Enlightened [Sexual Magic 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Jennifer August

  “Fine. Let’s drink together.” Mason glided across the floor and picked up the crystal decanter. He poured three neat glasses of Scotch and passed them around.

  Griff took the Scotch and stared bemusedly at his friend. “Is this an intervention?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Emma piped up. “I don’t know what happened to send you running but I do want to help. If I can.”

  Mason pointed a finger at him. “You felt the emotions, didn’t you? You know this is different.”

  Emma stilled and her green eyes went wide.

  If he denied the truth he would sound like an ass. But was he ready for this kind of admission?

  “Maybe.”

  “Bullshit,” Mason muttered. He slugged back the Scotch and reached for the decanter.

  Griff stopped him. He set his glass down on the bar and studied them both. “I don’t know what’s happening with us. But I do know I’m not ready to give up on any possibilities.” He sighed. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the best I have for now.”

  Emma nestled her glass next to his and then cupped his jaw. “Then for now is all we need.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Emma, get some rest. A lot of rest.”

  Griff’s voice held amused authority, and she pushed limp bangs out of her eyes to smile up at him.

  Her entire body felt as limp as her hair. They’d worked her over in the best ways possible.

  A small consolation was they both looked as tired and replete, even in the ambient light of the apartment’s exterior hallway. It was clear Mason and Griff had enjoyed their time together.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, not surprised by the automatic obedience she heard in her voice. Four days of absolute domination by these two wonderful guys would do that to any normal woman, much less a sub in training.

  In training. Was she still? Their four days had been filled with intimate sex, talking, and limit setting. She’d learned what it truly meant to be a sub. She’d discovered what she liked and disliked and found the resolve—not to mention the proper way—of expressing those choices.

  What else was there?

  Her breath grew short. Was this the end of their time together?

  She was not ready for it to end.

  “I mean it. Start with a hot bath, eat something light, and get to bed early.” Griff stroked her cheek. The blunt end of his long finger left prickles of muted heat in its wake.

  If she were less exhausted, his touch would have her ready to go all over again. Her mind and heart yelled yes, but her body drew the line. She was exhausted and wrung out. She felt used, abused and delighted.

  But no way could she even think about sex, much less have it again right now.

  “I will, I promise.” She wrinkled her nose and lifted her arm. “A bath right now not only sounds heavenly, but I am pretty sure I need one desperately.”

  Mason chuckled. “Nah, you smell fine. Like a woman who’s had a lot of sex.”

  She laughed. “Gee, thanks. That’s just the impression I want to portray. Eau du ho.”

  Griff cupped her arm, then drew his hand up her nape and pulled her toward him. His eyes vibrated with warmth, and she relaxed.

  No way, this was not the end.

  They wouldn’t just turn and leave her now.

  Griff’s kiss was soft, light, a brush of affection. She sighed into his mouth and tried to follow as he lifted his head, but wasn’t quite fast enough.

  Mason stepped closer, edged Griff out of the way, and swept her into a passionate embrace. His still high-roiling emotions washed over her in dizzying fashion, and she gripped at his arms to keep from collapsing under the weight of them.

  Her eyes burned, even as her clit stirred in response.

  “Stop it, Mason. She’s done.”

  Obediently, Mason drew back, and Emma sucked in a man-scented breath of relief. She squeezed his arms. “That was mean.”

  He winked as he set her upright and tapped her nose. “Nah, that was fun. You are one sexy woman, Emma Haskins. I’m damn glad we pulled your case.”

  Her throat constricted, and he frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a bright smile. “Tired and aching.” She picked up her bag and the cat carrier, then pointed over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go and take that bath now.”

  She unlocked the door and shouldered it open then turned to look at them again.

  Will I see you again? The question quivered on the tip of her tongue, but she found herself loathe to ask it. What if she didn’t like the answer?

  “Good night, guys.”

  Mason lifted a brow. “Uh, hello? Slashed tires? Weird phone calls. Extreme caution time. We are not leaving until we’ve checked the apartment.”

  “Oh, well, okay. Thanks. But you don’t have to do that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, flushed with pleasure. It was this sort of sweet attention that drew her deeper into them.

  Mason nudged her out of the way and jerked his head toward Griff. “Stay here until we give the all-clear.”

  She chuckled at his melodrama. “Got it, five-oh.”

  They disappeared into the apartment, and she waited all of thirty seconds before she, too, ventured inside. She set her stuff on the hardwood foyer floor and looked around. Everything was in order.

  Halo emitted a shrill, disgruntled mew, and Emma bent, flipped the latch, and set her free. She stalked, tail high and straight, from the carrier and into the dining room. She slunk underneath the old hutch and disappeared with a hiss.

  That was one unhappy kitty.

  “All right, looks like you’re clear,” Griff said.

  “Yep, we swept the place,” Mason said. “You’re a very good housekeeper. The place is neat as a pin.”

  Emma felt a blush rise. “Thanks, detectives, what do I owe you?”

  Mason leered, but Griff shook his head and dragged him toward the door. “This call’s on us.” He gave his friend a light shove through the open doorway, stopped, and looked back at her. “I’m sure we can arrange some sort of payment for next time, though. Say, I take a little something out on your ass?” He winked as she shut the door.

  Emma turned both locks and listened to their footsteps clump down the stairs.

  She missed them already. She was absolutely going to hate waking up alone in her own bed tomorrow morning.

  With a sigh, she untangled her purse straps from the overnight bag. She draped the purse on the side table, picked up the bag, and tromped through the still-dark hallway. Mason had not flicked off the light in her room, and its welcoming, golden glow spilled into the corridor.

  Funny how the home she’d worked so hard to create had suddenly become almost bereft.

  The phone rang, and she shrieked a little as she started.

  “Jumpy, much?” she muttered as she headed for the nightstand.

  She picked up the ancient turn-dial phone, a relic hand-me-down from her grandmother and a piece she treasured. How many years had she spent playing on this gold and faux-ivory throwback?

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  She frowned, coiled and uncoiled the cord around her finger. “Hello?” she said, louder this time. The phone was old. The receiver did occasionally have issues.

  She still heard nothing, then a gasp and the line went eerily quiet again.

  Emma’s heart picked up speed, mirrored by rapid breathing. She dropped the receiver back to the cradle and raced to the modern phone in the kitchen.

  The rush proved fruitless. The caller ID box gave a number that was as unfamiliar as the one four nights earlier.

  Hand trembling, she picked up the handset and hovered over the redial button.

  Halo meowed softly from beneath the hutch, and Emma shoveled out a breath and set the phone back down.

  No, she would not play this sicko’s game.

  “Come on, kitty,” she coaxed as she knelt in front of the cat’s hiding place. “Come out
and I’ll give you a nice treat before I take my bath.”

  Gradually the cat crept out then leapt into her arms. The tiny furry body shook and squirmed, and her claws kneaded Emma’s shoulder with piercing strength.

  “What is wrong with you?” she murmured as she stood.

  Halo blinked slowly and swiveled her head back and forth. Her ears were perked forward, and her eyes slitted into near-flat lines.

  Emma rubbed under the cat’s chin, which elicited a pleased purr, and Halo relaxed in her arms.

  “There now, better?” She walked up and down the kitchen, cat cradled to her chest like a baby. It was a familiar routine from when Halo had been a kitten and unable to sleep. Emma spent hours walking and rocking her until she finally conked out.

  She grimaced. She’d thought those days long behind them.

  Was Halo upset by the arrival of Mason and Griff in her life? She’d seemed to like them just fine. What changed?

  “Too bad, kitty,” she said softly and rubbed her cheek over the cat’s soft gray fur. “They are here to stay if I have anything to say about it.”

  Halo’s claws dug into her shoulder then retracted.

  Emma made her way down the hallway and hummed the old French nursery rhyme she knew. She continued to rub Halo’s belly and between her ears. She turned and pushed up the light switch with her elbow before she walked to the front of the apartment again. As she turned, her gaze landed on the set of black-and-whites she’d done last year.

  She froze.

  A bone-deep, heart-stopping terror gripped her, and she whimpered.

  Though she didn’t want to and every fiber in her body screamed at her to run away, Emma stepped closer to the photographs. They were the same, sharp black wooden frames as before with the same muted bone-colored matting.

  Only the pictures were different. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart. Slowly, she looked at what should have been her fountain picture.

  Instead of the delicate plays of light and dark upon the shadows of the iced-over water, the open and dead eyes of a mutilated woman faced her. Her body sprawled in front of the fountain, like a rag doll tossed by a careless child.

  And yet, the body seemed exquisitely positioned at the same time. Her arms were bent at the elbow, hands propped on bent knees. Her head tipped just a bit to the left, and her eyes were wide open. It looked as if she were merely sitting against the fountain. As though she was waiting for someone to pass by and help her up—if not for the large gash along her throat. The splotch soaked into the collar of her pristine white shirt like a carafe full of spilled dark hot chocolate. A large white placard was propped up next to her. A large black number one dominated it.

  The woman’s dark hair was styled like her own, and she knew, despite the black and white of the print, her eyes would also be green just like hers.

  Bile rose, but she shoved it aside.

  Grimly, she forced herself to study the other photos. Gone was the backlit shot of the Carson Bridge. Another body now littered the space in front of it, posed identically to the fountain girl. She bore the number two on her card.

  The third image should have been a haunting winter shot of bare-branched, snow-laded trees arching toward a long stretch of railroad tracks. Instead, the now-familiarly fixed body sat in the middle of the rails. Emma squinted at the white paper next to her.

  “Four? What happened to three?”

  One of the picture frames was askew. She glanced at it, surprised to find it blank save the matting. The number three had been scratched into the boarding over and over again, then crossed out with a black marker. There was no victim, just a number.

  She didn’t know what to make of that.

  The field of obelisks in Standing Stone Park held the lifeless body of yet another woman, also posed. Her card read five. Emma sucked in a deep breath and leaned forward to study the woman’s face even closer.

  She jerked and jumped. “No, no, no.”

  Emma backed away from the pictures, unable to tear her eyes from the gruesome display now hanging from her wall.

  She turned and ran into the bedroom, slammed and locked the door, then dove over the bed and snatched the phone from its cradle.

  The welcome buzz of dial tone echoed in her ear, and she reached for the buttons then stopped.

  “Fuck,” she said viciously. She didn’t know their number off hand. It was in her phone and that was in the living room.

  She closed her eyes, saw the mutilated body of a woman stare back at her, and gagged.

  “There’s no one here,” she assured herself. “They checked. Thoroughly.”

  She rose, yanked open the bedroom door, and hurtled into the living room. She snatched her purse from the entryway table and dug out her phone.

  Within seconds, Mason’s phone rang in her ear.

  “Hello, little one.”

  “Someone was here,” she whispered, as if the intruder could hear her.

  “What do you mean?” his voice grew sharp.

  “Someone was in my apartment. I can’t stay here. But I need the cops.”

  “Whoa, slow down, darlin’. Why do you need the cops? Shit, he’s not there now, is he?”

  “No, I’m alone. God, this is going to sound crazy, but I think it might be the Snapshot Killer.” Just giving voice to her concern made her stomach roil. She punched the mute button and retched into the trash can just in the nick of time. With a shaky hand, she wiped her mouth. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I have my car back. Can I come over?”

  “Listen, Griff is at the Council right now. Stay right where you are. I’ll come to you. If you’re right…Fuck, Emma.” The curse was filled with tension. “Call Joel and Ryan, they’ll get the cops there. I’m on my way.”

  The line clicked dead, and she shivered.

  She hesitated on Joel’s phone number. Should she call 911 instead?

  “And tell them what? Someone broke into my house and rearranged my art collection?” Granted, those pictures did have dead bodies in them, but she would feel better if Ryan decided to call them in instead.

  Unfortunately, when she finally connected with Joel, it was to learn that Ryan was out on another case.

  “Em.” He stopped, voice fret filled. “Listen, hon, I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s on the Snapshot Killer task force.”

  She swallowed hard. “Well, that makes this easier then.”

  “What do you mean? Are you okay?” His tone rose three octaves past soprano.

  “Mostly. I’m fine physically,” she hurried to reassure him. “But mentally I’m damned unstable right now.” She explained what she’d come home to and that Mason was on his way to pick her up.

  Told him how she’d wanted them to come over before she called the cops.

  “He’ll definitely want to see this. You haven’t touched anything, have you?”

  “No. I couldn’t.” Her mind balked at the last image. The possibility. “Joel, you said he was called out? Does that mean they found another body?”

  The silence grated on her nerves like a fork on metal, and she gritted her teeth against another round of puking. “Joel?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “In Standing Stone Park, near the obelisks.”

  She stuffed her fist against her mouth and tried to stifle a sob. “Her picture is here,” she whispered.

  “Shit,” he said. “Okay, stay right there. I’ll call Ryan then come over.”

  She did not want to stay until the cops arrived. She wanted Mason to take her away, keep her safe.

  “Do I have to be here?”

  “’Fraid so, Em. They’ll want to interview you.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Em, take a deep breath for me, okay? Turn on some music or a movie, try to stay calm. We’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes sounded like a damn lifetime, but she nodded, wiped away a tear, and closed her eyes to prevent more from spilling. “Hurry,” she said softly then h
ung up.

  Emma took Joel’s advice and put on her favorite musical soundtrack. She tried to let the peppy tunes keep her mood from crashing into the dark fear which beckoned her. As she dashed around the room, she threw jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and socks into a large suitcase. The overnight bag just wouldn’t do.

  And if she was right about the identity of the woman in the obelisk picture…

  She whimpered again, turned up the music, and prayed Mason hurried.

  * * * *

  “She sounded scared out of her mind, Griff. What do you expect? That bastard was in her house. Touching her things.” Mason slammed his hand against the steering wheel as he drove. “How long will you be at the Council?”

  “I’ll leave in a few minutes. I want Noah and Madelyn to come with me.”

  His skin tightened in panic. “Why?”

  “Noah’s healing talent can help ease her mind, that’s all. And I figure she could use a woman to talk to, as well.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Mason.” Griff’s voice went all Dom on him, and he straightened instinctively.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Rein in your emotions. I don’t want Emma being buffeted by them when you get to her place. You both need to remain as calm as possible. When we get her home we can let loose, okay?”

  Mason tried to regulate his breathing, his racing heart. He knew Griff was right. Such high-flying emotion was not going to do any good. And if it got out of hand, it could actually harm her.

  Psychic backwash, Clarissa called it.

  If he projected too much, he ran the risk of overloading her brain and causing her to black out. No one was really certain what other long-term effects could be wrought by the backwash, but he wasn’t about to find out with Emma.

  His heartbeat settled to a more even thump, and the constriction eased a bit. “You’re right, of course. I’m under control now. I had planned on grabbing her and going, but I don’t think the cops are just gonna let us walk.”

  Griff cursed on the other end. “Good point. Okay, we’ll meet you at her apartment.”

  Mason disconnected, checked the speedometer, and eased off the accelerator. Last thing he needed was to be pulled over for speeding.