Dhark & Desired

by C C Dowling

  Pressing my hand against my ribs—because my heart feels like it’s about to punch through and do ten laps around this shitty alley before it explodes—I ask Creed, “So, this changing business, is it supposed to hurt this fucking much?”

  Creed skims the back of his hand down my cheek, then brushes my bangs off my forehead. Even with how much I hurt, I could go again. And again. Is this what it means to be Destined? That I’ll want to fuck him, and only him, all the time, for the rest of my life? Because my Fae is down with that.

  My dragon, however, grumbles. I should know better. Know myself better. There’s no way I’ll ever give up pussy.

  “I don’t know, Dhru. There aren’t a lot of Fae-dragon examples to go on.” Creed’s forehead crinkles, and his lips press into a thin line. He runs his thumb along my lower lip, which triggers a cascade of want and desire through every nerve ending from mouth to clit. “In fact, there aren’t any other examples. Most mixed Dharkling and Lightling children I’ve heard of were slaughtered in their infancy.”

  Holy shit. My deadbeat dad actually did something for my benefit, hiding me away on Earth. I don’t want to give him too much credit, though. Not yet, anyway. I don’t like the idea of owing him shit. Not even a thank you.

  “That’s sick as fuck,” I say.

  Creed shrugs. “It might be sick, but it’s the will of the Council.”

  Yeah. I can already tell that me and this Council are going to have some serious problems.

  My heart flutters in my chest. It’s the strangest feeling. “Jesus. I feel like I’m having a heart attack.”

  Creed moves my hand to the side, the one that was on my ribs, and sets his own in its place. Tilting his head, he shuts his eyes, like he’s listening for something.

  Just when I’m about to ask him what the hell, or jump his sexy ass again—because I’m still naked, his dick is out, and I need a distraction from the lingering suck of whatever just happened to me—Creed’s dark eyes open and stare into mine. “Your hearts,” he says, voice low.

  “Yeah. My heart. What about it?”

  Creed shakes his head as his fingers splay against my torso. They cover my stomach and caress the underside of my breasts. I want them to skim lower. I want them to slide between my thighs, through my wetness, and get me off again.

  “Not it. Them,” he says, shaking me from my perverted thoughts, which must be more distracting than I think they are, because what he said makes zero sense.

  “Them?” What the fuck does he mean by that?

  “Your second heart. It’s beating.”

  My second what?

  Creed kisses me. It isn’t demanding and desperate like it was before we joined souls or what-the-fuck-ever. This one is gentle. Loving. It catches me off guard and only adds to the confusion of . . . well, of everything.

  Putting my palms against his hard pecs, I push him away. “Whoa. What the fuck, Creed?”

  He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. “Fae have two hearts. Since that side of you wasn’t awakened until now, you never needed them both. Now, you do.”

  That’s not what I meant when I said what the fuck, but I’ll take the explanation.

  “Two hearts? Isn’t that something that should’ve shown up on an X-ray or MRI?”

  “No. Your second heart is directly behind your first. Human doctors wouldn’t know to look for it, or what to make of it if they did see it.”

  Okay. Good to know that’s why I wasn’t carted off to Area 51 after my hospital stay when I lost Clara Belle.

  Shit. Thinking about her makes the hurt in my chest worse. It isn’t as consuming as it was before, though. Maybe because of the release I felt with Helen. With Creed holding me as I broke down. Or maybe it’s because, now that I have Creed, I have a future. For the first time since losing Clara Belle, I can see the possibility of trying to have a baby again.

  Sweet baby Jesus! Sweet babies and Jesus! How the holy fucking hell can I think about doing that again? That thought is more shocking than finding out the father who abandoned me at birth is some hotshot, dragon dickhead who impregnated a Called Fae soldier somehow. Nothing about any of those statements should be possible, yet here I am. Part Fae. Part dragon. Destined to a man I see a future with. Thinking about having his babies.

  Okay. Time to derail this crazy train of thought.

  “Right. Makes sense,” I say to Creed’s statement about X-rays, though nothing about that or anything else makes sense. “Two hearts. One right after the other. Anything else I should know about being a Fae?”

  I put my hand on top of Creed’s. The one still splayed across my stomach and ribs.

  Creed stares at my hand, then my chest, my tits, my stomach, and lower to my exposed sex. I know I’m not being fair. We have important shit to discuss. But that doesn’t stop me from opening my legs when his gaze rakes across my thighs.

  His eyes widen, as if he forgot that I was naked. Forgot that we just fornicated in the back alley of the bar I work in. Used to work in.

  Staring at me, he growls. It’s an enticing, lustful, possessive as hell sound that makes the very girly bits he’s staring at tingle. Closing his eyes, he mutters something that sounds like a prayer.

  “There’s so much you should know,” he says, voice rough and low. “So much I want to show you. But right now, we need to get you out of here. It isn’t safe.”

  Creed stands and buttons his pants, hiding his semi hard-on, which pisses me off. I’m not done with him. He’s clearly not done with me. Granted, what’s happening is important, but damn, so is me getting off.

  Besides, I don’t want to deal with my life right now. With what’s happening to my body. With whatever or whoever has a vendetta against my father. With Lyra, and the club, and transitioning, and changing. I just want Creed to make me feel good. I want to covet these moments we have before shit gets really real. Before I have to face my father, or the Council of pretentious, self-righteous assholes.

  Grabbing his shirt off the ground, the one he used to “Toro!” Bull Boy, he brings it to me. “Put this on. It’ll do until I can get you something else to wear.”

  Dragging the fabric over my head, I breathe in the scent of Creed. Of musk, earth, and something wild. He isn’t all I smell, though. A hot Vegas breeze blows across my neck. The perfume of burnt cinnamon and cloves coats my tongue and wakens my dragon.

  Suddenly, she’s hungry. Not for food, but for the creature responsible for that scent.

  “Someone’s here,” I say to Creed.

  The back door to the bar slams open. Lyra stalks out, her eyes wide. Her hands are propped on her ample hips, and damn. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, but for some reason, I don’t lust after her the same way I did not even thirty minutes ago.

  Her judgmental gaze flicks from Creed to me, to the burnt remains of Aiden. She opens her mouth to cuss us out for scorching her alley, or to bust us for fucking in it, or to ask to watch the next time around? I never find out.

  Something twangs from somewhere above us.

  I glance up at an object heading straight for my head. It’s an arrow. Way too damned slowly, my brain registers the danger. I should move. Get the fuck out of the way. But I’m still recovering from the transition and from Creed making me come so hard he awakened the Fae in me.

  I stare at the cursed thing as it heads straight for my eye, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  I must be watching a goddamn Robin Hood movie. No. Scratch that. I’m in a goddamn Robin Hood movie. In the scene where the arrow splits the arrow in the bullseye. Only, my face is the bullseye, and the arrow heading for it is hit by another one. They both thunk against the wall right next to me.

  I stare at the spot where I know I saw something. Someone. I can still smell her, but she’s already gone. On the move. Just like Creed.

  “Wait,” I call after him. He either doesn’t hear me or ignores me.

  Scuffling and a shou
t from the roof draws my attention. Creed’s already scaling the side of the building. Without his shirt on—because I’m wearing it—I get a muscle expo of his back and arms.

  That delicious spot below my belly thrums with energy and want. Exactly half of me is just fine with that. The other half wants to track down the owner of that delicious scent and deadly arrow.

  Lyra grabs my arm. “What do you think you’re doing? Stay.” Her voice takes on the Siren tone that can make anyone do anything. Only, this time, it doesn’t work.

  Spinning to face her, I pull my arm from her grip. When I do, Creed’s shirt rides higher on my thighs. It’s the quickest flick of the eyes in the history of ever, but Lyra looks. She’s never once looked before.

  “No,” I say to her, and holy shit! Has anyone ever said no to her? I sure in hell haven’t. Until now. “I’m going after Creed before he makes a mistake.”

  Lyra’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything about me denying her. “Two arrows means two assassins,” she says. “At minimum. Get your skinny dragon ass back inside before you get skewered, and your father has my head.”

  “My father? You know my father?” My hands curl into fists at my sides. For fuck’s sake. Does anyone not know him? “How do you know my father?”

  Rolling her eyes, Lyra grabs a handful of my shirt and flings me toward the back entrance of the bar. “You don’t think I employ you for your work ethic, ability to show up on time, and your excellent customer service, do you?”

  Son of a bitch. I have so much to say to that, but I don’t get the chance. Another arrow whizzes past my head, followed by a grunt and a crack. Someone’s getting their ass kicked, and Creed isn’t to the roof yet. No. Wait. Now he is.

  Damn. My man is fast, and strong, and sexy as fuck . . . and what the hell am I doing? I need to get to the roof before Creed does something I might not forgive him for. I’m nowhere near as fast or as strong as him. If only I could teleport myself—

  A sudden warmth races down my spine, invades every nerve ending from hair follicle to nail bed. A rushing sound, like a hundred-mile-per-hour wind in a confined space, fills my ears and twirls the short tendrils of my hair. The warmth across my flesh morphs into intense pressure. By the time it occurs to me to scream, the pain has stopped, and I’m not standing where I started.

  Well, beam me the hell up, Scotty. I’m on the roof. The actual roof. How in fairy fuck did I do that?

  The scent, her scent, slams into me, shaking me from the shock of teleporting. I can question how I went all Star Trek later. Right now, I have something more important to do.

  Silver light filters from the metal in Creed’s skin. He’s calling his weapon. I step forward to stop him and stumble when I finally get an eyeful of his opponent. Even obscured by shadows, it’s impossible to miss how absolutely stunning she is.

  Long dark hair pulled tight in a knotted braid. Small round nose a perfect contrast to her high, sharp cheeks. Cupid-bow lips twisted in something more savage than anger, making her look deadlier than any being has a right to be, and storm-gray eyes that flash silver with the light from Creed’s axe. An axe he’s about to use.

  Another figure moves. I open my mouth to warn Creed, but it’s too late. A dude in fancy-ass body armor, with huge white wings and long white hair, slams into my mate, knocking him against the roof’s retaining wall ledge. Creed grunts and shakes his head, trying to recover from the blow. It’s all the opportunity the winged asshole needs to charge me.

  Well, shit. I don’t have a weapon, but I am part dragon, capable of at least a partial transformation. The beast within uncoils from somewhere deep in my gut. My jaw unhinges. My claws extend. Fire begs for release. But dude is fast. He’s on me before my scales have the chance to form.

  He pumps his wings the instant before he crashes into me, which makes the impact so much harder. I fly, ass over shoulders, across the rooftop. My dragon instincts kick in. I don’t fight the blow. Instead, I use it to roll to my feet, snapping my jaws shut at the same time. I catch nothing but air. Body Armor connects with a fist to my face. Pain explodes behind my nose, making my eyes water. Warm wet runs down my chin, and tears streak my cheeks.

  “Abomination,” the thing snarls next to my ear.

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” a voice says. Her voice.

  Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I force the tears out and blink a few times to clear my vision. Body Armor glances over his shoulder. It’s all the distraction I need.

  Driving my knee upward as hard as humanly—and inhumanly—possible, I connect with his junk. Or at least, with where his junk should be.

  I’ll be damned on a Sunday. Dude has no parts.

  With his attention back on me, I do the only thing I can think of. I bite. He catches my elongated jaw with his hands, avoiding my fangs, and yanks my mouth apart. Fuck! He’s going to tear my head clear off.

  A sudden ringing forces my hands to my ears. The pitch isn’t just loud, the sound resonates inside my skull. It’s like driving an ice pick through my prefrontal cortex. The dragon within me roars. After a moment, I shake off the pain and regain my composure. Body Armor doesn’t.

  He screeches, clutches his head, and writhes on the rooftop like a sizzling piece of bacon. Mmm, bacon. My dragon is suddenly hungry. I wonder if guy with the wings will taste like chicken.

  I allow the fire within me to coil even tighter before I release it. Rich, purple flames engulf Body Armor. His feathers turn to ash. His skin peels from his bones. The metal in his armor melts and pools in puddles beneath his feet.

  Hell. Yes. It feels good to fry this motherfucker to a crisp.

  After the last flame leaves my fanged mouth, I pull back into myself and wrap my human skin around me. No easy feat. It’s powerful being the dragon, but it’s better to be me. At least here on Earth. It’s odd, slipping into my partial dragon form. It’s almost like dangling my legs off a high as shit cliff with nothing but jagged rocks to catch me. If I fall, there’s no chance of survival. Some internal fucking instinct trying to tell me that if I shift into my full dragon form, I’ll never find myself again.

  Creed towers over the burnt remains of Body Armor, axe glinting in the moonlight. The scowl on his face makes him look terrifyingly gorgeous. On the other side of the body is her. My breath catches in my throat when our eyes lock. Seeing her there, two-pronged weapon drawn, a murderous look on her face, makes me wet between the thighs. I want her. I want Creed. I want them both right now, on top of the roof, under the stars, moon, and Vegas lights.

  “Dhru,” Creed says, voice rough as hell, like I wish he’d be with me right now. “Get away from it.”

  Get away? “I just fried this dude to a crisp. I don’t think he’s getting up.”

  “Dragon fire can’t kill angels,” the woman says, cinnamon and clove.

  “Angels?” The word is numb on my lips. Oh god. I just torched an angel. If I wasn’t going to Hell before, I sure as fuck am now.

  The thing on the ground moves, even as bones and flesh smolder. It reaches for me. Cinnamon clanks her two-pronged weapon against a blade in her other hand. It vibrates like a tuning fork. The icepick-to-the-skull feeling is back, but my dragon shakes it off. Creed doubles over and grabs his head. Body Armor screeches again. Cinnamon just grins.

  Whatever weapon that is must only affect Lightlings. And angels most of all.

  Stepping toward the defeated angel, Cinnamon grabs a chunk of burnt flesh hanging off his skull. Matter and muck ooze between her fingers as she pulls back, exposing the creature’s neck. With a wicked grin, she leans close and whispers something in his ear. Then, without hesitation, or remorse, or mercy, she slides the sharp edge of the tuning fork deep across the angel’s neck, severing its head.

  Light erupts from the wound and shoots into the sky, a momentary spotlight proclaiming what we did. If anyone upstairs is watching, there’s no way they missed that.

  A giggle diverts my focus from the light show to her. She laug
hs—actually fucking laughs—as she licks her fingers clean. Want and need explode in the spot below my belly. I want to lick her fingers, too. Lick all of her.

  What the hell is wrong with me? We just killed an angel. A fucking angel. Not only do I not feel bad about it, I’m turned on. Like all the way. My clit hums with desire, and my mouth waters when I imagine what her pussy would taste like on my tongue. Cinnamon and clove.

  The sound of metal against concrete brings me back to my senses. Creed stands, his Called Weapon ready for action. “Named,” he says, voice stone cold and deadly. It sends shivers down my spine. I’m not sure if it’s desire, or fear, or both.

  “Called,” Cinnamon says in the same tone.

  “Craediarrae Blaize,” he corrects her.

  “I know,” she says, like she’s bored. “Charlotte Storm.”

  Charlotte Storm. I roll her name around in my mind. In my mouth. Between my legs.

  “I know,” Creed says, copying her response.

  Charlotte glances toward me. “You can call me Harlo.”

  “If you think you’re going to lay a finger on my charge, you’ve got another think coming,” Creed threatens.

  Cinnamon smirks and juts her chin toward the alley below. “Like you did down there, I’m going to lay so much more than a finger on her, Lightling.”

  My nipples bead, and both my hearts beat furiously at that statement. More like promise. Does that make me a shitty Destined? Or maybe it makes me a shitty Destined that she caught me and Creed breaking Council rules, and I can’t seem to give a fuck about that, either. She could ruin me. Ruin him. Something tells me she won’t. Probably just wishful thinking.

  “Question is,” she continues, her gaze locked on Creed’s. “What are you going to do about it?”

  They’re both fast. Too fast. Before I can step between them, or bitch them out for fighting, Creed’s Called Weapon clashes with Cinnamon’s tuning fork. With movements too quick to track, they both swirl, kick, jump, and swing in a macabre tango to the death.