge of her camisole and he tugged it down, baring the breast he'd been playing with. She shuddered violently, turning her face away when his mouth brushed bare skin for a heartbeat before her top slid back into place.

  It was not enough. She made a sound that caused her face to flame.

  The witch laughed, mockingly. “I hate what you make me feel. But I don't hate you. Try as I might.”

  Catherine's entire body was buzzing. In her rational mind, she knew that the witch was no better for her than poison, that this intoxication she felt was purely lust. But as a shape-shifter, she was automatically attracted to powerful, dominant males, and helpless to resist the instincts that made her feel like a bitch in heat. She could no more change what she was attracted to than a lion could its need for meat.

  Before she could form a protest, his mouth sealed over hers. He parted her lips with his, and kissed her so thoroughly that the bittersweet taste of him lingered long after he'd pulled away. Catherine found herself breathing quite hard.

  “What are you doing?” Her protest sounded like a last-ditch effort to her own ears. “You just…told me that you wanted me…dead.”

  The witch rubbed his cheek against hers. Marking his territory, she thought, alarmed, even as her nipples tingled and warmth burned between her legs. “Take off your top.”

  Catherine tried to swallow and found she could not. His voice was rough against her ear, powerfully intimate. “Are you fucking high?” she asked, even as her resolve drained away. She could feel every place where skin met skin. She wanted more. Gods help her.

  He pulled the flannel shirt down her arms, baring her shoulders. “If you want to leave, then leave.” His breath puffed against her
collarbone. Teeth sank lightly into her earlobe and she had to suppress the urge to arch against him. “Otherwise, you're going to lose that shirt when I tear it off.”

  Catherine could not move. She told herself it was because she did not want to appear weak, but she knew she was fooling herself. Her throbbing body was solid proof of the effect that he was having on her. “Your sister called us for dinner.” She intentionally used the wrong relationship to annoy him. Annoyance seemed to bring him back to his senses. Not this time, though. He was backing her towards his bed.

  She began to wonder if he could tear her shirt off. Part of her wanted him to try.

  As if the witch had read her mind, he took the strap of her camisole between his teeth and tugged, before letting it snap smartly against her skin. “Let her call.”

  Predator liked his arrogance, but she did not yield to her subjugation so easily. This time, when he tried to kiss her, she bit him.

  The witch dug his fingers into her arms, yanking off the flannel shirt roughly enough to sting, and bit her back. And then he must have given her a push, because her back was pressed against the musty-smelling sheets, and he was climbing on top of her to straddle her waist.

  He tugged down her camisole until both her breasts were spilling over the lace edge. The witch glanced at her, and then adjusted the fabric, so the weight of her breasts kept the fabric pinned down. Then his cool lips and tongue sealed around her nipple, and something in her gust twisted sharply, causing moisture to trickle between her legs.

  “Oh gods,” she said in a low voice.

  “We're both damned, you and I,” the witch growled softly, and she felt the vibration of it through his chest as he turned his attention to the other breast. “The gods can't help you now.” His cock was pressed between her legs, and the pressure of it made her breath come shorter. She could smell her own arousal, and this confused her, because she could not smell any magic to prompt it.

  Did that mean he wasn't using a glamor? Did that mean…she was attracted to witches? He bit her nipple firmly enough to cause pain, and she made a low sound.

  Very strong, Predator approved. Very powerful. Good match for us.

  Finn released her breast, thumbing the flushed tip, which had gone from brown to reddish brown. “What color is your cunt?” he asked, his voice husky in her ear.

  Catherine wavered, torn between conflicting sensations. “That's disgusting.”

  “But you like it that way, don't you? A quick, filthy fuck. A half-scratched itch for those dirty thoughts you don't dare speak aloud.” He ground his fingers into the denim covering her crotch and she bucked. “I imagine it's red,” he said. “Just like your mouth.”

  He was unbuttoning her jeans, sliding down the zipper of her fly. His mouth was just below her navel, trailing lower all the while, and she knew that if she didn't stop him, he was going to fuck her.

  Would it be so terrible?

  He seemed to be weaving bits of magic into his touch. Catherine had never heard of witches using magic during sex, although she supposed it made sense. She felt a cool chill ghost over her mouth, her breasts, followed by a kiss of heat that made her struggle beneath him; it seared her through her jeans, licking at her clit.

  The same power he had used to burn a man's hand off, he was using to seduce her. Catherine shivered from thoughts that had nothing to do with lust. “No,” she said thickly. “No magic. Don't use that shit on me.”

  “Am I frightening you, Catherine?”

  She swallowed hard. “It's a weapon,” she said, with effort. “Not a toy.”

  “Hmm.” He leaned over her. “So are your teeth, your nails, your…beasts. It's all about control. Power. I don't wield power like a brute.” The sweat on her skin suddenly, literally, turned to ice. He ran his finger along the melting crystals, and gave her a thin smile. “I use a firm, steady hand.”

  “Anyone can lose control.”

  “You have caused me to lose many things, but my control is not one of them.”

  That's a lie, she thought. She had seen him lose control. In the gully, he had lost it then. And when he'd kissed her. And saved her life.

  Could it prompt him to end it, too?

  Yes, she thought. It was all too easy for obsession to turn to hate; if one couldn't possess the object of one's desires, one might destroy it so that no one else could, either.

  “My mind,” the witch continued, in that soft, intense voice. “My soul. My reason. These are things that you have caused me to lose.” He tugged her jeans lower, roughly. “It seems only fitting that you lose something of yours.”

  She had closed her eyes, losing herself in the pleasure of his seduction, but that phrase made her open them. He had spoken…as if this were some kind of punishment to him.

  As if he were using sex to put her in her place, like some sort of subservient.

  “That's why I've decided to keep you when this is over. You know my proclivities, and given the weight of your secrets, I'm sure you can be persuaded to be discreet. Although, there are so many attendants at my father's estate, just running around, breeding like beasts. I doubt he'd notice one more among them.”

  He ran his hand over her belly, not noticing how stiff she had become.

  “Every prince needs a consort, shifter mine.”

  Catherine's eyes flew open. Prince?

  “And when the Council inevitably sets me up with another ice flower of a fiancee, it will be you who warms my bed at night. Not her.”

  He paused.

  “Perhaps I'll even give you a black beast of your own. They say the strength of the witch parent determines the true potency of the offspring—I'm curious what will happen when the shifter in question is already a hybrid herself. As far as I know, there is no name for that phenomenon…because it has never been done.”

  Chapter Three

  From the moment Finn laid eyes on her, he had wanted to fuck this golden creature. This was a truth that had tortured him well into the night with its visceral inexorability; he wanted her, and, as with most pleasures denied, the delay of gratification made him desire her even more. She was like the wind, as elusive as she was necessary.

  And now, at last, he had the shape-shifter exactly where he wanted her: beneath him.

  Inch by inch, Finn bared her to his covetous gaze. His hands felt clumsy and slow. It was a taste where he wanted only to devour. He inhaled against her throat. Beneath the smell of Cassandra's soap was the natural spiciness of her skin, punctuated by the sharp scent of arousal. Her pulse throbbed against his cheek, far too fast. Just for him.

  Finn smiled, and the shape-shifter began to squirm when she felt his teeth against her neck. Shape-shifters bit one another on the throat as a way of establishing dominance. He had done that to her. Sometimes a gesture of intimacy, it could also be an insult. The closest translation was, as the humans would say, “you're my bitch.”

  Crude, to be sure, but it got the point across quite well.

  Tempting to bite her again, but she was already skittish. The tenseness in her limbs spoke more clearly than words. One misstep and she would flee. It was a bad time to get creative. Finn moved away from her throat, and her shoulders relaxed. Maybe later.

  He took one of her soft, dark nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardening nub. She stiffened and made a sound he pretended not to hear, although it made his cock jerk in his pants. She liked that, then? Good. So did he. As he sucked, he began rolling her other nipple between his fingers and wondered what shade of pink she was between her thighs. He bet it approximated the color of her kiss-bruised lips.

  Cassandra was shuffling around in one of the rooms nearby. He heard the creak of the old boards, the settling of furniture. Making her presence known. She was the reason the shifter had barged into his room unannounced.

  That bastard offspring could walk in here at any moment to check up on him, but he doubted that. She feared his power and influence, and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill her fa
ther and the old crone if she tarnished the Riordan family name in any way.

  And if she was foolish enough to mention blackmail, he would not hesitate to kill her, to condemn her to the same hell as her namesake—or wherever else it was where treacherous women went when they died. Because the shifter turned him into a savage, filling his thoughts with lust and blood. Corrupting him. Graymalkin's warning echoed briefly in his ears, suppressing his arousal for a painful moment.

  She is driving you to darkness.

  Which made him remember the dream—the Shadow Thane—the kiss that had caused the stars to rain out of the sky.

  You set something in motion with your actions.

  He bit down on her nipple punishingly, and her cry was a compromise of pleasure and pain. It made his cock swell painfully where it chafed against his jeans.

  If the gods forbade this union, they did a poor job of preventing its consummation.

  It had been a while since he had been so powerfully attracted to a female. There had been one, another shape-shifter, a few years back. She had been a servant of his father's. Beautiful, far too haughty for her station. When she had been sentenced for treason several months later, he had taken liberties with her after the interrogation.

  At the time, he did not consider his actions wrong. She was a traitor, condemned to death. It seemed a waste to dispose of her, untasted. Especially after all those months he had spent in vain trying to get her alone, and out of his father's watchful eye.

  There had been others, as well, but the circumstances surrounding those conquests hadn't been a young man's cruel caprices. No, as he grew older, he learned how to bargain. The savages would do anything to protect one of their own kind. Anything.

  Finn had done many things in his life he was not proud of, and those things had never been more salient in his mind than they were at this very moment. Because he knew that if the shifter learned of what he'd done, she would never have him.

  Not that she had much choice.