by Zoe Forward
“Come on, Ashor. You’ve got to admit that was kickass cool.”
Ashor’s lips twitched, but he shook his head.
Khyan cocked an eyebrow at Javen who granted him a rare smile. “That was pretty kickass. What was that tattoo thing on you?”
“It’s called a bochnori. Dakar’s got one too. Our family specializes in these living tats, and our father was nice enough to give me the one that rules all four.” He turned to Dakar. “I mean, I am the eldest.”
“By a minute,” Dakar grumbled.
“So, you guys were brothers. Interesting. What exactly does that bochnori thing do?” Ashor asked.
“It protects the one to whom it has been ensorcelled. What it can do is complicated, but suffice it to say that its power can be transferred when I allow it to take over. It also remembers for us. Kind of downloads our past lives into our brain when we get reincarned.”
“Let us depart,” Dakar said marching past the two. “To Asheville.”
Chapter Twelve
By the time Shay slid the magnetic key into the lock of her hotel room, the moon was high in the sky. She’d wandered the streets of Asheville for hours in an unsuccessful attempt to work off her unease about this upcoming meeting with Brant’s employer. She ended her walkabout only because her right big toe had a quarter-sized blister.
Instinct screamed for her to ditch the meet tomorrow. Brant had sounded almost too thrilled when he’d phoned her less than an hour after their coffee encounter to convey the arranged appointment time.
Her chest gripped in nervous anticipation as the fourth slide of the card didn’t take. Had she demagnetized it? She’d give anything to avoid a confrontation with the creepy desk clerk that leered at her chest every time she walked by. On the fifth slide, the green light lit. She exhaled in relief and pulled the door handle to open it as quickly as possible before it forgot it gave her the green.
Pitch black met her. She flipped the light in the sitting room of the two-room suite and threw her bag onto the small sofa. She didn’t need the cost of the suite and it stank of cigarettes, but it was the only available room after checking four motels. A Realtor convention had taken over the area. After tugging out the band confining her hair, she shook it free so that it fell past her shoulders and headed for the bedroom. She looked forward to crawling between the sheets.
With her finger less than an inch from the bedroom’s light switch, she froze. She wasn’t alone.
He sat in the gaudy overstuffed chair near the window, waiting. Even in shadowed profile, she recognized him as the gladiator from the Cartagena church. The one that starred in her dreams and resided on the edge of her subconscious at all times.
Her heart kicked into high gear.
She hit the bedroom lights just as he rose to his full height, well over six feet of solid muscle. Her legs needed to get in gear for an immediate evac, but a hormone dump immobilized her. She scanned him from the dark T-shirt to black camo pants to the shitkicker black boots with the side zipper. He radiated the vibes of a high-end predator, deadly and calculating. And didn’t that spark an insatiable curiosity that propelled her toward him.
A riot of sexy blue zigzag tats decorated the flesh of both arms right into his black short sleeves. God, how she wanted to trace that inked writing. To discern if the marks were Arabic or maybe even stylized hieroglyphs. Whoa there, girl.
No doubt, he was the hottest guy she’d ever seen. And she hated beautiful panties-dropper men. Didn’t she?
Her rational mind pointed out he was dangerous to her on far too many levels, but her body didn’t care. Stunned by involuntary arousal, her core temperature heated from zero to boiling in seconds.
Getting it on with this guy… so not happening. She’d rather stroll unprotected through a biosafety-level-four Ebola research facility than involve herself with another beautiful man that had relationship catastrophe written all over him.
But she couldn’t remember ever being this turned on. She gritted her molars. And refused to lose her mind to some pirate wannabe who fought daemons. Wait a minute, she’d already done that. Look at where it landed her—comatose, scarred, and partially blind.
His dark gaze was like a black hole. It sucked her in and she wasn’t sure she could escape. An indefinable bond drew her to him. Something much more powerful than a shared experience in South America. Every detail of him fascinated her.
“What language are those tattoos?” The minute the words left her mouth, she wanted to bang her head against the wall. Of all the asinine things to utter, that was a grand prizewinner for dumb question of the century. This guy must think her an idiot savant. The last time they crossed paths, her first utterance was an equally moronic comment about his hair.
Dakar raised a single eyebrow.
Reply, Dakar ordered himself in a useless attempt to move his mind beyond the backlit vision of her in that translucent shirt. He inhaled, trying to clear the fog of lust from his brain and concentrate on why he was here: to get her as far away from Djoser as possible. And then kill her.
But, holy shit.
She stood there, every bit as enthralling as she’d been in that dream fantasy. The gods had done well this time. Slender, she was of moderate height with thick dark auburn hair floating past her shoulders. Freckles spanned her entire face, arms, and what he could see of her upper chest. He wanted to rip off her clothes and see just how far down her body the small brown dots traveled. But his gaze caught on the unsightly bandage just to the left of her face. What did she hide?
He closed the distance between them in a second. Crowding her, he backed her against the wall. His hand twisted in her hair until he gripped enough to tilt her head upward, not painfully, but in control. She communicated challenge in her fierce green gaze. A warrior at heart. Was there anything sexier?
His free hand peeled the bandage from her face and dropped it to the floor.
She scrunched her eyes closed. “I know it’s ugly.”
He traced the scars with his index finger. “Thank you.” How could she think this badge of honor ugly? Everything about her, even this scar, was the antithesis of ugly. To think she permanently scarred herself to help him. Hell, she put her life at risk for him. That in itself was novel, even intriguing. Never in all their reincarnations had she helped him with a daemon. Of course, he made sure she had no opportunity to be near the evil bastards. But just maybe this time she’d act different. Maybe everything would progress in a different way. Not likely.
He didn’t need different or intriguing. He needed to get on with the business of taking her out of this world first.
The rational side of his brain demanded killing action. To get this done before he fell victim to the vortex of passion. Before he let that tightness in his chest rule his head. But his body remained so frozen that he could barely breathe with her scent saturating his senses—a combo of fresh flowers, adrenaline, and…desire. Everything about her captivated him from the small gold hoop in her earlobe to the curve of her collarbone to the swell of her breast.
Her hand moved toward his chest. Blood pounded through his ears as his heart worked overtime. Touch me.
She lifted a curious finger to the flat golden menat pendant around his neck—his totem, a gift from the gods to signify his membership into the Scimitar. It symbolized his standing as a Chosen One, but he saw it only as a permanent symbol of his enslavement, for it was impossible to remove the thing without a god’s help or his death.
“This is beautiful. It looks…genuine. Where did you get a real menat?”
“This was gifted to me long ago.” His skin tingled where her fingers grazed him. All thoughts of hurting her vanished. He wanted to throw her on the bed and worship every inch of her spectacular body. The instincts to protect and defend spiked.
Her muscles stiffened. And then she exploded into action. Limbs flailed. She landed a stinging hit to his shoulder and a knee connected with his groin. He locked her arms together and used his bulk to sec
ure her against the wall.
“Get away from me. Get out of my room!”
“Shaiani, we heard you were seeking answers from dangerous people.”
She stilled. “How do you know the Egyptian version of my name? And who is we?”
Dakar debated how best to answer. Clearly she remembered nothing, which puzzled him. Where was their instant mental connection? He relied on her memory to set them up immediately for their fortnight’s tango between death and love. Until she skewered his ass. No, until you kill her…this time.
Maybe he needed to kiss her to wake her body up. And to ignite her into remembering.
She took advantage of his distraction, yanking her hands free to hit and push at him.
He grabbed her wrists to prevent the next hit and pinned them over her head. She kicked him in the shin, which stung, but she was the one that cried out, “Ouch! What are you made of? Concrete?”
He lifted her along the wall by her wrists and wedged his thigh between her legs, using the weight of his body to restrain her. White-hot sensation tore through him the second he registered the damp heat between her thighs. She may fight this, but her body recognized him.
This close, she smelled so good he wanted to lick her from neck to the vee of her thighs. Gods, she was so beautiful his chest actually ached. The feral side of his brain, ruled by the kem-seki, screamed for him to take what he wanted and find much-needed relief from the crazy desire he’d felt since he’d first seen her in South America.
She froze. Her cheeks colored and she moistened her lips. Her body tremored when he subtly massaged his thigh between her legs.
He imaged her naked on the bed and spreading her thighs, both of them fully aroused.
She moaned as if she caught the image right out of his brain. Her green eyes glowed.
He suppressed the urge to howl in triumph. This lust-passion craze had her in its grip too. But do not fall victim to it. Resist her. Stick to the damned plan.
Yeah, like his body was listening to that.
Her breath came in pants and her gaze wandered his face until locking on his lips as if willing them to do exactly what he needed to avoid.
His hand released hers to smooth the hair from her face and then slid to the back of her head, into her soft hair. He palmed her head, bringing her closer until their lips hovered a breath away from each other.
He mentally chastised himself for his utter lack of discipline. A small whimper escaped her lips. And he was lost. Her lips met his and parted just enough to allow his tongue to sweep into her mouth. Soft, inviting. Teasing. Her taste invaded his senses, sensuous and intoxicating…and everything he’d missed for centuries. The hand at the back of her head pulled her tighter to him. He claimed her mouth in a burning rush. She clung to him beneath the onslaught.
She arched against him as his lips trailed down her throat toward her breast. She ground her pelvis against his arousal and moaned. He felt her hand on his chest beneath the T-shirt. His muscles flexed where she touched.
He growled when her fingers delicately passed over his nipples.
He’d forgotten how quickly their curse pushed desire into brutal hunger. Slow down. Do not frighten her. He had to assume she’d never lain with a man before. But in this century…in this shockingly immoral world, he might not be her first.
His mind hazed dark as he imagined some other man touching her flat belly and marking her graceful neck. She was his and his alone. Forever.
He captured her mouth again.
Her touch disappeared. He pulled his mouth away, sensing her unexpected, hasty retreat.
She closed her eyes and sprayed his face. With a roar, he released her to swat at his eyes. His chest constricted. An excruciating coughing started.
He watched her through a squint as she regained her balance. She tore into the other room, returning moments later. His superior metabolism had him almost recovered from her previous attack.
She deployed the two small probes. They struck him midchest, knocking him to the floor with high-voltage electricity. Same damned weapon the Colombians had used in the prison. She grabbed her purse and backpack before exiting.
Dakar remained immobile on the floor, his muscles twitching.
What. The. Hell.
They shared a mind-blowing kiss—one that should’ve awakened all memories and led to him on that bed tasting every delectable inch of her. Then she jolted his ass and ran? He respected the move. She found weakness and struck. But now he was ramped up on a high of sexual frustration and a shitload of pissed off.
He laughed long and hard. Damn, but he had missed her.
Chapter Thirteen
Shay dozed in the rental car at a rest stop just outside the city. With a shift, she tried unsuccessfully to alleviate the cramp in her upper back. This car hadn’t been designed for long-term sleep comfort.
Restless energy had pulsed through her all night. Still did. She wasn’t entirely certain what had happened with that disgustingly gorgeous guy, except that this time she hadn’t lost her mind completely.
What about that kiss, though? It conveyed exactly what kind of lover he would be: dominant, powerful…and thorough. She could almost climax just thinking back on it. Last night she’d been close.
In her life, she had participated in her share of kisses. Certainly a few with some undeniably attractive guys who were decently versed in tongue dancing. But none were in the same league as the gladiator. He had all the right moves and not just with his mouth. Had the guy gotten her instruction manual and memorized it? The way he had touched in concert with the magic his mouth created had torpedoed her from slight interest into do-me-now in seconds. Honestly, it was a miracle she hadn’t lost her mind. And her clothes.
With that thought, she consciously dialed it down. No more thinking about him. She just spent over six hours conjuring every possible thing she wanted to do with that guy, who was likely the devil or…possibly a magus. He certainly seemed supernatural. Nobody oozed that much raw sexual potency and had the skills to back it up.
Bottom line: he was a dead end that she wasn’t pursuing further.
Her watch read seven a.m., indicating she had two hours before her designated meeting. She would make the meeting. Now more than ever, she needed answers.
****
A receptionist decked out in a swishy, colorful hijab escorted Shay through two security barriers into the heart of the Sanctum’s main office building. As she followed through long hallways and up several stairs she wondered how the woman managed to move in those five-inch spike heels. Their trek ended at a fluorescent-lit waiting area that smelled of a chemical cleanser. The generic furniture had about as much flair as a funeral home wake room.
With a plastic smile, the receptionist waved at one of the blue chairs. “Sit. They will be with you shortly.” She adjusted her head covering and left.
Shay parked it, but boredom took over within a minute. No magazines. No pictures. Not even a window. She shifted in the barely cushioned chair unable to find a position that didn’t strain her back.
A harried middle-aged woman, also robed in a vivid silk hijab, hauled a boy by his elbow up the hall. She was strikingly beautiful with perfect makeup and the dark skin and eyes of a woman of Middle Eastern descent. She pushed her shiny black hair from her face, which unlike the receptionist’s was not covered. She stooped to the kid’s eye level and hissed, “Sit. Move an inch and I’ll tell Zimeri. Understand?”
The boy who couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen gave her an expressionless stare.
The woman shook him vigorously. “Speak, you little retard. You understand?”
He mutely nodded and fell into a seat directly across from Shay.
The woman’s flat cold gaze darted to Shay. With a superior once-over, she huffed an abrupt dismissal and stormed off down the hall, slamming through a door.
The hoop earring Shay had been fingering popped off and rolled into the middle of the floor between her and the kid. She
leaned down to pick it up. When she came up, she caught the boy’s brief glance before his gaze shifted to her left. What a beautiful child with perfectly symmetrical facial features. If that woman was his mother, then he had obviously inherited his father’s pale skin littered with a few freckles across each cheek. Unkempt sandy blond hair fell across his forehead, almost obscuring his blue eyes. Their color reminded her of the Caribbean ocean on a clear day. Her heart went out to the child whose entire demeanor screamed defeat.
“Your mother seemed upset,” Shay commented, thinking the bitchy woman needed to learn a little compassion.
The boy’s eyes locked onto her. A flash of curiosity lit his face before it resumed its previous state of abject misery. He shrugged.
“I’m sorry. You’re probably not supposed to speak to strangers.”
He cocked his head and stared at her in an absorbed fashion for a few seconds. After what she gathered was a thorough assessment, he said in a tone thick with venom, “That woman isn’t my mother. She is Zimeri’s housekeeper and whore.” His speech pattern conveyed a vague British accent. His expression gentled and he said softly, “You’re in danger here. Please go before any of them return.”
Protective instinct flared within her. “Are they hurting you?”
“Best if you forget you ever met me. Go.”
“Do you need help?”
A pleading look filled with hope flashed on his face for but a second before he resumed his state of defeat. “There’s nothing you can do. They’ll hurt you here. Maybe even kill you, if he recognizes you.”
Who recognizes me?
“I can’t leave.” He lifted the hem of his pants showing an electronic band encircling his right ankle tightly. He was under house arrest? She’d only seen that type of monitor used in movies for that purpose.
After a furtive glance down the hallway, he whispered, “Mr. Kiersted is coming. You need to leave. He is very evil.” He resumed his stare over her shoulder.