by R. Scarlett
“Fuck!” In the background, she could hear him moving things, a glass shattering. A woman’s voice called to him and he told her to shut up. “Where are you?”
“Brooklyn,” she whispered. “At Unique New York—it’s a warlock’s shop.”
“Are you fucking deranged? A random warlock?”
“He’s not random! I know him. So are you coming or not? I just want to make sure there are more of us if the hunters come back—”
“Give me the address.”
She gave him the details and then paused. “Call Illya, too.”
“Fuck no.”
“Why not?”
He muttered a string of unintelligible curses before sighing. “Fine. Be there soon.”
She ran her hands over her face, watching Lance clean up a variety of herbs he’d used to rid Tensley’s body of the poison.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Lance grabbed a few grapes from a bowl and stuffed them in his mouth. “So you found Cree…”
Her shoulders stiffened. “More like he found us—and I let him go.”
“Dunno, seems like you made the right choice. Tensley would’ve been dead in minutes from that other drug they gave him. Rose thorn.” He shrugged and continued shoving grapes in his mouth and chewing loudly.
She couldn’t believe she’d almost gone after Cree instead of finding help for Tensley…the thought made her cringe.
“There have been whispers of finding a new leader, of disbanding,” Lance said. “Cree’s losing their trust, so he probably thought he could make an example out of you both. Clearly, he underestimated your daemon powers.”
Molly groaned into her hands. “While we were fighting, Cree said something strange… He said he had, like, information about daemons.”
Lance raised a brow. “Did he now?”
“Do you? A book? A pamphlet? Something? How can I hope to beat him if he knows more about my abilities than I do?”
Lance stroked his facial hair. “No, I don’t have a pamphlet, but maybe…” He moved to a cupboard and began rummaging around, removing a thick, worn book where she assumed cups or plates might be. He flipped through the pages, scanning the words and mumbling until he shouted with glee. “Here!”
Molly leaned over his shoulder, reading the paragraph underneath his finger. “What is it?”
“I don’t know much about daemons—they’re sort of an enigma to us all—but I do remember a legend my grandfather told me once, and here it is.
“According to this story, daemons were the offspring of Nyx, the night sky, and Heilos, the sun, a result of a forbidden union between dusk and dawn. The children who resulted were only ever female, and thought to be the Amazonian women of old. They were said to have protected the human race from the demons, and when a war broke out between the daemons and demons, it scorched the Earth. Humans became angry with the foreign beings destroying their people and lands, so the demon hunter groups were formed in retaliation. Daemons, endangered by that point, went into hiding.”
“And in later centuries they thought we were witches,” Molly mused, peering at the hand-drawn woman with shining eyes on one of the ancient book’s pages. “Do you think there are other daemons alive today? Or am I the only one?”
Lance shrugged. “Maybe. Daemons are pretty rare.”
Molly sat down at the kitchen table and brought her legs to her chest, resting her heavy head on her bruised knees. “Tensley’s going to be okay, right? I got him here in time?”
Lance hummed. “Yeah. Might take a while for the drugs to get out of his system, but he’ll be fine.”
She gnawed on her bottom lip. “What if I sped up the process? You know, helped him along.”
His eyes widened in understanding. “By getting physical? I mean, you could lie next to him and his body would absorb your energy… Sure, whatever floats your boat.”
The front door of the shop banged open and they both jumped.
“Who the fuck are you?” Pearce’s thundering voice boomed once he’d made it inside the tiny kitchen, Illya right behind him.
“Lance Shepherd,” the warlock said with a lopsided smile.
“Fucking great, a random, unlisted warlock,” Pearce snarled. “You work with hunters?”
“Nah. I’m the black sheep. I work alone.”
Illya eyed Lance cautiously. “So you’re not in contact with Cree?”
He shook his head, his long, unkempt hair swaying. “No sir.”
“You don’t belong to a coven?” Illya’s forehead wrinkled.
“Nope. I’m one of the rare ones who choose the lone wolf life. It’s either one extreme or the other with us warlocks, community or just ourselves.”
Illya frowned. “What do you do then?”
Lance tugged on his beard. “Work here, sell healing herbs to humans, make house calls when someone thinks they’re possessed. They’re usually just mentally unstable.”
“So you’re telling us a warlock is neutral in the godforsaken war that’s been going on for centuries between demons and hunters and witches?” Pearce glowered at the warlock, his tone laced with suspicion.
Lance went to his table and moved some of his books to the side along with small bottles labeled rosemary, beetle juice, and some names Molly had never even heard of. “I don’t judge someone by the group they were born into. If you’re cool, then I’m cool.”
The room quieted, and Illya looked to Molly. “How is he?”
Molly stood up on weak legs. “He’s resting.”
“Take me to him,” Illya demanded.
Molly nodded and led the two demons upstairs, down the creaky hallway to Lance’s spare bedroom. Tensley was just an unmoving form under a pile of blankets and quilts; Lance had said that would help his frozen blood begin pumping again.
Pearce and Illya were painfully silent as they stared at their friend.
“What did they use on him?” Illya asked.
“Golden fleece and rose thorn.”
Illya’s skin paled and Pearce kicked a nearby table. “Those bastards were going to skin him!”
Goose bumps prickled Molly’s arms and she held her middle.
“And you had to bring him to a warlock?” Pearce’s stare drilled a hole in the side of her head, but she didn’t look at him.
“Leave her alone, Pearce,” Illya hissed.
“Fuck off, Black.”
Molly cringed at the insult—the lowest rank of demon, completely insignificant to the High Court of Babylon. Illya didn’t seem fazed, though, and continued to glare at Pearce.
“He was sick, okay? I didn’t know what else to do,” Molly snapped.
“Fuck this place,” Pearce said, throwing the blankets back and reaching for Tensley.
“What are you doing?” Lance called from the hallway.
“I’m taking him to one of the warlocks at Scorpios, someone I can trust—not a fucking random who might be planning to kill him!” Pearce shouted.
“No!” Lance waved his arms and rushed toward Pearce. “He’s in a fatal state—if you remove him from the warmth, he’ll be dead in twenty minutes. The blankets are filled with herbs; trust me, if you want him to live, you’ve gotta leave him here.”
“Fuck no!”
“Pearce,” Illya hissed.
Pearce tried to sling Tensley over his shoulder, but Molly stepped between them. “Put him down now,” she instructed, digging her nails into Pearce’s bicep and drawing blood instantly.
“What the fuck?” Pearce’s nostrils flared as he examined the wounds, then stared her down.
The familiar burn in her spine, in her fingertips, and behind her eyes was set aflame inside of her. She saw the moment Pearce recognized something was off, but she wasn’t risking Tensley’s life. “If you care for Tensley, you’ll leave him here.”
“You’re not human,” he hissed, baring his teeth. With a growl, he lowered Tensley back onto the bed. “And you’re the one to blame if he dies.”
Mol
ly didn’t move as Pearce stomped out like a pouting child. Tensley wouldn’t die—she wouldn’t let him.
“Well, I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t destroy my place,” Lance said with a small smile, leaving the small bedroom.
“That’s the first time he’s acknowledged me for years,” Illya said when it was just the three of them.
Molly’s mouth twisted ruefully. “I hope he never acknowledges me again.”
Illya laughed, and it was too loud in the otherwise silent room. The heavy curtains were closed and the only light was from the malfunctioning lamp in the corner.
“How’s Stella?”
She stared at Tensley’s limp hand. “She’ll be fine; thank you for your help with that.”
“If there’s anything else I can do to help, let me know,” Illya said, squeezing Molly’s shoulder on his way out.
She moved slowly to the side of the bed, tracing her fingertip along Tensley’s stiff, cool arm; he didn’t move but for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Taking a deep breath, Molly removed her shirt and climbed under the covers with him, hoping skin-to-skin contact might help. She draped her arm across his chest and pulled him against her bra-clad one, shivering at the chill of his skin.
Peppering gentle kisses along his collarbone, up his neck to his cheeks, she hoped she’d be his strength, his cure.
“I’m not going anywhere, Tensley,” she murmured into his ear, kissing any free skin she could reach. “Promise.”
The darkness soaked them in shadows, casting a new veil on their tangled bodies. She stared into the pitch-black room, her head moving against his breathing chest.
“I’m terrified,” she whispered to him, toying with her torn bottom lip. “I’m scared that if I don’t keep moving, if I don’t stop Cree, they’ll win. I’m scared to stop, to think about Abaddon or Cree, and I don’t ever want to feel that weak, that powerless.” She swallowed thickly. “Every time I dream, it’s me unable to move while Abaddon and Cree destroy me. I can’t fight back.” Tears burned her vision and she let them fall on his tanned skin. “I want to fight back. I never want to be that girl ever again.”
He said nothing back, but his uneven breaths filled her ears.
“I’m going to fight for you, for us,” she said into his cheek. She wiped at her salty tears and kissed her wet lips to his motionless ones.
TENSLEY FOUGHT TO awaken, gasping as he flinched upward.
“Tensley,” a soft voice cooed in response.
He gulped, his head spinning like a top, and tried to lock in his location: a pitch-black room.
“It’s okay, I got you.”
He tilted his head slightly to gaze at the silhouette curled against his shaking frame. As his vision grew accustomed to the darkness, he noted whose full pout greeted him, whose gold-spun curls swayed across his bare chest, whose full figure nestled against his aching body.
Molly stroked his pec, perhaps unaware of how intimate it was—unless she was perfectly aware. Her strokes were calming, exactly what he needed to ignore the adrenaline pumping through his system. Then he remembered that last image before passing out, of Molly taking on the demon hunters by herself. She was a warrior, strong and capable, and she’d said she wanted him.
“You okay?” his voice strained. Fuck, it hurts to speak.
Molly hastened her stroking at his pained voice. “I’m fine, Tensley.”
He laid his head on the pillow behind him and groaned at how tense his whole body was.
“They drugged you with golden fleece and rose thorn. That’s why you feel out of it,” she added after a short pause.
“Fucking bastards.”
“Do you need water? I can go—”
His hands clamped down on her wrist and yanked. “No.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight, not after what had just happened. “You’re not leaving me.”
She rested her chin against his pec and those powerful eyes swirled with strength. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
His heart ignited at her endearment. “Good.” He gripped her rear and hauled her up so that she was lying fully on top of him. Her hair cascaded on either side of his face, creating a secret cave for only them.
“I want to heal you,” Molly whispered.
Those five words destroyed him in more ways than one. She wanted to heal him, to take care of him. His chest pounded, along with his cock.
Could he give her everything she wanted? He thought of her words at the bar—that she wanted him and only him. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to give her everything she wanted, everything she needed.
He wanted to do that for her, and if she was willing to take a chance on him, he’d take a chance on being her everything.
She brushed her upper lip with the tip of her tongue and slowly lowered herself until her mouth met his bottom lip. She sucked it and fuck, she tasted musky and sweaty, the same as between her legs.
He palmed her round cheeks and circled his hips against hers, the friction only sending him into more of a frenzy. The friction satisfying, but not enough. He wanted to do more but his muscles were still weak, and all he could manage was allowing her to take the reins. He’d let her have her way for now.
Molly’s hand skimmed down his happy trail and into his slacks, finding his rigid length. He moaned into her mouth as she pumped him, her fingers circling the sensitive head. Just that amount of intimacy healed any residual symptoms he had, and Tensley gripped her ass even tighter.
“Does that feel okay?” she asked breathlessly between kisses.
His fingers dug into the soft roundness of her butt cheeks. “If I wasn’t so fucking weak, I’d destroy you.”
She giggled at his raspy voice. “Would you?”
“You have no idea how much the beast in me wants to mark you right now.” He moved her so that she sat directly on his hard length, running his calloused hands up her smooth hips. He stared at her torso and the lace bra covering her ample breasts as she began a slow rhythm against him, moaning quietly.
He wanted her, couldn’t resist her—his self-control had been pulverized to nothingness.
She wants to heal you, she wants to heal you, she wants to heal you…
He was too weak to think straight, too weak not to fall under her spell. He was going all in with her.
She tugged on the edge of his boxer briefs, pulling them down to reveal the V-shape of his cut abs toward the tuft of dark hair. His hefty length spilled free and he groaned at the touch of her wet panties. He wanted to tear them off and slide in deep and slow, torturing her, showing her how good he’d make her feel for days, months, years to come. He’d worship her, body and mind.
Molly slid her panties to the side and moved forward so that her wet opening met his head. “You should do it, Tensley. Mark me.”
He wanted to thrust inside her, to feel her muscles tense around his length. When she rocked a certain way, he dipped deeper—but not deep enough.
His eyes found her slender, delicate neck, and his hand wrapped around it. His beast slammed against his concentration, aching, roaring to claim her.
He couldn’t—he wouldn’t mark her. Not there, not yet.
She rocked faster, and he knew they were both close. “Oh god, Tensley.” She gripped his thighs and he watched as she shook, her orgasm coming in waves.
He wanted to feel her orgasm around his cock.
That one thought sent him over.
“F-Fuck!” he spluttered, thrusting against her convulsing sex.
Molly collapsed against his chest and kissed the tingling skin there. “You’re so good at destroying me.”
“It might just be the other way around, sweetheart.” He loved her rushed breath fanning across his flesh, the thrill of her heartbeat racing his own. He ran his hands up and down her spine, placed one hand on her ass. He wanted to make sure she was in his arms when he woke up.
TENSLEY SQUEEZED MOLLY’S firm ass, smiling into her neck. If this was how he
woke up every morning with her, he’d die a happy man. He nuzzled into her neck and left a trail of kisses there, imagining how his mark would be there soon. At the memory of their intimate moment the night before, he grunted tiredly and slipped out from under her, raking a hand through his unkempt hair as he stretched.
Molly was a fucking healing goddess. His body felt powerful and lithe and relaxed. No strains, no pain, just affection from the beauty in bed.
Damn. She was controlling him, even in her sleep.
He was possessed by her—her strength, her courage, her beauty. His dolcezza was a lioness, and he wanted her to dig her claws in deep.
He covered her up with blankets, gently kissed her temple as she cooed and squeezed her eyes tighter shut, and he left the room.
“Where the fuck am I?” He found the bathroom, took a piss, and again traveled down the hallway to hear people talking downstairs.
He glared at the brightness of the kitchen, shading his eyes as they acclimated, and paused when he saw Illya and Pearce seated at a small table not nearly big enough for the two men.
“Good morning! Waffles or eggs?”
Tensley was gazing at the strangest hippie he’d ever seen. The man wore a pink apron with frilly flowers sewn around his waist and was standing by the stove, frying something.
“Where are we?” Tensley grunted.
“A warlock’s humble abode,” Pearce sniped as he plunged his fork into a waffle drowned in syrup.
Tensley glanced at the hippie warlock and back at Illya. “You brought me to a fucking hippie warlock?”
Pearce put up a finger. “Correction: your bitch of a fiancée did.”
Tensley fisted his hands. “Don’t call her that.”
Pearce grumbled into his waffle.
“So she brought me here—to you?” He gestured to the hippie, a brow cocked.
“Lance Shepherd’s the name, and yes, she did.” He cracked an egg into the frying pan and turned to face him. “The hunters poisoned you with golden fleece and rose thorn. They were probably planning on torturing you to death in front of the other hunters.”