Dark Warrior Mine (The Children Of The Gods Paranormal Romance Series Book 7)

by I. T. Lucas

  Not a charmer, that was for sure, but he wasn’t all that bad either. In fact, he was a pretty decent guy, if he did say so himself.

  Trouble was, he brooded—he was the-glass-is-half-empty kind of guy. Hell, the thing was more like three-quarters empty.

  He couldn’t understand all those bloody optimists who pretended not to see the crap around them, supergluing pink-colored shades on top of their upturned noses to obscure reality. As if everything was going to be okay with the world because they believed it, and if they didn’t see the crap it didn’t exist.

  Lucky bastards.

  He wished he could pretend like shit didn’t happen. But as someone who had to swim in it time and again to fix the mess, he couldn’t.

  The lingering foul smell wouldn’t let him.

  The humans, he could understand. Their lives were short and their memories even shorter. Atrocities that had happened more than twenty years ago were a distant memory that didn’t impact them emotionally, and those committed a century or more ago were completely forgotten.

  Turning blind eyes and deaf ears to shit that wasn’t promoted by the media was so damn easy. If it wasn’t shoved down their throats because it served the agenda of someone who was willing to pay to have it in the spotlight, they had no reason to look elsewhere for much more disturbing crap.

  Obliviousness was bliss.

  But the same couldn’t be said about his fellow near immortals, most of whom were on the-glass-is-half-full team. And the one with the biggest fucking set of pink-colored glasses was no other than their clan mother, the only surviving full-blooded goddess, Annani. How the hell could someone as ancient as she remain the quintessential optimist after all she’d been through? Annani had not only witnessed humanity’s bloody history first hand, but had had the love of her life murdered by a fellow god, the insane Mordth. And if that hadn’t been enough to crush her spirit for good, the fucker had launched a nuclear attack against the other gods in order to avoid prosecution for his crime, wiping out all of her people including, unintentionally, himself.

  And yet, if you asked her, things were getting better. There were the occasional setbacks caused by Mordth’s vengeful followers, like a Dark Age or two, but the overall trajectory was positive. Annani was convinced that her clan and their positive influence on humanity’s progress was winning the long-term war against the destructive power of the Devout Order Of Mordth.

  Bhathian suspected that Mordth’s son and successor, Navuh, had a different view of things. The Doomers’ fucking leader had managed to breed an army of immortal warriors that was ten thousand strong. Not to mention his little side business that was helping finance his nefarious activities—the brothel he’d built on some godforsaken island in the Indian Ocean.

  Fuck, now he had gotten himself all worked up, and the face staring back at him from the mirror looked like it belonged to a serial killer. Bhathian wondered if it was too late to ask Kri or Bridget to do something about his bushy brows.

  Perhaps, with the unibrow tamed by a pair of scissors, he could look less threatening.

  Or better yet, he could try to get rid of the frown.

  His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

  “You’re coming up, or I’m coming down?” he asked Andrew.

  “‘I’ve just finished with Kian. Come down to the parking garage.”

  “On my way.” He clicked off and stuffed the thing back in his pocket.

  Standing in front of the mirrored wall of the elevator, he practiced releasing the frown and even tried to smile. He better not. Instead of just a normal, run-of-the-mill killer, the fake smile made him look like an insane one.

  He shrugged and adjusted the collar of his white button-down, then re-tucked it in his jeans. Should he keep the second button open? Or close it?

  Why was he obsessing? It wasn’t important. It wasn’t as if he was going to go up to his daughter and introduce himself. All he was planning on doing was sitting somewhere in her coffee shop where he could look at her without her noticing it and listen to her voice as she interacted with her customers. Andrew would provide the cover, pretending to talk to him from time to time so she wouldn’t grow suspicious.

  When the ping announced that he’d reached the parking level, Bhathian closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Man up, asshole. You were stressing less heading out to battle.

  As he got out, Andrew was waiting by his car. “Nice shirt. You look good.” He offered his hand.

  “Yeah, I bet.” Bhathian shook what was offered.

  “How about presentable, better?”

  “At least it sounds as if it could be honest. I don’t need a pep talk.”

  “Wasn’t giving any.” Andrew opened the door to his Ford Explorer and got behind the wheel.

  As Bhathian walked over to the other side and folded himself into the passenger seat, he couldn’t help but notice that unlike his own car, which was littered with empty In-n-out paper bags, crushed coke cans, and ripped candy bar wrappers, this one was spotless. The car’s interior looked like it was brand new or had very recently gone through a detailing service.

  “Your government provides car-washing services?”

  “No, I do.” Andrew backed up the car and drove up to the garage door which began sliding open.

  “Impressive.”

  Andrew cast him a sidelong glance. “I like to keep it clean.”

  “As I said, impressive. Mine looks like a pigsty.”

  “Oh, yeah? What do you do when you need to pick up a lady friend to go on a date?”

  Bhathian snorted. “What lady friend?”

  “I thought all of you immortals needed lots of sex.”

  “We do, but it has nothing to do with ladies or friends.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes as he waited for a car to pass him by so he could pull into traffic. “And to think they let you teach the sex-ed class.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Bhathian rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Andrew sighed as if he was explaining things to a clueless teenager. “Every woman who you hookup with, even if it is for only one night, deserves to be called a lady friend. Not a piece of ass, not a pussy, or any of the other creative substitutes men use. Language has power, and to think in these terms erodes your respect for women. True?”

  Bhathian crossed his arms over his chest. “You keep forgetting how old I am; that’s why you got it all wrong. When you say a lady, I see in my head a British matron fanning herself because she’s stuffed into a too-tight corset and can’t breathe. Fates know I’ve never hooked up with one of those. And as to friends, I’m very picky about who I regard as one.”

  “My apologies. I hope you still think of me as a friend.”

  Bhathian put a hand over his heart as he turned to look at Andrew. “For as long as I have breath in my lungs and blood in my veins.”

  Andrew seemed taken aback. “It sounds like a pledge.”

  “It is, and I do not offer it lightly.”

  Chapter 9: Andrew

  Touching, but he hadn’t done enough to deserve the guy’s unending gratitude. The few hours of work he had dedicated to the search were a far cry from the kind of service that qualified for such a solemn pledge. After all, he hadn’t sacrificed anything for Bhathian or rescued some relative of his from certain death.

  But he wasn’t about to tell the guy that finding his daughter wasn’t enough of a big deal to warrant his heartfelt thanks. Obviously, for Bhathian it was.

  When Andrew got off the freeway, Bhathian turned to him. “I forgot to ask you what’s the name of her place.”

  “Fernando’s Bakery and Café.”

  “That’s the name of her adoptive father?”

  “Yeah. Keep an eye out for the sign, it should be somewhere around here.” Andrew turned into South Jonson Street.

  At seven in the evening, the various shops and Cafés were still open, and judging by the numbe
r of cars parked along the street business was good.

  “That one is leaving.” Bhathian pointed toward a white Honda.

  Andrew got behind it and waited for the driver to ease into traffic.

  “You ready?” He turned to Bhathian as he parked.

  The guy nodded and wiped his hands on his jeans before reaching for the door handle.

  Andrew locked things up, and they hit the pavement together, walking at a measured speed that was neither fast nor slow. It must have been a hell of an effort for Bhathian, who Andrew had no doubt itched to march ahead. But even at a casual stroll, the big man was attracting attention and not in a good way. Conversations halted, and people moved out of his way, their steps getting just a bit longer and faster as they tried not to be obvious about their unexplained urgency to increase their distance from him.

  Casting a sidelong glance at his companion, Andrew wondered what was so scary about Bhathian that he was provoking such strong reactions. He was well dressed, with his plain white dress shirt tucked into jeans that weren’t drooping. And the guy had no tattoos or piercings. True, he was a big guy, about six four or five, with the body build of a professional wrestler, but so was Dwayne Johnson and yet people loved him. If the ex-wrestler turned movie star were to show up on the street, there would be a stampede of girls trying to get to him and not away from him. But the big difference between The Rock and Bhathian, was Dwayne’s big, friendly smile, as opposed to the immortal’s angry scowl.

  Andrew couldn’t blame people for wanting to get away from a surly son of a bitch who looked like he could lift cars. A guy this size in a bad mood was bad news.

  “You should try to smile more.”

  “Sure about that?” The dude’s grimace of a smile was way worse than his scowl.

  “Maybe not.”

  Andrew shook his head. He’d thought that accompanying Bhathian would soften the guy’s impact, but it wasn’t working. Probably because Andrew’s presence didn’t provide a strong enough contrast. True, he was shorter and less muscular than the hulking guy, but he was still over six feet tall and far from harmless. The scars on his face, although old and faded, betokened a life of violence.

  Fuck, they’d better cut their visit short. With the two of them sitting in her café and scaring customers away, Nathalie would lose sales she couldn’t afford to.

  “Ready?” he asked Bhathian as they reached the place.

  “Yeah, but you better do all the talking. I’m not good at that.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Andrew pushed the door open, and the jingling of the little bells hanging over it on the inside announced their arrival. As the few customers sitting inside the café glanced their way, their expressions changed from mild curiosity to alarm.

  A moment later Nathalie emerged from what must have been the kitchen with a tray of freshly baked croissants.

  The resemblance to her mother was striking. Hell, everything about her was. Andrew, who was supposed to do the talking, was rendered momentarily mute.

  She put the tray down and took off the oven mitts before taking her place behind the counter. She smiled at Bhathian and him, her lovely face showing none of the alarm her customers displayed. “Hello, what could I interest you in, gentlemen?”

  Oh, boy, that deep and smooth voice of hers was doing unseemly things to his male anatomy, which was doubly embarrassing since he was standing next to her father. Mercifully, he’d headed to the keep straight from the office and hadn’t changed out of what he’d worn to work—his reaction was well hidden under his blazer.

  And yet, even though he knew better, he had the absurd impulse to reply you. Instead, he tugged at his necktie that suddenly felt too tight, then blurted out, “Coffee, two, for me and my friend.”

  She entered their order on her register. “Anything to go with your coffees? I’ve just taken this batch of chocolate croissants out of the oven.” She pointed to the tray she’d put on top of the counter to take their order. “There is nothing like eating them when they are hot—when the chocolate is still melted, and the crust is so flaky that it melts in your mouth.” Her tone turned husky and suggestive as if she was talking about something completely different, and yet he was certain that it wasn’t intentional. For some reason, Nathalie projected an innocence befitting someone much younger.

  “Sure,” he said, though she could’ve offered him yesterday’s stale donuts and he would’ve responded the same.

  She smiled again, and he noticed that her teeth were incredibly white. “How many would you like?

  “I’ll have three.” Bhathian found his voice.

  Her smile got even wider. “And you?”

  “The same.”

  Now her smile reached all the way to her beautiful brown eyes. “Big boys with big appetites. I like it.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Not like all those health freaks who count every calorie.” She winked, her incredibly long lashes fanning over her peach-colored cheek.

  Up close, he saw that her perfect complexion wasn’t the product of a clever makeup job, and the dark lashes outlining her almond-shaped eyes were not only long but also dense. If he weren’t standing so close to her, he would’ve thought that they were fake—the kind some women glued on for special occasions. But hers were a gift from Mother Nature.

  Regretfully, Nathalie’s thick, dark hair was pulled back away from her face. Andrew wondered how long it was. He would’ve loved to see the thick waves cascading around her slim shoulders.

  His question was answered when she turned and bent down to grab a pair of metal tongs from inside the display, and the heavy braid fell forward, almost brushing the floor. When loose, her hair probably reached her behind.

  Using the tongs to lift the still steaming croissants from the tray, she put them on two small plates and handed them to Bhathian and him. “Here you go, and I’ll bring your coffees to your table.”

  Andrew was very careful to take it without touching her hand, not because of some outdated notion of propriety, but because he was afraid of his reaction.

  There was something special about Nathalie that affected him on a whole different level. Without her intent or even knowledge, she had planted her metaphorical hooks so deep inside him that frankly, he was weirded out.

  Chapter 10: Nathalie

  There was something strange about these two, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Nothing alarming, on the contrary, they exuded strength and confidence in the same way firefighters did—their presence was reassuring.

  The very tall one looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but she had her eye on the older one, a sexy man in his late thirties. If she had to guess his occupation based on what he was wearing, he was either a real-estate agent or a police detective.

  Hardly anyone else still wore a tie and blazer to work.

  But given the small scar over his left brow and the one on his chin, the latter was more likely.

  What was strange, though, was that Tut didn’t come barging in with his nasty commentary the way he’d always done whenever she had naughty thoughts about a guy. And she was definitely having them about this one.

  His lips in particular… and his hands…

  God, to have a man like him kiss her with that cruel yet soft looking mouth, to have him hold her to him with those strong, calloused hands…

  Stop it! She needed to banish these thoughts, fast, before not only embarrassing herself by blushing like a ripe tomato but summoning the annoying voice in her head.

  Perfecting her friendly yet uninterested act, she was often able to fool Tut along with the guys who flirted with her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to respond, but she could never say yes, even to those she would have loved to—like this one. Because what was the point? It wasn’t as if she could go on a date with anyone.

  Mr. Sexy’s younger friend was a huge man, with a pair of shoulders that had barely made it through her shop’s front door, and a rugged face that was nevertheless v
ery handsome.

  She should have felt intimidated by his sheer size, but she wasn’t. For some inexplicable reason, he made her feel safe. Not that she’d been fearful before—well, except the worry about what might have happened to Tiffany… and the old one about her mother. But as for herself, she had a sense that while this man was around, he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. He was the kind of guy who you wanted by your side when shit happened.

  It was almost palpable, the aura of a capable fighter, and one who she instinctively knew fought for the good side. Perhaps he was a Marine or a soldier in some other elite military unit. But one thing was for sure, despite his rough looks, he wasn’t a thug.

  Without asking how much, he pulled out a wallet from his back pocket and handed her a couple of twenties. But his friend stayed his hand.

  “No, this time, it’s my turn.” He pulled out his own wallet and handed her a MasterCard.

  She saw right through him. The only reason he offered to pay was that he wanted her to see his name on the card.

  “Andrew Spivak,” she read out loud and could’ve sworn that he blushed. But the slight flush had come and gone so fast she wasn’t sure.

  “Now that you know my name, could I have yours?”

  Bingo. I was right.

  “Nathalie Vega, very nice to meet you, Andrew.” She extended her hand for a handshake.

  For a split moment, he looked at her offered hand as if he didn’t know what to do about it. But then, a determined expression slid over his handsome face, and he took it, closing his large calloused hand around hers.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Nathalie.”

  As he clasped her hand for a long moment, his eyes holding hers captive, she felt something pass between them—a sort of subliminal communication that was electrifying and tantalizing.

  Futile, because nothing could ever come of it.