The one man in the entire world she wanted to avoid.
Her skin was ice-cold everywhere except on her mark. Needle-sharp heat prickled there. Throbbed. Hurt. “What the hell are you doing?” she tried to yell, but her teeth were chattering too much, and movement hurt her head. Tentatively, she reached for a towel off the stack and used it to dry her hair. Even that hurt her poor head. “What am I doing here?”
“You passed out in my arms. I’m pretty sure your drinking buddy in the bar put something in your wine.”
She jerked her head up and then had to drop the towel and grab the counter to keep from falling. The bathroom spun. Bending over at the waist she concentrated on breathing and not vomiting all over the pretty veined marble on the floor. She imagined cooked skunk pelt tasted better than her mouth. Think! It was coming back to her that she’d met Mack in the bar. He drugged her? Why? Finally, she stood up, dripping cold water and fury. “I’ll kill him.”
He dragged his gaze from her wet hair, down her dripping top, second-skin pants all the way to her waterlogged toes. His expression was tight. “You might want to dry off first.”
Still holding on to the edge of the counter for support, shivering violently, she remembered Mack in the bar and feeling sick. Then Kieran had caught her in his strong arms. And she’d felt safe. That was crazy! It had to be the schema unleashing hormones to get her to have sex with him. She had to get out of this bathroom and away from him. “What is your game, Mr. DeMicca? Why the hell did you bring me to your room and dump me in ice water? Are you as twisted as your art?”
His eyes widened. “You know who I am?”
She snorted. “I’m not one of your fangirls with a hankering to bang famous, so don’t flex your ego.”
He tilted his head, amusement bringing out the dimple on his left cheek. “Bang famous?”
“Okay, we’re done here.” Time to take control and leave. She forced herself to stand up to her full five foot six inches. The mark on her thigh was almost as irritating as he was.
He dropped his crossed arms, pushed off the door, and stepped toward her. “No, we’re not. What’s your name?”
He was too close! His woodsy and darkly spiced Chianti scent swirled around her, filling her nostrils. She realized she was leaning toward him, a little part of her mind noting how big and solid he was, with bronze colored skin that contrasted with his short blond hair and light eyes. Pulling back, gripping the counter, real fear took root deep in her stomach and bubbled in her chest. She had to snap out of it; she could be in danger! “My father knows I’m here, and that I’m looking at Dyfyr to develop as a series for TV.”
He took another step, crowding her against the counter. “Who are you?”
She tilted her head back to see his face. “Roxy Banfield, executive producer for Spectral Productions.” She could feel his male warmth contrasting sharply with the chill, making her shiver.
Kieran frowned. “Quit standing there freezing; use your power to dry off.”
Shocked, she said, “My … you know?”
“That you’re a witch, yes.”
How the hell could he know that? “Mack! That blackmailing asshole.” He’d told her about the fanatic group looking for witches with her mark. Was Kieran a part of them? Did he pay Mack to drug her and turn her over to him? Forgetting her aching misery of cold and sickness, she said, “How much did you pay him? What do you want?”
He tilted his head, drifting his gaze over her. “This second, I want you to stop suffering, use your power to dry off and get warm.”
She felt a tingle of heat everywhere he looked. He was only one brief step away from her, and she had to fight the urge to move toward him. Feeling his heat … she clamped her jaw against the hormone-induced urges. Roxy couldn’t assess how much danger she was in. Was he some crazy-ass mortal who killed witches who had the schema mark? Or something else? Should she deny she’s a witch even though she’d already tipped her hand? She tried another tactic. Maybe she could convince him she’d reformed. “Can’t, I’m latent.” She lifted her chin and added, “I refuse to be a witch.” That was true. Soon, her chakras would be dead and she’d be gloriously, one-hundred-percent mortal. If she didn’t catch her death standing here in icy wet clothes.
His face hardened, his bones jutting against his tanned skin, but a light shifted in his eyes. “Ah. That explains why I can barely smell your power.”
“Smell my—” Alarm bells banged in her head, brutally intensifying her headache. She wasn’t dealing with a wild-eyed fanatic, but something much more deadly. “Witch hunter,” she whispered, trembling harder.
“Yes.” He had his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles popping and shifting. Finally he held out one hand, palm up. He caught hold of her wrist, tugging it up. “Touch them, they’re real.”
He settled her fingers on his palm. She swept the pads of her fingers over the curving lines, the dips and ridges arcing over his calloused hand and creating a sensual heat deep in her belly. He wasn’t rogue; she could feel and see the evidence of that. When rogues killed an earth witch, they lost their souls and therefore, their lifelines. They also usually smelled like copper, not a rich, red wine like this man.
“Keep touching me like that …”
She jerked her gaze up to his face at the groan in his voice.
His gray eyes had flecks of blue as he finished his sentence, “… and I’ll take those wet clothes off for you.”
Her heart hammered in her chest, her body coiled tight, and she wanted to feel the texture of his palms brushing all over her skin. Shame had her jerk her hand away, breaking all contact.
She was allowing her baser hormones to control her!
He turned and reached for a thick white robe hanging on the back of the door and tossed it on the counter beside her. “Get out of those wet clothes and put this on.” He pulled open the door, slipped out, and closed it.
What had she almost done? Humiliation bent her over, and she forced herself to take deep breaths. He’d just been showing her his lifelines and she’d wanted to jump him. With Kieran gone, her headache and queasiness returned. She felt weak and shaky. Standing up, she debated her options. She could see from the black and gold logo on the robe that she was still in the Mystique hotel. Every room she’d seen in this hotel had the bathroom off the foyer of the room by the door to the hallway. Maybe she could go out the door, turn right, and make it to the hallway door before Muscle Man out there stopped her.
Witch hunter! They were supernaturally fast and strong; this was really bad news. What did he want? She couldn’t figure it out. If the bloodlust from the curse was driving him to kill her, he wouldn’t worry about her drying off and getting warm. Or showing her his lifelines.
Trembling with cold, and wincing from the rapid pounding in her head, she knew the smart thing would be to get dry, put on the robe, go out into the foyer, and then figure out how to get away. Even if Kieran meant no harm, he was still dangerous to her.
After stripping and drying off, she tossed down the towel and slipped into the warm robe. The mirror showed her pale face, huge eyes, and a scraggly, half-gone ponytail. She tugged out the band and finger-combed the worst of the tangles, then gave up. Given her circumstances, it was better to go with the unattractive drowned-rat look.
Steeling herself to find a way to get out of this mess, she opened the door and stepped out into the foyer.
A scream locked in her throat.
Staring back from the wall across the hallway was a life-sized nude drawing of herself with hideous, bleeding cuts all over her.
Oh sweet crone! He was a lunatic! Terror burned through her, pounding her heart, roaring in her ears. Run! She whirled to her right and ran for the door five feet away.
Inches away from freedom, she was body-slammed into the door. It took her a full second to realize that the man had caught her face with his palm and had his arm around her waist preventing her from actually hitting the door. She was pinned so tightly, sh
e couldn’t even move her legs.
But she sure as hell could feel his thick, heavy erection pressing against her back.
Had she screamed? Would help come?
Or was she going to die here, right beneath her bloody, hideous picture drawn on the wall?
Key had seen the panic hit Roxy as soon as she saw the drawing. He caught her before she escaped. Standing there with her trapped between him and the door, his blood ran hot with every desperate breath she took. Her scent warmed to melted caramel with almonds. It was wickedly sensual, filling his lungs and his cock. But he could feel her heart pounding too fast like a small bird, and the sharp acrid scent of fear was burning through her natural scent. That picture had scared her senseless.
It was a sharp reminder of just how far gone he was. It hadn’t even occurred to him what would happen when she saw it. He was so used to the violence in his head, in his world. This woman wasn’t. He took his hands from her and slapped his palms on the door. “Turn around.”
She did, and something inside him twisted at the sight of her flushed face and wild eyes. She was a good seven inches shorter than he. Looking down her length to her bare feet, he estimated she was a hundred and thirty pounds lighter. At one time in his life, he’d known what it felt like to be small and vulnerable. His father and brother regularly used him as a punching bag. Key had been born small by witch hunter standards, and worse, by the time he was three years old, he began drawing dragons and girls. That had been enough to make his dad feel the need to beat the pussy out of him. But his father had another motive as well. The Dragon Tear protected his mother, Beth, so Hogan would use their son Key, breaking his arm or leg, cracking ribs … all in an effort to force Beth to give him the Dragon Tear. She wouldn’t risk letting Key wear the Tear, knowing he’d have given it to his father to save her. Key hadn’t known how to fight back so he just let them hurt him.
Looking at Roxy now, he remembered that helpless, sick fear, then the blinding pain, and the only thing that had kept him focused was not giving the bastard what he wanted, to hear him scream or cry. Once Beth could get to Key and put her arms around him, the magic that protected her would protect him and help him heal. So his father had to do things like lock her in a room …
He jerked his mind back to the present, to the woman standing between his outstretched arms, staring at him as if he were a nightmare come to life. She wasn’t all that far off the mark. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice came out thick. He pulled his hands off the door and fisted them at his sides to keep from touching her. She enticed him, and he wanted to touch her. She was too delicate, too breakable.
She sucked in a breath, lifted her chin and demanded, “What kind of freak are you?” She compressed her full lips, as if biting back a scream.
He hated that she saw the truth in him, saw the ugliness that writhed inside him. Like his father had when he’d scream, You’re a freak! A spawn of magic so vile you make me puke. Should have drowned you! Most women saw only his looks and reacted to his pheromones or his fame. “I’m trying to keep you alive. It’s not me that’s going to kill you.” The scent of her witch blood was so faint that it barely tripped his bloodlust. So why was Liam after her? How had she crossed his path? He had to find out.
“So you’re stalking me to draw pictures like that.” She tilted her head toward the drawing.
“No. I drew the picture first, then saw you in the meet and greet and recognized you.” He narrowed his gaze. “You recognized me, too, and ran away. Why?” She had known who he was; okay, that made sense, she was a producer scouting for talent. But why would she rush away when she saw him?
“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Might be true, but he thought there was more to it. “What’s your connection to Liam? Do you know where he is?”
“Who?”
Her pupils were contracting into pinpoints, probably from a headache. She was leaning heavily against the door, breathing too fast, and the scent of sour sickness was very real. He’d thought her magic would heal her, and felt a sliver of regret for waking her up. “Liam is my half brother, and he’s a rogue. That picture I drew? It means he’s after you. That’s what he’ll do to you if he gets you.” All these years he’d been having his episodes of drawing Liam—he hadn’t been crazy or sinking into bloodlust. Liam was alive and Key’s art knew it. This was real.
“But I don’t know any Liam!” She winced, her shoulders rising in the white terry cloth robe.
Key fought sympathy. He knew witches felt pain intensely, but her misery from the aftereffects of the drug was nothing compared to what Liam would do to her. He had to find the connection between them both, to keep her safe, and to track Liam. “He apparently knows you.” Key watched her, wondering if she would lie.
She pulled herself together. “My magic is latent, so how would he even …” she trailed off, her eyes dropping. “Mack. He was up to something.”
“The guy in the bar?” When he’d gone through the optic nerve to shift his memory, he’d found the man’s short-term memories were mushy from another witch hunter’s previous shifting. It had to be from Liam. “When I caught you in the atrium, he insisted you were his wife and tried to take you from me.”
She grimaced. “Mack Daemon, he’s an old boyfriend. We broke up. I never told him I’m a witch, but he knew and … damn, I can’t think with this headache.”
He felt a stab of regret and lifted his hand to her shoulder. “Let’s go sit down.” She was looking worse by the second.
“No, I want to leave—” The color drained from her face. Then Roxy ducked under his arm, ran into the bathroom, and dropped to her knees in front of the toilet.
Key winced at her violent vomiting. Shit. He went in and got her a wet washcloth. Lifting her hair, he held it against the back of her neck.
“Go a—” She couldn’t finish as the next wave of sickness hit her.
Key waited, memories of another time, another woman throwing up, and him feeling helpless. He’d eventually learned the few things he could do. Cool cloth on the back of her neck, ginger ale or tea, and patience.
The spasms finally stopped. Key flushed the toilet, went to the sink, and wet another cloth. He handed that to her.
Roxy shifted on the floor, leaning back against the side of the tub by her damp clothes. She leaned her head back, appearing so drained she could barely move.
He couldn’t stand her thick misery. Key hunkered down, slipped his arms beneath her, and lifted her up.
“Kieran …”
He looked down at her too-pale face, her freckles vivid. “You’re too sick to go anywhere.” He walked out of the bathroom into the fresher air of the bedroom and headed to the bed. He held her in one arm and stripped the covers back, layered some pillows, then put her down.
“Resting for a minute, then leaving.”
He didn’t argue with her but went to the minibar and got out a small bottle of ginger ale, opened it, and held it out. “You won’t get far in your condition.”
“Far enough to kill Mack,” she muttered, took the bottle and sipped.
He sat down on the side of the bed, facing her with his hip brushing hers. That small contact reminded him of when she’d touched his palm. Lust had exploded in him. He had a supersized sex drive, but this woman did things to him unlike anyone else. She squinted against the light, dragging him back to the present. He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. That left only the light from the bathroom around the corner. “What can I get you to help? Tea? Or I have a friend who is a witch, she won’t be here for a couple hours, but she—”
“No witches.”
Odd. “She could use magic to clear the toxins from whatever shit Mack put in your wine.”
“No.” She scooted away from him, putting a few inches between their hips. Taking another sip, she added, “I can’t stay here with you.” She turned her head toward the wall and added, “Or with that.”
The picture. Key was fu
rious with himself for not painting over it. These episodes didn’t happen very often, but when they did, he either found paint or called the witches and they would magically erase it. To her, he said, “You can’t go back to your room. Mack drugged you. And I think he did it to take you to my brother. If Liam wants you, he can get you. He can walk right up to a security guard and, using his ability to shift memories, get the guard to hand over your room number and his passkey card.”
The ginger ale slipped from her grip.
Key caught the bottle, his hand brushing a part of her thigh. A flare of warmth seared his hand and shot straight to his groin.
She tried to pull the robe tighter, but her hands were clumsy. “Something in the drink?” Her words were thick.
Key looked up at her struggling to keep her eyes open, her head listing to the side. He hated that she thought he drugged her. “No,” he reached up, pushed her hair back. “I forced you awake when your body was trying to break down the drugs.” It had been cruel of him, but he’d thought she could use her magic to dry and heal herself. “Sleep,” he said gently. Then added, “You’re safe.”
Her eyes were sliding closed. “Not safe.”
Leaning closer, he slipped one arm around her to pull her to his chest and then froze. Her scent slid down his throat and stirred deep inside him. More sensual than sexual, it made him want to hold her against him forever. He almost heard his dragon purr. Damned strange reaction. Moving two pillows so only one remained, he laid her back. She was nearly limp.
“Can’t stay here.” Her protest was real but she was too weak to follow through and her eyes closed.
Shit, his chest ached. He had to focus on his priorities: Find and kill Liam. Leaning over her once more, he asked, “Roxy, how did Mack know you’re a witch?”
“Took a picture.”
“Of your eyes?” She had classic witch eyes, they were exotically tilted up at the outside corners. The wall woman resembled her, but it wasn’t quite right. His fingers curled, he wanted to either touch her, or get out his pencils and capture her on paper.
Sinful Magic: A Wing Slayer Novel Page 3