She’d been convinced that she got through to him at Renz’s house, but he’d crawled back inside his shell as soon as they’d climbed in the Bronco and left the lights of New Orleans behind. Glory considered herself a blunt person. She said what she thought and didn’t have much of a filter. She wasn’t sure she had the finesse to get Mirren through this like somebody smarter than her could do. Someone like Krys, who would know what to say, recognize how to coax him back from the dark place he’d gone to.
Glory would have to try it the only way she knew how.
What she did understand was that he had a split personality—oh, not the kind on soap operas where one personality goes off and acts in ways the other personality doesn’t know about. But there were two distinctive sides to Mirren. On one side stood the warrior he’d been trained to be in his human life, the paid killer he’d apparently been for the vampires for a long time. That person had taken over tonight. The other Mirren, the one she’d fallen in love with, missed beef stew, watched Westerns, drew sketches, was a playful lover. Somehow, she had to convince him that she loved both sides of him.
Only, did she? Could she? She nestled against his heavy right arm, ridged with the beautifully wrought tattoos carved into his skin as some warped kind of atonement. He smelled of the hotel’s harsh soap and clean skin. In New Orleans, he’d smelled like blood and sweat and an almost tangible, cold anger. She couldn’t accept one Mirren without the other. It wasn’t fair to either side of him, or to her.
Closing her eyes, she visualized him at their first meeting. Starving, but unwilling to fully feed from her. Promising to not hurt her like the others had. Taking her with him when it would have been so much easier to leave her with Matthias. The warrior in him had done those things just as surely as he’d killed Lorenzo Caias, not for sport or money, but because Renz had hurt her. Her heart felt too big for her chest, from her connection to him as her mate and from her love for him as a woman.
The bond between them was not back to the steel-cable stage, but it was stronger than when she’d gone back to Renz’s. She did love him, damn it. All of him. She just had to convince him of it. And if he tried to walk out on her, she might have to find her own inner gallowglass.
Mirren felt Glory’s warmth before he fully woke, smelled her floral scent, heard her soft breathing beside him. For a minute, he thought they were in his suite below the house in Penton, and he wondered what she’d cook for him, how they’d spend their evening after they made love.
He opened his eyes. Shit. With one glance at the stained motel ceiling, it all came back, right down to Lorenzo Caias’s head hitting the floor a full two seconds before his body crumpled beside it. Mirren shifted to take in the woman lying beside him, wearing a T-shirt she’d picked up at Walmart, her legs tangled with his beneath the sheets. As if on cue, he grew hard and hungry for her, body and blood.
But he’d fucked that up royally, hadn’t he? He needed to get out of here, let her go back to Penton with Will. He’d hide out from the Tribunal, or then again, maybe he wouldn’t. After four centuries, he was tired of fighting. Whatever happened would happen. But he didn’t need to drag Glory and Aidan and the rest of Penton down the shithole with him.
Carefully, he pulled away from Glory and eased off the bed, slipping into the extra set of clothes he’d packed. His movements were silent as he checked his weapons and slid a knife into his pocket. After some consideration, he rolled up the leather tunic and put it in his pack, along with the gun and holster. He needed to travel light. The fringed leather scabbard holding Faolain was propped against the cheap dresser of particleboard, and he picked it up.
“Either put that sword away or get ready to use it.”
Mirren whirled to see Glory sitting up in the middle of the bed, her black hair going in a dozen different directions, a scowl on her face.
God, she was so beautiful he ached for her. He turned back to the scabbard and laid it atop his bag. “Go back to sleep.”
She crawled off the bed and stood in front of the door, her fists on her hips. The gray T-shirt had bright black-and-white flowers on it, and with her tousled hair and lack of pants, it pushed all his sexy buttons. Which definitely didn’t need to happen.
“Move away from the door, Glory.” He took a step toward her, but she didn’t budge. Stubborn, stubborn woman. “Aw, fuck me. What is it you want from me?”
“Finally. Thanks for asking.” She advanced on him, fire in her eyes, and he wanted to pick her up and take her right here, right now. Instead, he backed up. He didn’t need to be touching her. He couldn’t touch her and still hold onto his resolve to do the right thing for once.
“Move, Glory. Go back to Penton with Will. You can—”
“I knew you were going to do this, Mirren Kincaid. I told myself, ‘Glory, that vampire is going to wake up and try to sneak out of here without a word. He’s gonna think everybody’s better off without him. He’s gonna try to be all noble and blame himself for everything. He’s gonna leave you behind like your feelings don’t matter. ‘Glory,’ I said, ‘he won’t even let you say how much you love him—all of him, even the part of him that chops off Tribunal dudes’ heads. Because some heads need chopping off.’
“And, yep, there you a retrying to leave, you big old coward.”
She took a deep breath and advanced another step. Mirren’s boots might as well have been made of cement.
“Well, fuck you, Mirren Kincaid. You aren’t going anywhere until you hear everything I have to say.” She reached out with both hands and shoved him into the dresser.
Who the hell was this woman? And how…“What did you say?” He studied her face, searching for any sign that it was a joke. Or a mistake. Or something.
“I used your favorite F-word. You got a problem with it?”
“Did you say you loved me?” She couldn’t mean that. Not after what she’d seen in New Orleans.
“Well, give the man a cigar.” She threw her hands in the air and went back to stand with her back against the door, her arms crossed.
Trapped in a mental fog without a sense of direction, Mirren sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands over his scalp. “I don’t know what we do now.” He hated this indecisive weakness. Why hadn’t he just pushed past her and left? Because you want her to love you.
Glory came to sit beside him. “Here’s what we do now. I’m gonna sit here, and I’m gonna talk. And if you try to get up and leave again, I will chase you down through the parking lot without pants on, and this is a bad neighborhood. Don’t you doubt it for a—”
“Stop.” He slapped a hand over her mouth. Good God, but the woman could talk. “Shit.” He jerked his hand away when she bit it hard enough to break skin.
“I told you, you aren’t shutting me up this time.”
Mirren watched her warily as she walked to the dresser and picked up the scabbard, examining it before sliding Faolain out. He’d been so screwed up last night he hadn’t cleaned it, and he closed his eyes at the sight of the encrusted bits of dried blood and flesh that coated its blade. He’d rather sink into the floor, or use the blade on himself, than have her see such a thing, much less touch it.
“Put it away, Glory.”
She sat beside him again, both of her small hands clamped around its hilt, blade pointed toward the sky. “What do you see when you look at this sword, Mirren?”
Violence. Death. Greed. Vengeance. “My life,” he said softly. “I see my life.” Every moment of it, good and bad.
“So do I.” Glory swiveled her wrists, sending the blade in arcs that showed every gory morsel resting on it. “I see a man who was brought up to fight for money, because at that time, it was an honorable way to live. I see a man who tried to take that way of life into his future, and it worked for a while, until the people who hired him asked him to do something he couldn’t. I see a man who was brave enough to walk away because he wanted his life to take a different path. I see a good friend, a loyal ally, a protector, and a man
I want in my life. That’s what I see, Mirren Kincaid.”
Some cold, black part of Mirren broke, and warmth rushed in to replace it. “You’re wrong,” he said, but oh, how he wanted to believe her. Will Ludlam had been running his mouth way too much and had more insight than Mirren would’ve given him credit for. But he’d deal with Junior later. “Is that really what you see?”
She returned Faolain to its scabbard, leaned it against the end table, and came to stand in front of him. “When you look at me, do you see a freak who’s never been able to ft in anywhere before? Do you see a woman who you wish could be thinner, or prettier, or smarter?”
Could she really think that? He pulled her to him and rested his cheek against the soft swell of her breasts through the T-shirt. “I wouldn’t change you.”
“See, that’s how I felt before I met you and came to Penton. But you make me feel like I’m what and where I need to be.
I wouldn’t change anything about you, either. Well, I might make you neater.”
Mirren kissed his way along her collarbone and trailed his lips across her jaw. “Well, I might change one thing too.”
He felt her stiffen. “What?”
“We’ve gotta work on your language. I think you’re hanging out with a bad crowd.”
Her laughter shook her whole body as he pulled her onto his lap. They sat there without moving for a while, just holding each other. He felt her heartbeat through the thin shirt, and as if it sensed his attention, her pulse sped up. He slid his fingers under the hem of the stretchy fabric. “I can’t believe you got a gray shirt. I like you in gold. It’s all sexy against your skin.”
Glory stilled and stopped his hands. “Mirren. Describe this shirt to me.”
“Aw, fuck me. What color is it?” He was busted. Of course a woman wouldn’t pick up a gray shirt with black-and-white flowers on it.
She grinned at him. “You don’t know?”
If Mirren had been human, he would have blushed. Vampires didn’t have the right chemistry to turn red, but he felt his skin heat a fraction anyway. “I’m color-blind.” He mumbled and looked at the floor, the nightstand, the wall. He’d managed to keep that a secret for over four hundred years, and all it took was a sexy woman and a cheap Walmart shirt to expose him.
CHAPTER 33
Mirren was color-blind, and he was sensitive about it. Her big warrior had never seemed as vulnerable as he did now, and she’d never felt her heart so full that he was letting her see that side of him.
She stuck a finger under his chin and pulled his head up so he had to look at her. “You know, that’s kinda sexy. You don’t wear black all the time because you’re a badass, do you? You’re just a big faker.”
The edges of his mouth twitched at her teasing, and he rolled her on her back. The sound of ripping nylon filled the room as he tore off her cheap red Walmart bikinis, tossing them aside so they landed atop that big sword in its scabbard. “You think the badass thing is fake?”
Glory was still trying to think of a clever comeback when he replaced the underpants with his mouth, at which point she couldn’t string a complete thought together. “Wait…I don’t…I haven’t ever…oh.”
She arched her back as he thrust a finger inside her and raised his head, grinning. “Remember that vein I wanted to try?”
“What?” She struggled to her elbows and gazed down her body at this enormous man who was actually smiling at her—a wicked smile, but a smile nonetheless. He kissed the inside of her right knee, then began kissing a trail up to…
Holy cannoli. Glory’s back arched when Mirren bit the inside of her thigh and began to feed. As he drew blood from her, his fingers kept working inside until she was moaning so loud Will probably could hear her next door.
But who the hell cared? The fire gathered at her core, and she felt it washing heat across her body as she writhed into and away from his touch. The world narrowed to that one place, the feel of his mouth pulling gently in the same rhythm as his fingers, which weren’t gentle at all. As she fell off the edge, he pulled away from her vein and instead sucked on that little bundle of nerves at the junction of her thighs. All Glory could do was cry in a voice she didn’t recognize and knead the bed-sheet with her fingers.
She was still shaking from the aftershocks when he pulled his fingers from her and stuck them in his mouth, watching her reaction with eyes that should have darkened to steel but were still closer to silver. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him, and that made her feel all warm again. “Come here,” she croaked. She couldn’t move yet.
“Like this?” Mirren crawled up the length of her body and covered her mouth with his. The taste of her own blood, her own fluids, was unexpectedly sweet and warm and salty and, mostly, just Mirren.
“Yeah, cause it’s my turn.” She reached down to cup him in her hand, but brushed the pocket of his combat pants and felt the outline of a knife instead. Wrong target. “Get those pants and boots off, mister, or I’ll use that blade on you.”
Chuckling, he ditched the clothes in a furry of flying fabric. “Better?”
He was hard and ready, but his kiss was slow, just a gentle compression of lips at first. She opened herself to him, and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, possessive, owning her. Except, it was her turn.
She pushed him away. “On your back.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have more rope?” He rolled to his back and propped his hands behind his head, watching her. “No posts to tie me to.”
She gripped him in her hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “I can control you, badass vampire.” He groaned and flexed his fingers behind his head, so she squeezed a little harder, then replaced her hand with her mouth.
“Only if I let you think…ah…yeah, yeah, you can.” He slung one leg aside to give her more room, and she took in as much of him as she could, replacing her tongue with an occasional nip. She loved making him squirm—the hands-behind-the-head casualness had lasted about a minute before he was reaching to grab a handful of her hair, a fistful of sheet. He was hers, and she didn’t care how badass he was, she could love him and be loved by him.
She crawled up beside him and kissed him before sliding her legs around his hips and rising above him, holding his gaze with hers as she lowered herself slowly onto him, letting him fill her completely.
She set up a slow rhythm, propping her hands on his shoulders, their eyes locked.
“Faster…aw, shit.” The stupid salsa ringtone of Mirren’s phone brought reality crashing back into the room. Glory rose off him and collapsed on the bed with a groan as he scrambled for his discarded pants and dug for the phone.
“Yeah.” He glanced back at her as he listened, and she was sorry to see his eyes darkening back to their normal storm-cloud gray. Playtime was over. “Now? Yeah, OK.”
Mirren ended the call, threw the phone down, grabbed his pants, and began tugging them on, commando. “Will’s giving us one minute to get decent; then he has news.”
Awesome. Glory held up the ripped top—that would be the ugly, gaudy green one with red-and-white flowers—and slipped it over her head. It would cover up most of her. She’d just pulled her underwear and jeans from the shower rod where she’d rinsed them out and hung them to dry when a knock sounded on the door.
By the time she emerged, Will had arrived and sat in the desk chair, holding his cell phone to his ear. Mirren had taken one of his favorite positions—standing against the wall with his arms crossed. Glory decided it was a power spot for him. He could look down on everyone and be ready to move if needed.
She sat on the edge of the bed nearest Mirren. “What’s going on?”
Mirren shook his head. “Don’t know yet—he’s talking to Aidan.”
Glory didn’t think she’d ever seen Will so serious, or so worried. “OK.” He ended the call and stuck the phone in the pocket of his black slacks. His white shirt was untucked and rumpled, as if he’d slept in it. “Mirren, you know Margaret Lindstrom?”
&
nbsp; He cocked an eyebrow. “Tribunal. Represents the US, or at least she used to. She’s not bad for an ass-kissing politician.”
Will nodded. “She called Aidan to warn him. Turns out someone on our cleanup crew sold information to Matthias, so he knows what went down in New Orleans. Of course, the version Matthias spun for the Tribunal was that Renz took Glory to use her powers himself and get leverage over you. He also told them Aidan had turned Krys and sent you in to murder Renz to keep him quiet—that fool Renz apparently left evidence of some kind. Here’s the kicker. Not only is Matthias restored to his place as head of the Justice Council, but he’s been given carte blanche by the Tribunal to come after Penton.”
“How can they believe him after all he’s done?” Glory began bustling around the room to see if there was anything they needed to take with them. They had to get back.
“Matthias has his allies, unfortunately,” Will said. His normally flippant expression was gone, replaced by silvery-brown eyes and a tight jaw.
“So, easy solution.” Mirren picked up the sword and scabbard and propped them beside the door. “I don’t go back. If they’re coming after me for killing Renz, no way I’m endangering everybody in Penton. I can lead them away from Aidan.”
Glory’s heart sank, but her choice was clear. As long as she was in Penton, she also was a danger to them because now Matthias knew she was a direct line to Mirren. Neither of them could go back. She met Mirren’s gaze, and he nodded.
“Mirren’s right,” she said. “You should go back, Will, but Mirren and I need to go somewhere we can’t be found.”
“Not that simple.” Will took Glory’s bag out of her hand and set it on the desk behind him. “Remember, Matthias’s guy also found proof in the New Orleans house that Aidan turned Krys.” He looked at Mirren. “My father’s not only after you two. He’s after Aidan. He’s after Penton. We know he’s after me. He has the full backing of the Tribunal to bring down the whole town, with a green light to kill both Aidan and you. We either all have to go back and fight or split the town up ourselves.”
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