Ebony Rising: (The Raven Queen's Harem Part 2)

by Angel Lawson

  I could devour him. I lick his tongue and absorb the energy. He’s not like my guardians. He’s different. Raw.

  Dark.

  The Goddess inside me cries, wanting to tear him apart.

  Xavier hikes my skirt up my hips, the brick of the building cool against my upper thighs. The rough texture scrapes and I grab for his belt.

  Be done with your purity. Here. Now.

  “Shut up,” I tell her, knowing it’s the wrong thing to do. My brain knows this. My body—

  “What?” Xavier says.

  “Nothing.” I reach for him but jump when the door slams against the alley wall and a massive hand drags Xavier off of me.

  “It’s time to go home,” Clinton says to the other man. Xavier looks miniscule next to him. Clinton’s steel gray eyes rake down my body—assessing me for injury.

  “Hey man, back the fuck off. This isn’t any of your business.”

  A dark shadow crosses Clinton’s face. The Morrigan whimpers back into her shell. Morgan takes back over and I feel the heat of the rune on my chest fade. “Xavier.” I swallow. “You should probably go.”

  “What?” He looks between us. “You’re the cellist? You’re leaving me for a musician? Fucking tease.”

  Clinton makes a move but I step forward, pushing him back. I grab Xavier by the chin, my nails digging into his skin. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “What? I can’t call you a tease? Please. You wanted it.”

  “Maybe I did, but I don’t anymore.” I release my grip, which I can tell he notices is stronger than expected. “Just go.”

  “Whatever,” he stays, stepping back. He rubs the spot on his chin where I touched him. A fiery red mark remains. “You’re not worth it.”

  Clinton holds the door for him and slams it once Xavier steps back into the bar. I straighten my skirt and say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Without speaking, he walks me out front and waves down a cab. One appears immediately and he swings open the door, letting me in. From the street he tells the cabbie our address. I realize then that he’s staying behind.

  “You’re not coming?”

  He shakes his head with a small jerk, the knot in the back of his jaw twitching.

  He slams the door and walks away.

  Chapter 19

  Clinton

  From the doorway of the club I watch the cab drive off. It took every ounce of strength not to get in the backseat with her. Morgan was scared and confused. I was aroused and about to take her in public.

  That wasn’t how this night should end.

  In fact, none of it should have happened in the first place. How she ended up here? In this club, listening to my music? It can’t be a coincidence and I enter the building to find some answers.

  The crowd is still in full swing, the tables near the stage having been cleared for a dance floor. My act was planned to be short—it’s up to the artists’ discretion how long they want to perform. The simple fact I’m creating the music—me, a guardian—means magic is involved. It’s volatile and with the right trigger, explosive.

  There’s no doubt Morgan was the perfect trigger.

  I push through the crowd, towering over most of the other men. Many look up and recognize me from the stage. I don’t stop, hoping to catch up with the two that brought Morgan here.

  I spot the red slinky dress of Morgan’s friend and the male with her. I can only assume they’re related. The guy notices me before I get to the table and he holds up his hands. “Listen man, I don’t want any problems. Okay? Misunderstanding. The girl said stop and I stopped.”

  “What did you do?” Anita asks suspiciously.

  Xavier coughs. “Nothing. We just had a moment. Then this guy broke it up. No big deal.”

  “Where is she now?” she asks.

  “She left,” I say. “How did you know to bring her here?”

  “Know?” the girl asks. “I just lucked into some tickets. Thought it would be a fun night out.”

  I don’t believe in luck.

  “Who gave you the tickets?”

  “They were just delivered to my apartment. Said I’d won them.”

  Xavier coughs again and I notice a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. I nod at him. “You may want to get him home. He’s not looking too great.”

  “Not feeling so great either,” he replies.

  I walk away, realizing the girl doesn’t know much, if anything at all. I head to the back and grab my cello before making my way back out to the street. Hailing a cab, I think about that moment during the concert between me and Morgan. I knew she was out there the minute I walked on stage. I sensed her. Smelled her. I felt the heat of her body and the powerful runes etched onto her skin.

  When the magic spilled from my bow, igniting a fire in her soul, something happened. She left. The man, Xavier, followed.

  I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but the Morrigan was summoned. I could hear her voice through the strains of my music. I heard her as clearly as I knew Morgan did. That’s how it starts. That’s how the Darkness takes over.

  A yellow cab pulls over. It’s a van—big enough to transport my instrument. I hop in the backseat and give directions. The street lights flash out the windows.

  A smart man would cool off for a bit before going home after a night like this. I may be strong. I may be powerful, but no one ever told me that I’m smart. I am cunning, a warrior, and I have a feeling I’m about charge into battle.

  Chapter 20

  Morgan

  The door is unlocked when I arrive home. Thankfully no one greets me. My lips are still hot with shame, my mind a jumble of the Morrigan’s whispers. Want and desire and need and yearning war in my mind. They tug at my body. I close the heavy wooden door with a click of the latch. Carrying my heels I run up the steps, past Clinton and Damien’s rooms to the third floor. Sam’s light is off. I enter my room, dropping the shoes with a too-loud thud against the hardwood floor.

  My skin crawls. I think of Xavier and the way his body felt. The way the Morrigan responded to him. I’d never heard her before. Not like that. Not off the page.

  I cross the suite and enter my writing study. On the window seat is my notebook with the last chapter I’d written. I’d been struggling to convey what happens to Maverick when she opens the gateway between one world and the other. What happens when the Darkness crosses over?

  The fair-haired prince stands next to her. His eyes glint with deceit.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “Your destiny,” he replies. His teeth are white and sharp. A gust of cold air passes through the gate, the kind that chills a person to their bones. Maverick feels it deeper than that. In her soul. Black smoke wafts into the green forest. The ravens caw overhead but it’s hard to hear them.

  The cold air turns warm—hot, even—blistering her cheeks. A voice calls to her, “Join me, Goddess of War. Unleash your powers from this world to the next.”

  She turns and faces the prince, who continues to smile. Maverick takes his hand and tugs him down with one hand. The other is heavy with a surprising weight. But she knows. She knows what to do with those that are disloyal. With her lips close to his she leans in to steal his breath, while raising the other hand and stabbing him with the tip of her blade.

  He jerks back—the smile vanished—but he knows. He knew. As does Maverick.

  In every story this is how it happens. This is how the Darkness begins.

  A hand lands on my shoulder. Startled, I drop the book and spin, using the moves from my training. I land a punch in Clinton’s gut.

  “Oof,” he grunts, taking a step back.

  “Mother fu—” I clench my fist. It’s bruised for certain. “Clinton!”

  “Sorry.” He takes my fist and kisses the bridge of knuckles. “I called your name.”

  “What are you doing here?” The twist of fire in my belly from the concert is still there.

  He holds my gaze. “It�
��s time.”

  “Time?” I’m confused by his statement but the warmth in my belly gives me an instinctive clue. “Because of tonight?”

  “The Darkness is too strong. You’re running out of time to pick a mate. But I also think you’re scared to choose between us. That if you lose your virginity to one of us, then that’s it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t work like that, Morgan. You’re free to make the choice. Having sex with one of us doesn’t bind you forever. That energy needs a place to go—you felt it tonight. You felt her. She’ll only get stronger.”

  “So you think it should be you?” He’s right. I’ve been afraid of this moment for weeks. Particularly with him. It seems ironic yet strangely accurate that he would be the one to push me on this.

  “It can be any of us, sweetheart, but it needs to happen soon.”

  He stands before me and waits. I know in my heart I can dismiss him and he’d leave. I could ask for any of the others and they’d come. But the consuming energy from the concert is still live and charged between us, and the fear that has knotted in my chest for weeks slowly dissipates.

  I take a step forward, closing the gap between us.

  “I’m scared.”

  He frowns. “Of me?”

  “No. Of how things will change from here. I mean, my life has already changed a lot. Living here. The Morrigan. The magic.” I swallow. “The sex.”

  “Your right. It’s another step, but a necessary one. I don’t think you’ll regret it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t have to be me, Morgan. I can walk out that door.”

  I consider how earlier I’d wondered if Sam would be the one. So kind and a good friend. He’d take care of me for sure. And Bunny? He would be gentle. I knew that. Damien would treat me like a princess. Dylan would give me a night I would never, ever forget. But Clinton? He’d been the one I was afraid of from the beginning.

  Which may make him the perfect one.

  “Maybe nothing about tonight was a coincidence? Maybe we’re meant to do this.”

  He ghosts his hand down my shoulder, his fingers linking with mine.

  “Maybe,” he agrees.

  I nod and lick my lips and a switch flips between us. All of the talk and worry and craziness of the night disappears. Clinton pulls me into his arms, his hands grappling with my backside, pushing up the hem of my dress. He lifts me up and I straddle his hips, happy to be face-to-face with him since he’s so tall.

  He walks quickly toward the bedroom, holding me like a treasure. I kiss his forehead, cheeks, nose, and mouth. He tastes like liquor from the club and when he stops at the edge of my bed I can’t believe I ever hesitated.

  “Tell me to stop at any time. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  “I regret that scene at the bar, Clinton. I never wanted to be with him. I wanted to be with you. You were magnificent up there on the stage. So strong. So sensual. I thought about your mouth. Your lips. I thought about your cock and what it would feel like inside of me. It was too much—too intense. That’s why I left. Xavier just got in the line of fire between us. Stupid boy.”

  A shift takes place on his face. Something feral and less constrained. When I mentioned his cock I felt him tighten between my legs. With one hand he gently lays me on the bed. He stands over me, pants tented with arousal. He places two hands on my bare legs and pushes my skirt over my hips. I rise up and his eyes turn glassy at the sight of my black, lace panties.

  The next few minutes are a blur. I lose my dress, the black fringe falls to the floor. Clinton’s shirt follows, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. I eye the ladder of muscle that flinches at my touch and I can’t look away from the hair that travels from his navel to the waistband of his pants. When I tug at the button and he quickly shucks them off. I can’t help but stare at his throbbing erection.

  It’s big like the rest of him.

  My stomach tightens in anticipation and the space between my legs grows warmer with desire. I should be afraid but I’m not. I desperately want his weight and warmth on top of me and I pull him down.

  The contrast between the two of us—hard to soft—is a glorious feeling. His arousal pushes against my core, each of us slippery with excitement. His mouth meets mine and he kisses me hotly. Hard. His hands move to my breasts and he explores them with the same precision he uses playing the cello or teaching me to fight. When there’s a gap of space between us I lift my hips, wanting, wanting and wanting to feel him against me—in me.

  He doesn’t need my permission but when he stares down at me I realize that he’s waiting. This is my choice. Everything about this is my choice. My mate. My guardians. The fight between good and evil.

  “Please,” I beg, reaching between our bodies. I touch the velvet tip of his cock in invitation.

  He’s quick, entering me with a swift motion. I cry out in surprise, feeling the spread of pain. The intrusiveness of warmth. My eyes are shut when I hear his voice, “Breathe, sweetheart,” and I do, unclenching my teeth and exhaling long and shuddering.

  I open my eyes and find him staring at me, checking on me, but I’m fading into the feeling of him inside of me, marveling at the way my body reacts to him. I slip my hand over his bicep and squeeze. He moves his hips, just a little, circling them in a way that causes me to gasp, “Oh!”

  It’s in a good way. A very good way.

  Clinton realizes the shift, the way I’ve relaxed to his movements, the way the sensations adjusted from pain to pleasure. He pulls nearly all the way out before slipping back in. The move triggers a wave through my body. I can’t help but smile when he does it again.

  He smiles back.

  I plant my feet next to his hips and he grunts with approval. Satisfied I’m okay he sinks deeper—faster—speeding up gradually. The change makes my breasts bounce rhythmically, slapping against his chest, igniting another, different wave of sensations. I moan with approval, eliciting a pleased grin from the man over me, and when he dips his fingers between us, brushing against the desperate bundle of nerves, I cry out.

  He sets a rhythm, his long hair swaying with each thrust. At first it’s awkward and off kilter but soon it’s our rhythm, our place in time. Our skin slick, our nerves frayed. Our. Our. Our.

  I wonder for the slightest moment if it’s just Clinton and I or something larger. Do the others feel it? Do they feel him pounding between my legs? Do they feel the coil tensing and tightening? I wouldn’t be surprised. Magic courses through this house. Through my limbs.

  My mind slips away and my body takes over. Clinton seeks my mouth and kisses me desperately, panting raggedly. I think he’s going to come but then his fingers find that spot again I close my eyes and I’m the one that can no longer hold back. With the tweak of his fingers I’m sprung, riding the wave of euphoria.

  As my body shudders, I slip into the wild. The walls creak and the rafters sway. I think I hear a muffled caw outside the window and swear I feel the charm burn against my chest. Brightness engulfs me and I shut my eyes, spinning, spinning, spinning. The energy, the Darkness lurking inside releases, bathing me in adoration.

  My nails dig into his back and that’s when he comes, riding the crest of my own orgasm. His shoulders tense, his abs constrict. He grunts into my mouth, long and ragged, mimicking his hips.

  Clinton collapses, his massive body heavy against mine. I like the way it feels. I love the sticky warmth of his seed pooling between our bodies. I don’t want him to move, but I know that this is just the beginning. There’s more. So much more.

  As soon as he catches his breath he rolls me over, switching our positions. I’m on top, relaxed and truly satiated for the first time in weeks. The Morrigan is quiet. The energy quelled. For once I don’t feel the Darkness lurking at the edges. I hadn’t realized how close she had been.

  When I look down at Clinton, his cheeks red and his eyes glassy and distant in a way I’ve never seen before, I feel a mixture of emotions. Slight embarrassment—wondering if I did it r
ight and if it felt as good for him as he presented. Pride for taking this step in my life. I’d been fearful—of Clinton the most—but I beat that. I owned it. I claimed him more than he claimed me and that feeling burns in my chest.

  “What are you thinking about?” His finger criss-crosses over my bare body. He’s mimicking the runes painted on by Bunny. The burning from earlier with Xavier—on my chest—is gone.

  “How I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

  He laughs, a rare sight on Clinton’s face.

  “Do you think the others know?” I ask.

  His face loses a hint of its humor. “They know.”

  A new feeling settles in my chest.

  Dread.

  “I’m going to have to choose now, aren’t I?” Because I’m still not sure. Even after all that, I’m not sure.

  He brushes a curl of hair behind my ear. “Yep.”

  I sigh and slide off his lap. I’m sticky and need a shower. A dull ache has replaced the euphoria. I don’t hate it. It’s a reminder—a good one—but a signal of how I’ve changed.

  Clinton catches my hand and squeezes it just as a loud knock raps at my suite’s door. A thin line forms between his eyes and he says, “Get dressed. I’ll see what’s going on.”

  None of the guardians have come to my room this late before and the worry on Clinton’s face sets me on edge.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. The rapping happens again. Louder this time.

  He doesn’t answer, just tugs his pants up over his hips. Shirtless and barefoot, he walks down the hall and I grab a blanket from my bed and wrap it around my body, following him.

  The door opens and Dylan stands on the other side. His eyes land immediately on me from over Clinton’s shoulder. If he’s fazed by our state of undress or intimacy, he never reveals it.

  Like Clinton said, he knows.

  “We have a problem,” he says, shifting his gaze back to Clinton. “Meeting in the library. Ten minutes. Everyone will be there.”

  I walk down the hall, gripping my blanket at my chest. I push past Clinton and ask, “What is it. What happened?”

  Dylan pins me with an ice blue stare. “Xavier is sick.”