Mystic Realms: A Limited Edition Collection

by Nicole Morgan

  She gasped, then stood and looked behind him. Moments later, she took a step back. Her expression was serious now, but at least she wasn’t bolting.

  “May I?”

  She nodded her assent and he stepped around behind her to place the necklace around her neck.

  She touched the necklace lightly with her forefinger, then looked at him. “Is this real? I mean, are these real diamonds?”

  “Of course, they are real. I am a jinn. We do not live in bottles like your movies would lead you to believe.”

  “A jinn. I’m trying to wrap my mind around that, but…” She started pacing, stopping momentarily to look down, then returned to gaze into his eyes again.

  He could see one-hundred questions in her eyes, but instead, she directed him to do it again.

  “Make something animate this time. You could have pulled that from somewhere and maybe I just couldn’t see you do it.”

  “What would you like me to make for you?” Just as he had noted earlier, greed was not in her nature. Most humans would have immediately asked for fortune, fame, or expensive material things, but her wishes were pure.

  Before she could complete her wish, he held a small dieffenbachia plant.

  Anitra’s hands flew to her mouth and she took another step back, then another, until she sat down again. The sting of rejection struck him like a swift kick to the base of his stomach, but he stood still, waiting despite the debilitating pain.

  After what seemed like forever, she finally stood again. “I don’t know what to make of this, Hunter. Honestly, my mind is racing. My mind is telling me to get the hell out of here, but everything else, my heart, my instincts, and Lord knows, my body, is telling me that running from you would be the most foolish thing I’ve ever done. I’m tired of running, and as crazy as it sounds, I’m falling in love with you. I felt it the moment I saw you. I just didn’t recognize it at first.”

  “Perhaps this was too much too soon,” he said. “I apologize for that. I do not always know how to express love because I haven’t experienced it much in my life, and I know how I feel about you. I just wanted you to know something about me, but we have a lifetime to get to know one another. Do you still want that, even after what I’ve shown you?”

  She did not hesitate. “Yes. I’m not particularly cool with the magic stuff, but I know that I want you, Hunter. Things have happened between us so fast, it’s a lot to take in.”

  “You have given me something I thought I could never have, Anitra. Enough confessions for one night, then?” He felt the weight lift from his shoulders when her smile returned.

  “Yes. That’s not to say you’re off the hook completely. I mean, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do because you’re turning out to be much more mysterious than I want my man to be, but, yeah, for now I just want to spend as much time with you as I can, and forget about any and everything else.”

  His gaze narrowed and he patted his chest, motioning her closer. This feeling of acceptance was so new to him, he wasn’t sure how to handle it, but he wanted to do everything in his power to avoid disappointing her. Ever.

  He pulled her the rest of the way until she leaned into him, her soft curves pressed against his body, and cemented their agreement with a kiss. He bent and wrapped one of his arms under her bottom, supporting her back as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Your bedroom, or mine?”

  She rained kisses from his jaw to his neck, covering nearly every inch of the area, stopping just long enough to respond. “You choose.”

  He chose his bedroom, conjuring two tulips from thin air and allowing the flowers to bend, dance, and twirl for her while Rumor bounced up and down on the bed. She gasped, her beautiful mouth opening to a delighted smile as he let out a hearty laugh. His Anitra wanted him - loved him, even. Earning her love, something too precious for him to ever truly deserve, gave him his freedom. Who knew? His three-days from Hell had stretched into a reprieve.

  Hunter nearly stopped breathing at the thought of telling Anitra more about his past, explaining more about who and what he really was, but Kushiel never would have set him free if there had been any doubt about Hunter’s love for Anitra or her love for him. In fact, the punishing angel had said as much. Faith was not a quality he had much of, but experience had taught him about Kushiel’s wisdom.

  He reached over and rubbed Rumor, then secured his grasp on Anitra, reveling in her voluptuous curves. First things first. He would save his other burning confessions for another day.

  Obviously, anticipating what was to come, Anitra directed Rumor. “Rumor, crate.”

  Obedient as always, he hopped down from the bed and left the room.

  Hunter placed Anitra on the bed, willed her clothes to disappear slowly, piece by piece as he enjoyed her reactions. She gasped each time, her beautiful mouth finally forming an “Oh.” Next, he stood gazing down at her, his mind filled with visions of the wicked things he wanted to do to and for his Anitra – things her human mind could not imagine. He was a monster, after all, and apparently that fit in perfectly with Ms. Lillian’s plans.

  “Ms. Lillian requests that the two of us take care of something for her.”

  Anitra sat up, abruptly. “Take care of something for Ms. Lillian? Like what?”

  “I do not know why, but as I said before, she has taken an interest in both of us, and I received a message that she owed your father. She has chosen to repay her debt to him by helping us. She requests that we take care of each other. According to Kushiel, that is all for now.” He didn’t dare mention the prophecy. That would be a whole new conversation, but he was used to keeping secrets, and he would eventually get around to telling her everything.

  She reached for him. “I think we can handle that. Oh, one thing. I don’t believe in making the same mistake twice. What’s your last name?”

  “Malaika. It means ‘angels’ in English.”

  One day, he would tell her about his wings. He knew she had already noticed the scars because he felt her soft fingers tracing them along his back. Yes, his wings would definitely have to wait until another day. He couldn’t risk overwhelming her. He bowed, crossing his arms over his chest while hiding even more secrets behind a crooked smile. “Your wish is my command. Always.”

  About the Author

  Dariel Raye is an animal lover, animal rights activist, musician, and award-winning author of powerful paranormal romance and dark urban fantasy with IR/MC (Interracial/Multi-cultural) alpha male heroes to die for, and strong heroines with hearts worth winning. Books have always been some of her best friends. She started creating characters and reciting their stories at the tender age of 3, and began writing some of those stories and selling them to her classmates in second grade, replete with paper-dolls and wardrobes.

  A counseling psychologist, classically trained vocalist, and pianist, she plays over 11 musical instruments, and naturally incorporates behavioral psychology into her characters. Her stories tell of shifters, vamps, angels, demons, and fey (the Vodouin variety). She is also a mom, art tinkerer, and Netflix and Amazon Prime paranormal TV series binger.

  Dariel is currently writing two series: “Dark Sentinels” (wolf shifters), and “Orlosian Warriors” (Vampire-like Nephilim. For more about Dariel, follow her on BookBub, visit her blog or website. She also publishes a new release newsletter. If you enjoyed this book, please post a review on review sites. You can also follow her and contact her on Twitter, Facebook, or Pinterest.

  Just Tell Me What You Want

  Tina Donahue

  Her wishes will leave him breathless…

  Things couldn’t be worse for Ranson, an out-of-work genie. Once coveted for his ability to grant wishes, he and his kind are reduced to commodities and subsist on gig jobs through an employment agency catering to elite clients.

  Ranson’s recent masters and mistresses worked him to the bone before tossing him aside for newer, more advanced genies with specialized knowledge in rigging the stock market, getting candidates
elected to office, changing the weather… Damn. He sucks at that stuff. His sole talent is granting wishes for women to retain their youth.

  Alexandra Prescott, billionaire CEO of a film and TV conglomerate, is only twenty-nine but figures a genie can keep her looking good without surgery, a necessity in beauty-obsessed Los Angeles. Not sure what to expect when he arrives, she’s surprised how tall, virile, and luscious he is. A real hottie and no pushover. Tired of the crap he’s put up with, he insists she treat him with respect, not merely as a service she’s rented.

  She’s game and wants to get to know this bad boy. Up close and personal, they explore what they both crave: heated days, wicked nights, learning their strengths and weaknesses, touching each other’s souls. Wow.

  They fall hard and fast, but in order to secure their future, there’s one last, nearly impossible hurdle they must face….

  Chapter One

  Ranson slogged inside Prosperity Tower in Century City, home to high-tech and global conglomerates, financial concerns, other billionaire businesses, and What You Want, an employment agency for genies desperate for any work.

  Only in Los Angeles.

  He resisted rolling his eyes or gagging. Gone were the days when genies—historically called jinns—were members of a magical profession that generated awe for those lucky enough to encounter them. In this gig economy, he and others like him were nothing more than working stiffs, the same as everyone else.

  In the marble-and-gold lobby, he ground to a halt at the guard desk. Mr. Rent-a-Cop took in Ranson’s jeans, tee, and mocs then stared at him with disdain.

  Maybe he should have donned the kind of genie wear found in a typical Disney movie: blue skin, gold bracelets, a goatee, weird haircut, red briefs, and nothing else. Due to his fully human appearance, he couldn’t even get the genie’s role for a live-action Aladdin flick. The casting agent said no spirit would ever look like him.

  Nitwit.

  So here he was, back to begging for a new mistress or master so he’d have a decent place to stay, enough to eat, and wouldn’t be harassed by law enforcement who didn’t like the homeless.

  Fuck, I can’t do this any longer. He turned and stopped. You don’t have a choice.

  Three elevators dinged at the same time, and the mirrored doors slid open. Wage slaves trudged out, each looking as miserable as he felt. Kindred souls who gave him an idea.

  He rushed to a plainly dressed young woman jostled by fellow workers. Their treatment alone proved she wasn’t a VIP. “Whoa, watch it.” He frowned at them then smiled at her. “Hey, I’m Ranson. What’s your name?”

  She zipped her gaze over him. A faint smile touched her thin lips. “What?”

  “Ranson. That’s me.” He offered a slight bow. “I’m at your service. Your wish is my command and so on and so forth. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours. Would you like nicer clothes?” A nun would have nixed her white blouse as too dowdy. Her long beige skirt grazed her ankles. No man alive would have found her sensible pumps sexy. “More stylish hair?” She’d pulled her brown tresses into a limp ponytail. “Some contacts?” The thick lenses on her glasses made her lovely brown eyes seem huge.

  She scowled, ruining her sweet-pretty features.

  He talked fast. “Look, I have a proposition for you I think you’ll like. You become my Mistress and let me stay at your place from now on and I’ll grant your wishes.” Technically, only three were allowed each mortal unless he hooked up with them at the agency. The ones he served there got unlimited requests that kept him hopping around the clock. However, now wasn’t the time to tell this woman the rules. He flashed his best smile. “How about it? Let’s talk over there where it’s less crowded.” He cupped her elbow to guide her past those streaming around them.

  She jerked her arm away and shoved something in his face. “Perv!”

  Spray hit his eyes. Searing heat burned them. He gasped.

  She squirted more pepper spray on him then shoved past.

  Agony screamed through him. Shit, shit, shit. He rubbed his eyes. The pain worsened. He bounced on his heels and swiped tears off his cheeks.

  “I figured you were trouble when I first saw you.” Mr. Rent-a-Cop clamped his hand on Ranson’s shoulder. “Out you go. Now. Unless you want to spend the night in jail.”

  There’s an idea. If he got arrested, he’d have a place to stay. Maybe even get a few meals before the authorities turned him loose. He blinked wildly and tried to focus on the guard through his blurred vision. “Thanks. I should have thought of that earlier. Call the real cops, please.”

  The guard made a menacing sound. “Out.” He hustled Ranson toward the entrance.

  Damn, he couldn’t even get arrested right. “Wait. I have an appointment upstairs. I’m expected.” He pulled the What You Want business card from his pocket. “If you don’t believe me, call the number there. Please.”

  “You make one move, it won’t be pretty.”

  Hope filled him. “I’ll get arrested?”

  “More like pounded into the ground. Hope you have medical.” As the guard made the call, he held onto Ranson’s T-shirt. “Hey, I got a weird guy down here who says— What?” He listened again. “You’re sure?” Another second passed. The guy shrugged. “If that’s what you want, I’ll send him right up.” He killed the call and pushed Ranson toward the elevator. “Get in.”

  Not wanting to be assaulted, he did and sagged against the back wall.

  Glaring, the guard patted the walkie-talkie on his hip as he might a .44 Magnum. “Don’t you dare get off this thing until you reach where you’re supposed to be. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doors whooshed closed, and the elevator whizzed toward the thirty-eighth floor. Ranson sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself for more humiliation. A new mistress or master who’d treat him as nothing more than a commodity to use then throw away, rather than a person to keep and cherish.

  He’d been doing this since time began and never once found a permanent home or lasting affection from any mortal. Even Oliver Twist had done better than him.

  The elevator reached his floor and dinged. Despite the spacious hall decorated with silk wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, plush carpeting, priceless paintings, and exotic plants, the employment agency rented a cramped, barely furnished office scarcely big enough for five people to move about freely.

  Ranson sank to the folding chair next to Sesinando. They’d been BFFs for eons. “Hey, man.” He hugged his buddy, surprised to see Sesinando here. His unusual coloring—ginger hair, golden skin, and bright-green eyes—made him popular with former hippies who liked the psychedelic look. “What brings you here?”

  “What else?” The poor guy wilted. “My Mistress dumped me for a younger, better model.”

  A few years back, a tech billionaire cracked the genetic code for jinns and mass produced them in his lab. His genies were the new, improved kind, coded with the entire knowledge base on Earth. While Ranson and his friends struggled to learn modern stuff, the new ones knew every fucking thing, which made the wishes they granted spot on rather than educated guesses. “Damn, I’m sorry. Did she at least give you two weeks’ notice?”

  “Nope. Ordered me out of her mansion on the spot. Said I wasn’t satisfying her.” He hung his head. Reddish locks grazed his broad shoulders. “She was too cheap to buy a new computer system and wanted me to upgrade the one she had. Crap, what do I know about that stuff? I searched the net for days, looking for the right parts and help from tech groups, but couldn’t get her wish right.” His mouth trembled. “In the old days, people wanted simple things: All the money in the world, power, or to have someone offed. The shit today is freaking hard. Now we have to be experts at everything, and talk about not being appreciated.” He covered his eyes. “Not once did she give me a nice bottle or even a Styrofoam cup to stay in at night. She told me there was space in her late husband’s urn.” He looked at Ranson. “Have you ever spent the evening locked up with s
omeone’s ashes? No sofa to lie on? No cable either? It ain’t pleasant.” He stared then frowned. “What happened to your eyes?”

  They still watered from the pepper spray and were probably redder than Sesinando’s hair. “Allergies.”

  “Air pollution, too. If the rejections here don’t kill us, the smog will. So, what happened to you, work-wise?”

  Once his mistress learned the newer genies provided error-free wishes at a reduced cost and were great in bed, she dismissed him. “Said she wanted a younger lover.”

  “Yeah? Did you point out most of the world is younger than she is?”

  She was ninety-one. Thanks to the wishes Ranson granted, she looked thirtyish or so. The one thing he’d excelled in as a genie was making women look youthful. Plastic surgery and its intricacies fascinated him. Unfortunately, he sucked at everything else, including interior design, insider trading, making food, or fixing computers, plumbing, and cars. “I pleaded my case, but here I am.” He gestured to the tiny room furnished with one battered desk and folding chairs.

  Ms. Quill, the owner/operator, glanced from her computer screen to him. Deep lines furrowed her brow and bracketed her downturned mouth. “You, over here, now.”

  Like a good genie, he shuffled to her desk. “I swear I did the best I could with my Mistress. Gave her multiple orgasms every damn time we were between the sheets. She gushed about how young I made her look. Several of her friends begged me to do them…looks-wise and in other ways.” He craned his neck, hoping to see what—or rather who—was on Ms. Quill’s computer screen. “Has one asked for me?”