by Dianna Hardy
“You were being a good king.” She nibbled the side of his jaw. Shadows lay under his eyes, giving away the extent of his exhaustion; everything he'd had to take care of; every loose end he'd had to tie up… “Do I have you now?”
He sighed at her ministrations. “Hell, yes.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Let me be a good queen.” Before he could stop her, she sank under the surface, heading for gold.
His cock, now fully erect, lay thick and long against his belly. Grabbing its base, she sealed her mouth around the crown and worked her way down.
He thrust greedily into her mouth. She felt his fingers in her hair.
Holding onto his hips for balance, she set to work, licking, sucking, letting her teeth scrape the parts most sensitive, and relishing in satisfaction every time his muscles betrayed his control, hardening and quivering under her touch.
Her lungs were starting to burn, but the salty taste if him set her alight.
Literally.
Her eyes widened in surprise when she realised she was throwing off lightning under the water. Was that even possible? The water started to ripple all around her.
Lawrence tugged on her hair, and she made her way back up, taking in a deep breath on breaking through the surface.
She came up to rain pelting her face and a clap of thunder.
“Jesus Christ,” he drowned her mouth with his own, “you brought that storm in fast.”
She wasn't even aware that she had. Usually, there was a floating, out-of-body sensation before she was able to do that – not this time. But the hows and whys of it could wait, for a more primal urge was calling, dominating all else.
She extended a hand, tendrils all over it, and placed it over his heart, watching in fascination as the lightning spread out and danced all over him. I know what to do…
“Fuck, Lydia!” His head fell back and he pressed himself against her. “That feels…” The sentence ended on a long, deep moan.
“Inside me … now.”
“Further along the rock – there's a small ledge. I can rest on it.”
They pulled themselves along until they found it. Most of the ledge still lay under the water and it stuck out from the main rock, long and narrow like a small bench. Lawrence hauled himself astride it, supporting his back with the rock, and Lydia wasted no time in hauling herself onto him. Her sex found his, both of them ready, and she gasped.
“Wait…”
She growled. Wrong thing to say.
He laughed, then touched her face gently, “I brought condoms.”
Her cheeks went red as embarrassment rose.
“Wait, no, look at me – I'm serious. I know it's important to you, but they're up on the bank. It won't take me long to—”
“We don't need them.”
His eyes widened, surprise lighting them, followed by concern. “Lydia—”
“Do you know what that Trident wanted to do to me?”
Concern turned to fury at her words – beautiful, awe-inspiring fury as his fangs extended and his eyes glowed with the most iridescent white-blue light; hot-white heat and ice-cold fire, all rolled into one. “Ryan said he hadn't hurt you. He said he hadn't—”
“Sssshhh…” She stroked her tongue over his lips, then over his fangs in a bid to calm him. “He didn't get that far – you stopped him. But many things fell into place for me last night. Maybe a wolf's first change is about what changes inside too.”
Lydia took him in, her eyes drinking up his regal beauty. “Did you know, that you carry yourself like a king, even though you have nothing on which to stand?”
Her words clearly moved him. His teeth shrunk back a few millimetres, his eyes shimmering as he looked at her in question.
“You had your whole existence taken from you, the ground ripped from under your feet – most people can only say that figuratively.
“A month ago, you shared your blood with me and gave me life. I didn't know it at the time. I had no idea what that meant, to me or you. Today, you opened the door and gave me this.” She stroked his chest, above his heart, her lightning still doing its magic as the rain fell on them both. “And in so doing,” she took one of his hands and placed it over her own heart, “you gave me mine back.
“You're a conundrum, Lawrence Gunvald,” she smiled. “You're a sometimes-arse who just keeps giving and giving, and not even realising that your capable of giving. Ryan knows it, Taylor knows it, your pack knows it.”
“Our pack,” he whispered, still bewildered at her words.
“Our pack,” she repeated. She ran a finger along his brow. “Our king.”
One upwards movement and she had the tip of his cock nestled against her centre; one downwards thrust and she was impaled by him.
He hissed as she sank onto him, all the way down. “Lydia…” he growled out, uncertainty still marring his tone.
God, it was indescribable, the way he filled her; completed both her and the animal within.
Her family.
They were her family.
And she had the power to make it grow.
She ran her fingers through his hair, and then grasped it when she began to rock, back and forth.
He groaned.
She rocked harder; whispered into his ear, “Every king needs an heir.”
Inhibition left him. He took her arms, pinned them right behind her back and pulled her so she arched backwards. And the dancer in her smiled. She went all the way down until her back hit the ledge, her face just above the water. She couldn't move her hips much like this, but Lawrence took over.
Gripping her arms for purchase, he thrust into her, every grunt that left him taking him deeper into her, and she bit her lip at the delicious pain that pinched her insides – too slight to matter; enough to rush her to the brink of her rapture.
His tongue swept over her stomach, dipped into her belly button, flicked across her breasts … he pulled her up slightly and found the side of her neck.
He now brought her arms out to the front again and placed them over his shoulders. She clutched him as he held her fast around her hips, driving into her ferociously now, with the force of his desire.
“Oh! God!”
I know what to do.
She brought down the storm.
Both angry and passionate, destructive and protective, the maelstrom settled around them, creating a whirlwind that cocooned them as they reached for the sky.
Desperate sighs and groans, and laments of want, added wind to the gale…
“Lydia…”
A plea like no other; a plea for release, for escape, for freedom … and yet, for the surety of home.
She screamed his name.
Lightning surged through her.
Lawrence surged through her.
And on a cry of surrender, she opened herself up to the storm.
Epilogue
“I could not see, but now I do,” she replied with her dying breath, “to have all of you, I must yield all of me. Take my life, Himet. I trust you with it. I give it freely.”
“Aunt Gladys?”
Gladys gave her head a shake, breaking out of her thoughts and put down her book. “James. You off?” She turned her tired body around to face him. Oh, to feel young again…
“Yes,” he smiled. The daft fool was practically beaming, as if his betrayed daughter would just forgive and forget; as if her three mates would allow him any respite from the hurt he had caused her.
She glanced over at the answering machine, making sure the green message light was definitely off. She had erased that little inconvenience – no sense in making things easy for the bitch. The farther away James stayed from her, the better, and Gladys had encouraged their estrangement over the last ten years; had steered it and added wind to the sails. She took pride in that fact.
“Are you sure you don't want to come?”
“Oh, no no no. You and Lydia have much to discuss without me there. What are you hoping will happen, James?”
<
br /> “I just want to get us back on the right foot with each other again. It's been so long, in some ways I barely know her. I suppose I'd just like to get to know her again, and take it from there. I've – uh … I've already set some things in motion on that front.”
“Oh?” And what the bloody hell would that be? He hadn't said anything about that to her, and he usually told her everything … or she snooped. Either way, she always knew what he was up to. The last few days, however, she had had her work cut out for her keeping up with the Tridents and with the pack in Surrey. She hadn't been around as much, and clearly, this was the price.
He smiled, giving nothing away, but looked too damn proud of himself for her liking. A tall man, or wolf, he shared Lydia's red hair and her smile. As a child, the trollop had been a right little Daddy's girl. They had understood each other's humour and laughed at the same jokes.
A rare, yet familiar jealousy coursed through her, lasting only a second, but still taking her somewhat by surprise. She'd thought herself too old for that emotion – thought she'd conquered it with age and an infinite about of bitterness.
As a boy, it had been her who James had looked at adoringly; had come to for guidance; had shared his day with. Then along came Christine Herne with her blonde hair, perky breasts and violet eyes. And when Gladys had discovered she was a storm-wielder… Good god. That was a past she had never wanted to go down again, but Lydia had to ruin all that, didn't she. She had to go and mate Lawrence Gunvald and bring history alive.
“Don't forget your tea.”
“Oh … right.” He looked at the mug she had brewed for him, sitting on the dining table, and then looked at his watch.
“It's still steaming hot and I made it just the way you like it.”
Peeling his eyes from the time, he picked up the mug and downed it in two gulps, wincing slightly at the scolding heat. “What would I do without you?” He strode to her side and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I'll see you later. I'll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck,” he grinned.
“Good luck,” she called out after him.
He closed the front door behind him.
After thirty seconds, she heard the engine of his car start. She looked at her own watch: two o'clock. It would take him two hours to get there, give or take. The three drops of colloidal silver – or poison if you were a werewolf – she'd put into his tea would work within half an hour.
Somewhere beneath the layers of hate she had cultured for decades, a glimmer of sadness stirred. She did love her boy. Of course she did. But everything was different now.
She went back to her book, and opened the back cover from which she pulled out a folded piece of paper that had belonged to the book that Erika Gunvald – or Erika Bauer as she has known her – had cherished. Yet, Erika had still torn the page out for her.
“This is for you, Gladys. Take it.” Erika thrust the sheet of paper into her palm. “Something for you to remember us by.”
More disturbed by the memory than she'd care to admit, she put the folded paper back, without opening it, and shut the book.
She frowned as her thoughts moved on to Selena. Idiot child. What had happened? Her task had not been difficult. No doubt she had let her emotions get the better of her; had allowed them to engulf her mind so she lost focus. And now she was stuck in second hell.
Never mind.
Maybe it would be good for her. The girl had a lot of hate brewing, but not enough. Not enough to survive. Well, she would learn to hate now – hate was the only hope she had of surviving Gabriel. Too bad her clumsiness had cost Gladys her goal. Lydia was still mated and Gunvald still breathed, and unless she was mistaken – unless the leaves in her own tea cup were misleading her – there would soon be a child on the way.
Her frown deepened into a scowl. She had pulled out all the stops to thwart the mating that she'd predicted last month – she had failed and had been duped: she had not foreseen three mates.
Last night's full moon had ended up a catastrophe, and Lydia had survived her first change.
Three strikes and you're out.
She had one strike left: Gunvald's heir could not be born.
~*~
He'd been walking – or staggering – for an age, for a year, for a decade, or perhaps only for a day; he wasn't sure. The moon had risen and set, at least twice; had left him weakened, for he had spurned his need to release the beast within.
He had shifted and run. Run from Emily, who he suspected might have been a trick; a hallucination … although everything was starting to seem like a hallucination now.
He had run and only stopped when he had lost his breath, sweat seeping from every pore, and now he wished he had taken it slower and retained that water and salt – he could do with both. Urgently.
He had shed the beast that first night and resolved to get the fuck out of here, 'cause he clearly wasn't going to get what he came for.
But getting out of here had proven to be way more tricky than he'd imagined. He'd covered a lot of ground, but he was going around in circles. There was nothing here but desert and it looked like the same fucking desert, over and over again.
And his mouth was as dry as the sand; his tongue had grown twice as big, his spit had turned white and…
His legs gave way and he fell. His face hit the sand and grains flew into his mouth, not that he could really feel them because his mouth was as dry as bone anyway.
This was it.
His legs wouldn't move to get him up again.
This is how he would die, and maybe it was better this way – better to die here, trying, than as a Trident who never knew any different. And a Trident's natural death after their five years was up, was all blood and guts and disintegration – very painful. Dehydration, at least, held an element of decency.
“Get up.”
Oh, no fucking way.
“Get up, please.”
That voice – it was the child again. And this time, he knew it was a hallucination because a child could simply not survive out here.
“I'm in trouble.”
And then the voice began to cry.
Oh, shit.
He really didn't want that to be the last sound he heard before his lights went out. That wasn't fucking fair. He wasn't the cause of her pain.
With what felt like his last bit of energy, he turned himself over towards the voice, expecting to see nothing there, like last time.
A girl sat by his side, head bowed into her hands as she sobbed. She was tiny – maybe about five or six – and her long, dark hair hung in tresses over the face.
“Don't cry,” he tried to say. It came out more of a choke as his throat closed up on him.
She looked up, hope all over her pretty little face. And it was exceptionally pretty – she looked like a princess with her ivory skin and her almost black eyes.
“You're back!”
No, he really wasn't. He was at death's door.
“You need to live. Please. She wants to kill me. You need to live.”
A shadow loomed over him, across his left, and now there was no doubt in his mind this was an aberration. A man with a dog's head stood to his left – not a Trident or a werewolf … “Anubis,” he croaked out, just a hoarse whisper that he couldn't have heard.
Anubis, the guardian of death, come to take me away. When in Egypt, do as the Egyptians do.
He laughed in his mind at his stupid joke – couldn't laugh in reality because his cracked lips bled when he moved them.
Another shadow fell over him, this time across his right, and there stood Sekhmet, her lion head blocking out the sun. It was funny … she looked nothing like his mother.
She spoke. “The woman you have come here for knows what you are.”
He died right then.
His lungs might still be struggling to breathe, but all things ceased to exist at that point.
Game over.
“She wants nothing to do with you. She abhors you. But … we can give y
ou your life if you wish it back – you have passed the trials.”
Trials? What trials? He'd been walking around in circles for two or more days, thinking of absolutely nothing that was of any use to anyone.
“The trials began the moment you uttered my name in a prayer, over the heat of a flame.”
Oh.
The candle.
He had lit a candle for Sekhmet the morning he had left his home, before his flight. And yes, he had prayed … for the first time in years.
“Life or death. Your choice, son of Sekhmet,” said Anubis.
What was it with this son of Sekhmet crap? He looked at the Goddess. The reference didn't seem to bother her. She also didn't seem all that inviting – not the cuddly type of mother. Ha! So there was something his mother shared with the Goddess after all.
“She will not love you again. If you can live with that – with her loathing of you – we will give you life, but it will not be the same life you had before.”
Not the same? Not a good-for-nothing playboy with no focus or direction? Not an evil Trident with no hope for salvation? A different life is something he could accept, whatever it was, but Sarah loathing him…
If she would never love him, then what was the point?
Oddly, her scent chose that moment to infiltrate him. He turned in its direction, and there stood the girl. No … she didn't quite smell like Sarah, but it was similar.
The deities seemed oblivious to her presence. Was she real?
This was clearly some kind of in-between place. Not reality, but not exactly a mirage, and not the afterlife … yet.
The girl's hair was matted to her cheeks with tears, hope she refused to give up on, shining in her eyes because she wanted to live and someone was trying to kill her.
Why she thought he could help her with that little problem was a mystery to him, but it was her hope that beat the words out of him. Sarah had had hope that he would return – she had looked at him that way, not willing to give it up.
This child wasn't Sarah, but if he died, her hope would be crushed. For some reason he couldn't fathom, to crush her hope felt like crushing his own heart and soul.