Mad, Bad & Dangerous

by Cat Marsters

  She wanted to humiliate Kett.

  Beyla caught her eye. Her eyelid flickered in what might have been a wink.

  Beyla wanted to humiliate Dierdra.

  Kett fantasized briefly about just stabbing the irritating bubblehead with her own crochet needle, shook her head and strode forward. Her leather jeans creaked as she moved. Her damp hair brushed wet circles on her shirt. Her boots thudded.

  She held out her hands, took the needle and wool—which was pink, what else—and briskly made the stitch. “Move the needle, not the wool, and keep it tight, don’t let it go slack. Got it?”

  They stared at her. Dierdra said, “But—but how—you can crochet?”

  “That’s what I just did.” Kett made another few stitches without looking.

  “But—” Dierdra stared at Kett’s ancient leathers, her nearly transparent shirt, the scar on her face, her heavy boots.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” asked one of the other girls, awe in her voice.

  “Prison,” Kett said, and thrust the wool back at Dierdra. She strode from the room, hearing as she did Beyla informing her friends with a touch of pride that Kett had beaten up the man who cheated on her. “I think it should be a mandatory punishment, actually,” she said, as Kett shut the door.

  She found herself smiling.

  The next room she tried in search of solitude contained Nuala and many bolts of fabric in almost identical shades of mauve. “Kett! Come and help me choose new curtains,” she cried, but Kett had already escaped before the words died out.

  She found Chance and Dark canoodling on a sofa. In the next room, someone was murdering a sonata on the pianoforte while a male voice murmured encouragement. She shuddered. Giselle, no doubt. Thank the gods she was pretty.

  Moving on, she spied Eithne and Verrick snogging in what she had to dub the Cream with Hints of Dark Gold Drawing Room, and was hurrying to leave when her sister leapt up, crying her name.

  Kett sighed. “What?”

  Eithne came rushing over, her eyes gleaming. “I don’t know what you said to Papa, but I absolutely love you for it!”

  She threw her arms around Kett, who attempted to extract herself with little success.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The wedding!”

  “What wedding? Your wedding?” Hadn’t Tyrnan forbidden Eithne to marry her garda?

  “Yes! Earlier, Giselle was playing a piece on the pianoforte—she’s absolutely terrible at it, by the way, but Tane still thinks she’s an angel, must be love—and I was trying to be polite, and said what a pretty piece and that my friend Aliana had it played at her wedding. And Papa said, ‘Just so long as you don’t play it at yours’.”

  Her eyes were bright as she stared eagerly at Kett, waiting for her to make the connection.

  “Uh,” Kett said.

  “Well, then I said I thought the Queen’s Wedding March was a much nicer piece to walk down the aisle to, and he said that was much more appropriate for a princess.”

  She was beaming now, her whole face alight. Kett waited.

  “Don’t you see? That’s the first time I’ve brought up a wedding and he hasn’t gone off into a tirade about how I’m not getting married to any garda and I’m far too young and all the rest of it. He actually seemed interested in my actual wedding!”

  “Um,” said Kett, who hadn’t read the same thing into it. “Did he?”

  “Yes! And it’s all thanks to you!”

  “But—what do you mean, me?” Kett asked, trying to work out exactly what Eithne’s thought processes might have been.

  “You’re the only one whose opinion he ever listens to.”

  Kett stared at her. She started to laugh. “Okay, is this some sort of outrageous flattery designed to lead in to you asking me to wear pink as a bridesmaid?”

  “No, don’t be silly.”

  Kett relaxed.

  “I’d put you in silver, like that dress you had for the ball. Beyla would wear pink.”

  Kett began to back away.

  “Kett, you have to be my bridesmaid, you’re my sister!”

  “Half-sister,” Kett reminded her, “and most definitely not a maid.”

  This only sent Eithne into peals of laughter. Kett backed toward the door and made a run for it.

  Her whole family was mad. Completely insane. What the hell was Bael thinking, getting involved with her after he’d met them all? It ought to send any sane man running.

  Of course, Bael wasn’t sane. That was probably the answer. He probably thought her family was normal.

  She ended up in the summerhouse, which in the middle of winter was freezing cold and smelled of dampness. But it was silent, and the view across the rainy gardens was incredibly peaceful. She found a blanket, packed in a chest with dried oranges keeping it sweet-scented, and wrapped herself up on one of the sofas.

  She made lists first, then got out her scryer and started calling. First up was Striker, who answered looking sleepy, smug and shirtless. Kett suspected he was probably naked, but for once in her life the prospect didn’t excite her even a tiny bit.

  “Pet,” he said, his intonation somehow implying that it was less of an endearment and more of a description.

  “Striker. I need a favor.”

  He shrugged. “Nah. Don’t fancy it.”

  “You haven’t heard what it is yet. It comes with an aftermath of death and destruction.”

  He smiled. “I’m listening.”

  After Striker, she called Tyra, the librarian of the Order. “I’ve got a handle on the Federación. A ringleader, although I suspect he’s just one of many.”

  “Perhaps we can torture him for information,” Tyra said, as if she was just suggesting a polite conversation.

  “Yeah. Well, Striker’s on board, so that’s a strong possibility,” Kett said. “But this Albhar’s got a lot of followers. We’re going to need some muscle.”

  “Leave it to me,” Tyra said.

  She was hesitating over the third call when a shadow outside the summerhouse caught her attention. The sky had turned dark, and the single lamp Kett had brought with her didn’t illuminate anything beyond the summerhouse walls.

  But she didn’t need to see to know who it was. “Bael?”

  The door opened and he stood there, hands in pockets, shivering slightly.

  “Close the bloody door, fathead.” Kett drew the blanket closer around herself. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, clicking the door closed behind him. “Looking for you. Well, actually, looking for somewhere I wasn’t going to get pulled into discussions about curtains or weddings or terrible, terrible pianoforte-playing skills.”

  Kett grimaced. “Giselle?”

  “How can someone so graceful play so badly?” She smiled and Bael came closer. “You look frozen.”

  “Yeah.” Kett glanced at the small fireplace, which was cold and empty. The summerhouse was set up like a little rustic cottage—or at least, Nuala’s idea of what a rustic cottage should look like. It at least came equipped with a stone fireplace and thick, woven blankets for chillier days. But the fireplace had been swept clean and not re-laid.

  “I could warm you up.” His eyes were hot.

  “Nice of you to offer, but I’m kinda busy.”

  Bael raised one eyebrow and glanced at the fireplace.

  A ball of flame whooshed into life, hovering above the empty grate. Kett stared at it, feeling the heat starting to seep toward her.

  “How—how did—? What the fuck, Bael?”

  He frowned slightly. “Don’t ask me.”

  “You just created a ball of flame.”

  “Yeah. Looks like I did.”

  “But—you said you had no training or power or—”

  “Evidently you’re good for me.” He held out a hand. “Come here, I want to check something.”

  Kett stood up warily and Bael took the blanket from her shoulders. He turned her around and lifte
d her shirt, staring at her back for several long seconds.

  “Huh,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What?” Kett asked.

  He touched her back. “You know how you can change your appearance? Did you fade out these scars?”

  “No. Why would I? They’re covered up.”

  “Yeah.” Bael took her hand, moved it to her back, and ran it up and down where her scars should have been.

  The skin was disturbed by a few faint ridges, and nothing more.

  “What the hell?”

  “I kissed them better,” Bael said, still stroking her back. “They’re still there, just faded a lot.”

  “But…how, Bael?” She turned to face him. “Where the hell has this power suddenly come from?”

  He cupped her face in his hands. His green eyes were intense, honest, powerful. “You,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” Kett whispered, although she feared she did.

  “My parents mated young,” he said. “Perhaps they found their powers at the same time. I’ll never know. But I’m wondering,” he stroked her face, “if Mage powers are linked to mates. If I’m only realizing my full potential now that I’m with you.”

  Kett stared.

  “It’s the only explanation I can think of,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Kett began. “Maybe it’s…”

  But she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her mouth felt very dry.

  Bael kissed her, very soft and sweet, his hands framing her face, and her body melted into his. Oh hell. Seeing Striker naked earlier hadn’t elicited the tiniest response from her, and she’d known women to fall into orgasmic swoons just at the sight of him fully clothed. But Bael’s arms around her, his lips on hers, his tongue gently playing with hers, made her weak-kneed and dizzy and sent a pulse of heat through her whole body.

  “I’m your mate,” she said shakily, and Bael’s eyes were warm.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “That’s it. Final. We can’t change it.”

  He shook his head, smiling gently.

  “I ain’t having kids,” she said, trying desperately to dissuade him, even though she knew there was no point.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “And—and—I’m not getting involved in Nasc crap. I’m staying with Jarven at the ranch. He needs someone to take care of him.”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t try to stop you.”

  Panic fluttered in her veins. “I—I don’t want…”

  Bael smoothed her hair and waited. Kett let out a shaky breath. “Bael, I—you—I’m not normal.”

  “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  “And I don’t—I can’t—every time I try to get involved with anyone, when I get close, with my family or with the Order, when I try to do what I’m supposed to, it all ends up…really bad.”

  “What you’re supposed to do? Who says what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Well—well, you’re saying I’m supposed to be your mate—”

  “I’m saying you are my mate. What you do after that is up to you.”

  His tone was gentle, his expression warm, but there was a flicker of insecurity behind his eyes.

  “Kett, it’ll be okay. I’m not asking anything of you. I don’t expect anything of you. I love who you are, right now, scars and everything. I love how brave you are, how kind you are even when you don’t want to be, how you’re frightened and angry and vulnerable and spiky and brilliant. I love everything about you.”

  Kett gazed at him, stunned. Bael slowly twirled a curl of her hair around his finger and spoke carefully, as if he was still thinking through what he was saying.

  “I’m not here because of this mate thing. I mean, I think it’s real and true, but that’s not why I’m here.” His voice gathered speed. “I came for you when I thought you weren’t my mate. I came for you when I thought you’d cheated on me and killed my mother. And if you proved to me right now conclusively that I’m not your mate and never will be, I would still come for you. I’d still want you and love you. I love you, Kett. I—”

  He broke off, as if he’d run on too far, too fast, and his intense gaze dipped, darted away.

  Kett grabbed his face and kissed him.

  She’d never expected to hear something like that from anybody. She’d never even allowed herself to think of it. Romance and pretty words weren’t for scarred, damaged people like her. Eithne and Beyla and Giselle, delicate feminine girls, inspired speeches like that.

  Part of her said it was just Bael talking bollocks again, but it was only a small part, and being drowned out by the big, loud, desperate need inside her to believe him. And that scared Kett more than anything else. She’d never wanted to believe anyone so badly.

  She let Bael go and both of them were breathing hard. His eyes blazed green fire at her.

  “I love everything about you, Kett Almet,” he said again, and Kett tugged him toward the sofa, tumbling and smiling and even laughing. It felt so damn good to laugh. She’d forgotten the last time she really laughed hard at anything.

  Bael kissed her neck, her shoulder, pushing her shirt open and then tugging it off over her head when it got in the way. In a grand gesture, he threw her shirt into the fireplace, where his fireball gobbled it up.

  “Uh,” Kett began to protest, but Bael just smiled wickedly and said, “Sweetheart, you’re not going to need it,” and smoothed back her hair to kiss her extravagantly, pulling her body against his until she was almost in his lap.

  He kissed her so magnificently, Kett might not have minded if they didn’t do anything else. There was something so wonderfully liberating about giving in and knowing she couldn’t fight against him anymore. She was stuck with him, and she might as well take advantage of that.

  She slid her hand inside his shirt, over the smooth skin of his stomach, feeling the muscles jump at her touch. Smiling against his mouth, she slid one leg over his, wrapped it around his waist and kissed him on and on as he worked his thumb over her nipple, through her bra.

  The lace created a wonderful friction against her extremely sensitive flesh. For once, Kett was grateful to Nuala for buying her fancy underwear.

  Impatient to touch more of him, she tugged at his shirt, and when Bael gave her a smoldering look she ripped the fabric off him and tossed it on the floor.

  “Nice,” he growled, and rewarded her by sucking her nipple into his mouth through the fabric of her bra.

  The hot wetness of his mouth through the softly abrading lace made Kett’s head swim. Her fingers dug into his hair and a moan escaped her lips. His tongue tortured her through the bra, until her hips were bucking and her back arching as she tried to get more of the glorious heat and pleasure. Digging her fingers into his arms, she moved one of his hands to her other breast and fumbled behind her own back to unfasten the bra.

  When the fabric went slack, Bael looked up and grinned at her, then yanked it off and tossed it away. This time it didn’t go in the fire, but Kett wouldn’t have cared if it had. Bael’s mouth was back on her breast, this time with no barrier between them, and she thought she might come just from that.

  His hand slid down her stomach, caressing her and making her muscles tense. His bare skin was heaven against hers, hot and smooth and dusted with just enough soft hair to tease her flesh. Every inch of her felt extra sensitized, especially where he touched her. Even the brush of her own hair against her shoulders was driving her wild.

  Bael’s fingers unfastened her fly and slid inside, just a little bit, teasing her dark curls but not darting any lower. Maddened, Kett tried to wriggle out of her unyielding leathers but was tangled up in Bael so much it was impossible.

  His teeth scraped her nipple and she realized he was laughing. “Want a hand, sweetheart?”

  “Yours seem to be otherwise occupied,” Kett panted, but Bael withdrew them to help her peel off her leather trousers, underwear and boots. Naked, she curled against him, loving the rou
gh denim abrading her bare thighs.

  Then she stopped, because the thigh she had curled around Bael’s waist was her right one—and the scar on it seemed to have faded dramatically.

  She jerked her head up to stare at Bael. “Did you do that?”

  “Reckon so,” he said, stroking it. “I can do it again if you’d like, see if it fades more.” She shivered as his fingers tickled a sensuous path up her thigh. “How does it feel?”

  “Wonderful,” Kett moaned, and he laughed.

  “I meant the scar. The muscle. Inside. Has it eased?”

  But the only muscle Kett could think of inside her was the big one threatening to burst out of Bael’s fly. She rubbed her hand over it and he shuddered. She unfastened the top button and felt his whole body tense.

  Kett swung herself over him completely, straddling his thighs and pressing her bare body against his. His chest was broad and firm against her breasts, tiny crisp hairs tickling her into distraction as she slid her hand up his neck to his cheek and kissed him, hard.

  Her other hand delved between them, freeing his cock and palming it, feeling its thickness and its strength, smearing the drop of liquid from the head all over. Bael’s fingers gripped her hard, his hand tightening on her breast almost to the point of pain, and he bit down on her lip.

  “Kett,” he said, kissing her face madly, “I wanted to take this slow, and stroke you and lick you, I wanted—”

  “I want you to fuck me,” Kett said, ravenous for him, and when she rubbed the sticky head of his cock against the slick, wet folds of her pussy, he groaned and pushed inside her.

  She sank down, taking as much of him as she could, reaching down to free his balls from the confines of his clothes and pressing herself against them. He felt so damn good inside her, filling her up completely. She rose and fell, arching her back, pressing her breasts into his hands. Bael went one better and dipped his head to suck and bite on her nipple.

  Afraid she was going to orgasm immediately and end it too soon, Kett tried to slow down, but Bael was pounding into her, sliding deep into her slick heat, his hands everywhere, guiding and stroking and driving her mad.