Hexbound: Book 2 of The Dark Arts Series

by Bec McMaster

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  "Believe me," he said, with a faint laugh that swiftly died. "I don't like the sound of it either. I've had enough to do in my life with talk of sacrifices."

  She knew he was speaking of the prophecy that hung over his head. And she wasn't quite brave enough to ask him more about it. She'd never felt more at peace than she did now. Being here in his arms was like belonging in some bizarre way that she'd never even known she craved. She just wanted this peaceful moment to drag out. To live in it forever, far away from the Hex and demons and sacrifices.

  "Then we find the book," she said, threading her arms around his neck. "Use the Chalice, and get rid of this dark curse on your soul forever."

  Bishop's expression became intense. He said nothing, merely captured her lips again, throwing everything he felt into the kiss. A kiss that consumed her soul. She'd have sold herself to the Devil for another second of it.

  "You're not too sore?" he murmured, thrusting a little against her. The towel tented over his cock, but she could feel him against her despite the layers between them.

  Her entire body heated. Melted. Somehow she hooked her finger in the edge of the towel, and then it was slithering free, the hairs on his upper thigh brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "No." She was a little sore, but the ache felt nice. Like fulfillment. "Not for this."

  It was as if her words had unleashed a fury within him she'd never witnessed before. Bishop was violence and passion carefully contained beneath the smooth veneer of his skin, but not now. He kissed her again. Stole the breath from her lungs, his hands sliding beneath her nightgown and sliding it up until his erection fell heavily across her mons.

  That set her off. How she wanted this man. In every way. Nails raking into his biceps, she flexed her fingers into his skin, reveling in the feel of the power in his body. He was so much bigger than her. Stronger. Yet amazingly, she was the one who felt like she had all of the power in this moment.

  Fingers slid down between them and danced between her thighs, hesitant at first, then gaining confidence as she moaned a little and arched into his touch. The first streak of pleasure shot through her nerves as he hit the exact spot she needed. Bittersweet and aching. Stealing her breath. "Yes," she gasped, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. "Yes... there... right there.... Oh, Adrian...."

  Somehow her fist was in his hair, clenching violently with her need. It was nearly embarrassing how wet she was, as if her body betrayed secrets she'd tried to keep hidden in her heart. She'd never told him. The thought flashed through her mind as he worked those fingers inside her, those inner muscles tightening around him like a glove. Verity grabbed his head in both hands, desperate in some way she couldn't describe. Their eyes met, a secret little moment in which he saw everything that she knew was in her heart, in her throat, in her chest.

  I love you.

  He bit her throat. Then her cheek. Back to her mouth. God, the taste of his tongue was faintly smoky, like fine brandy. She was lost in the moment. All of the need and desperate desire she'd felt for him spilled out of her. Maybe she didn't have him, not truly? Maybe there was no future between them? She didn't know. But in this moment she felt like she did. There were no words in her head. Only gasps. Only a please, and maybe a yes, please, please, desperate begging sounds as every muscle in her body wound tighter than a corkscrew. Couldn't think when he kept kissing her like that, like a drowning man trying to steal the oxygen from her lungs.

  Verity lost herself with a shattering wave of pleasure. She didn't know if that was her voice calling out, but she clung to him as spasms racked her. Nails digging into his back and shoulders, no doubt leaving little pale half-moons there, as his fingers fucked their way inside her.

  Too much. Too much sensation, oh, God....

  "No more!" Verity begged, shoving his hand away as she came crashing down, her entire body jumpy with nerves, with pleasure. Senses heightened. Practically leaping out of her skin. She'd seen men and women blissed out post-orgasm. She'd never truly felt it before, not like this. She felt boneless. Weightless. Both locked in and out of her body, as if she were floating. Power surged through her, temping her to try and shift the very world in its gravitational spin. She probably could right now.

  That lifted his head, his voice raw with a question: "I didn't hurt you?"

  Verity laughed. She couldn't help herself. God, she felt amazing. Locking her arms around his neck, she drew him back against her, skin against skin, even as another flinch of stimulation made her jump. "It was just too much," she whispered against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss. "In a good way."

  He drew back to look at her, a faint, curling smile stealing over his lips. A secret smile, just for her. "Well, look at you," he said. "All flush with power. Guess we know what your natural inclination is."

  Some sorcerers could draw power from blood. Some from death. Some from sex. He'd told her that once. She met his eyes. He'd also told her what it felt like when he stole another life. If this was even half what he felt, then she didn't know if she could blame him for wanting more. The pure rush of energy through her veins—

  Her smile died, and he saw it. "Ad—"

  His mouth stole her own, cutting off the words.

  The kiss was long and slow, drowning out the rest of the world. She fought it for all of a second, then softened in defeat. Later. Definitely later. Her body began relaxing beneath him, her thighs parting as she cradled him back into her grasp. The insistent press of his erection made her sleepy eyes open wide, and she saw the smoldering heat in his own pupils as they stared into each other's eyes.

  The hard thick tip of his cock brushed against her entrance. Bishop half turned his head to the side, his lashes lowering over smoldering eyes as if he were concentrating. Verity arched her hips a little. Then he was almost breaching her, the blunt head of his cock sliding where his fingers had been and setting her alight. A faint hiss went through him. Dragging her nails up his side, she rolled her hips, and he sank deeper within her.

  Inch by inch. Bishop's lips parted, his eyes slamming shut as he slid home. She loved watching the amazement dance over his face. Loved being the first one to show him this, how good it felt. Kissing his throat, she made a weird purring sound of contentment in her chest.

  Verity arched her hips, her body taking him whole. She ached a little, but it was a well-earned ache of overuse that would soon soften. Sliding a hand down his spine, she wrapped her legs around his hips, digging her heels into the hard flex of his bottom to drive him deeper.

  "Fuck," he breathed, his whole body moving in a smooth glide that filled her. His lip curled. "Fuck, Verity. You feel.... You're amazing."

  She glowed deep within. "You've barely felt anything yet."

  Clenching her inner muscles, she set him into a faster pace, losing herself to the push and pull of smooth skin and the satiny glide of muscle. Pleasure shivered through her, that little edge building within her again. So close. So... now.... Her mind went white-hot.

  "Adrian," she gasped into his mouth as she half turned her head to the side to gain a moment to breathe.

  Bishop groaned against her shoulder. "Getting close," he whispered.

  She didn't care. "Then come with me."

  "Wanted... to make this... last."

  Verity giggled and he groaned again as her body tightened around him. This man.... This man lost all sense of control when he was in her bed, and she loved it.

  "Wench," he growled, slapping the side of her bottom.

  Then he was withdrawing between one thrust and the next, grabbing her hips and rolling her onto her elbows and knees. She had just a second to grasp his intentions before he thrust inside her again, this time from behind.

  Thoughts scattered. He was so deep inside her that she couldn't think.

  "Je-sus," he hissed, and the next thrust slowed.

  A warm hand slid down her spine, his fingers curling in the mess of her braid. That insist
ent tug forced her head back, forced her spine to arch until his cock was riding over something deep within her. Something that beckoned another quake. She let it ripple through her, crying out loudly as his thrusts sped up, and then he buried himself in her for a long, heart-stopping moment, before withdrawing swiftly.

  Hot seed spilled over her back. Verity collapsed into the pillow, resting her forehead on her wrists. Her entire body shook and quivered from the aftermath, and then something rough wiped over her back—his towel maybe—and he spilled them both into the sheets, breathing hard as he tossed it aside. Somehow Verity found herself sprawled in his arms, her cheek resting on his shoulder. Strong arms wrapped around her, his hand cupping the base of her skull as if he held something precious. Verity snuggled in against him, more content than she'd ever been.

  Until she remembered what he'd said about sex giving her energy. Her eyes blinked open, her hand pausing on his chest, mid-contented-rub.

  Bishop's abdominals flexed as he lifted his head to look down at her, no doubt sensing the sudden reticence in her body. "I pulled out in time, Ver."

  There was a little pang in her chest, even though she knew he meant to protect her. Meant it for her own good. A little part of her, however, wondered what it would be like to hold a baby in her arms. A baby with his eyes.

  She didn't dwell on that thought for long. Just a second before she set it aside. Bishop wouldn't want to bring a bastard into the world, not when he'd been born one himself. He'd been fairly closed off to her when they were linked, but she'd caught just enough of his secret thoughts to know that illegitimacy bit at him. And he would never do that to her, leave her alone to raise a baby like his mother had been.

  So she set it aside and didn't look back.

  "What was all that about?" she whispered, glancing up into his eyes. The coals in the grate had long since died down to a muted glow, but her vision had adjusted to the dark. She could make out the curve of shadows across his cheekbones and the faint dip above his well-formed mouth.

  "I'm fairly certain that was obvious," he said, smiling as he kissed the tip of her nose.

  "Ha, ha," she replied drolly and smacked his arm. Settling down again, she couldn't resist stroking his arm, touching him... little signs of affection. "You know what I mean. That was... fairly intense, even for you. Where did you go? What happened?"

  "I couldn't sleep," Bishop admitted, and she rubbed his chest as her heart ached for him. "Thought I might as well take care of Horroway. Make sure he won't come looking for you."

  "Did you kill him?"

  Bishop shifted. "Aye."

  So that was what drove him tonight; the power and energy of Horroway's death. Verity kissed his pectoral, then snuggled back in against him, anxiety making itself felt inside her. Of all the things she'd suspected she might lose him to, this was the one she felt she didn't have a chance at fighting back against. His own demons. His own craving.

  Stronger than what he felt for her.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. "So Horroway's dead. Good riddance."

  "I felt sorry for him in the end."

  She glanced up.

  "He's vile, and a sniveling coward—he always has been," Bishop's voice lowered, as though he spoke through a mouth of gravel. "But he knew what it felt like. To live like this."

  She saw the doubt in him. "You did the right thing. Who knows what trouble he could have caused?"

  "I didn't do it because of that." Bishop sighed, then kissed her fingers. "He wanted me to do it. God, he was so tired, so.... And I felt sorry for him in a way, because Morgana played him. She promised him the Chalice and the power of it, and then she discarded him when he lost it. Jesus." His eyes stared into the distance, seeing something else.

  Verity wanted to rub the loneliness and ache she saw from his expression, but settled for kissing his shoulder again. "Did he say anything about them? About Morgana? And Tremayne?"

  "No." Bishop sighed, turning on his side to face her, those talented hands stroking her face, her cheek, the hair off her brow. It was as though he couldn't stay still.

  "So what do we do now?" she whispered.

  "Now? I was thinking about sleep," he grumbled.

  Verity smiled. "But tomorrow?"

  "Find Morgana. Kill her. Tremayne too, if possible," he muttered, resting one hand behind his head as he sank back into the pillow. He glanced at her. "Kiss you as often as I can."

  Verity nestled against his side. "That sounds promising."

  "You bloodthirsty little thing...."

  Verity poked him when he laughed. "I was talking about the kissing part. You do need the practice."

  Dark eyes slid her way. "Practice, huh?"

  "Or maybe that's just an excuse," she whispered, lowering her face and tracing her tongue along his lower lip.

  Bishop's hand slid through her tangled hair as he drew her down against his mouth. This time it was sweet. Gentle. A kiss to steal her heart, not just her breath. Verity felt a bittersweet twinge in her chest as she broke away from him. Who would have guessed this taciturn, scowling assassin would be everything she'd ever turned out to want?

  But he hadn't said a word about her in return, or about how he felt.

  "Mmm," she said, drawing back and catching her breath. "I do think you're beginning to get the hang of it."

  Bishop trailed the backs of his fingers down the slope of her naked breast and she shivered, then shook her head. "Not again. Not tonight. Or I swear I won't be able to sit at all tomorrow."

  Instantly, he was all contrition. "You said I didn't hurt you."

  Verity sank into his arms. "You didn't. But you have ridden a horse before, yes? It's like when you haven't ridden for months, then suddenly think you can handle eight hours in the saddle."

  A faint smile traced his mouth. A somewhat smug smile that was infinitely male.

  "Oh, shut up," she said, slapping his shoulder.

  He caught her hand and dragged her around until she was curled in his embrace, his breath blowing over the back of her neck. "Tomorrow," he murmured, curving a hand around her breast and snuggling her in, "I am going to claim all of those kisses you're promising. Which means you should definitely get some more sleep."

  I love you. Verity rested her head on the pillow and bit her lip as the blatant truth streaked through her. And I won't let you go. No matter what this prophecy says, or how much the maladroise pulls at you.

  The world had tried to take everything she loved away from her: her father, when he walked out on them; her mother; her home; even Mercy....

  This time, Verity was going to fight back.

  Chapter 27

  'The hardest thing to accept about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies...'

  * * *

  –Old proverb

  * * *

  SEBASTIAN WAITED.

  Perhaps that was the worst part, for he'd truly begun to believe that the man who had sired him wanted to be his father.

  "I'll return," Drake had promised him. "Tomorrow at the latest. Then we can begin to work out where you are, and get you out of there."

  Hollow promises. Jesus. He should have known better, but even though Morgana had done her best to stamp hope out of him during his youth, that little boy inside him still remained.

  Maybe Drake had tried? Maybe the fact that his mother had moved them in the middle of the night to another house had thwarted Drake's efforts?

  "You idiot," he whispered to himself with dried, cracked lips. If Drake had Cleo at his side, then it wouldn't matter where Morgana moved them. All he had to do was follow that link between Cleo and Sebastian, that bond.

  Even now it stretched away into the distance if Sebastian closed his eyes and imagined a golden rope tied between them. West. Cleo dwelled somewhere in the west.

  He hoped she stayed there.

  Cleo. He didn't know why the memory of her would haunt him so often. She might be his wife, but he'd only known her less than a week before all
had gone to rack and ruin.

  Still... those brief meetings had been more than enough to tell him that she came from a different world than the one he lived in.

  Cleo. With her blonde, silky hair, and her endless kindnesses and soft voice. He couldn't forget the one night when they'd shared a bed for almost a half hour—their wedding night—before he'd fled from the bed in shame.

  Sex held no interest for him. All it had ever been was forced and shameful. He was beautiful. He knew that. Women told him all the time, with their hungry eyes and their incessant need to own him for the night. His mother had allowed it, handing over the ring that controlled his sclavus collar—and hence him—for the night to entertain them, in an effort to convince them to join her in her revenge schemes. He'd hated every second of it. Sometimes his body obeyed him, leaving them unfulfilled, but there had been some who had worked his body like a well-oiled machine until it no longer obeyed his command, but theirs. It left him feeling violently ill and desperate to scrub their perfume off him. If he had a choice, he never wanted to touch another woman again.

  But for a moment, when Cleo had lain beside him in that bed, he'd almost... wondered about it. Cleo smelled like apricot soap, with her hair spread across the pillow as she waited for him to touch her. Silvery hair in the moonlight. She'd barely been breathing, as if waiting for him to lay a hand on her.

  And he'd wanted to. For just a moment. Wanted to pretend that he wasn't what he was, and that the filth of his past, of what he'd done, of what he'd been forced to do, couldn't contaminate her purity if he touched her.

  "You are what you are," Morgana whispered in his memory, "You are my son. Mine."

  And it was true. There was a darkness in him that he couldn't deny.

  He had no place dreaming of someone like Cleo.

  Sebastian clenched his eyes tightly, banishing thoughts of her before he could truly lose himself to despair. His father was another hope, another dream, he couldn't have. This cold cellar around him—stinking of rotten onions—was the cold, hard truth of his life.