Storm's Heart

SIX

“Is it true the Vampyre Councillor is a sorceress?” the hotel manager asked.

Tiago rubbed his face as he briefly considered lying, but he was more interested in getting back to the interrupted conversation with Niniane. “Yeah, it’s true,” he said.

The manager’s expression was a combination of dismay and fascination. If Tiago was a sympathetic type of person, he might have felt sorry for Hughes, whose entire fancy-ass hotel had been overrun by Elder politics in just a matter of days.

He scowled. Why was Niniane so interested in getting rid of him? And why was he just as determined to stay?

He started to close the door in Hughes’s face, but just then the door to the neighboring suite opened. A uniformed woman pushed a laden room service cart into the hall and angled it toward him. Only the thought of how little sustenance Niniane had taken in over the last few days kept him from slamming the door, throwing the chain and going back into the living room to pick a fight with her. He sighed and held the door open wide.

The living room was empty of both Niniane and shopping bags, and her bedroom door was closed. He moved the laptop as Hughes asked for permission to set out their breakfast. The hotel manager helped the woman arrange the table. The humans glanced often at Tiago, the closed bedroom door and the disassembled weaponry on the coffee table.

Tiago rubbed the back of his neck and resisted the urge to pace. The humans were fussing over the frickin’ table setting like it was some kind of religious ritual. They settled a white cloth into place and arranged a small vase of fresh-cut flowers just so, not precisely in the middle of the table but a little to one side. What was the big deal? All they had to do was throw down two plates, knives and forks and the food. Plus they were taking far too long. They were probably hoping to see her bloody mindedness. He gritted his teeth.

The bedroom door opened. Niniane walked out. She was dressed in a pale peach lounge suit with a top that buttoned down the front, loose flared capri pants and the new slippers that had been selected for their sleek look and comfortable fit. The color brought richness to her delicate pale skin and emphasized the depth and hue of her dark gray eyes, while the cut of the suit flattered her small hourglass figure.

Inclined to feel brutal, Tiago studied her with a critical eye. Actually, she looked ridiculous. Her nose tilted up at the end. Her face was too angular, her eyes too big, her mouth too full. She had freckles, and the tips of her long ears were pointed. How did all of those things combine to make her so mouthwateringly beautiful? What was that elusive quality she exuded until it seemed to dance in the air? It was like the twinkle of sunlight on water, impossible to capture or define; it was just Niniane.

Both Hughes and the woman lit up when Niniane appeared. They gave her awkward but deeply felt bows.

That was when Tiago witnessed firsthand the effect she had on people. He watched Niniane light up in response to the humans’ presence. She walked over to them, her hands outstretched. She greeted them like they were long-lost friends. She beamed at the fresh flowers and asked after Hughes’s children (who knew? Tiago sure as hell hadn’t, nor did he care). She learned that the other woman’s name was Esperanza, an avid gardener and lover of flowers. Hughes held out her chair, and Niniane thanked him as she sat.

Every ounce of Niniane’s attitude was sincere. She was a bodyguard’s worse nightmare, a recognizable famous woman with charm who genuinely loved people, and they adored her in return.

Tiago’s hands fisted. He didn’t love people. If people weren’t such a goddamn pain in the ass, he wouldn’t be at war all the time. He wanted to smash Hughes’s face for holding out her chair before he could think to do it. He wanted to knock these humans’ heads together and toss them out of the suite, preferably out the window. He wanted to rile Niniane up and watch her sputter, then pin that little sex kitten down, cover her with his body and show her who was boss. Breathing hard, he turned away.

Silence fell. Then Niniane said, “Tiago? Are you going to come eat your breakfast?”

His neck muscles tightened. She sounded like she was wary of him.

Yeah, there was a reason for that.

He forced his body to relax and to turn around in slow, controlled movements. Niniane looked at him with wide eyes, and the humans smelled nervous. No matter how polite he might try to act, some subliminal part of them would always recognize that he was a predator. So he didn’t bother. They withdrew almost imperceptibly as he strolled to the table and sat.

“Thank you,” he said to them, his voice curt, dismissive. Hughes sent the woman Esperanza to tidy the kitchen and make fresh coffee, while he collected their coffee mugs from the living room area and joined her.

“I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you,” Niniane muttered as she glared down at the gleaming metal cover on her plate. “As far as I know, it might be a congenital defect and not your fault. But whatever it is, cowboy, you’ve got to dial it down or—”

His hands shot out. He planted one on the table and the other at the back of her head as he lunged forward and drove his mouth down onto hers. He felt the shock of it bolt through her body. Her soft, pretty mouth fell open under his onslaught as he pushed his tongue deep inside her, and there was nothing sweet or romantic about it. It was a marauding capture that fed a hunger that had been gnawing at him from the inside and making him bat-shit crazy.

Her hands flew up and touched his face. Her mouth moved, either to protest or to kiss him back. Or both. Breathing heavily, he pulled back.

She blinked devastated, dazed eyes at him. She whispered, “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re tap-dancing on my last nerve,” he growled. He removed the metal cover from her meal and slammed it down on the table. “Shut up and eat your breakfast, faerie.”

He released the back of her neck and settled back in his seat to uncap a porterhouse steak and a mountain of scrambled eggs.

Tap-dancing on his last nerve? Well, he was driving a Sherman tank over hers. Trembling in reaction, Niniane looked down at her plate. She put her elbows on the table and covered her mouth as she stared at her meal. Of course. He had fulfilled his promise. Fragrant fluffy pancakes were topped with fresh strawberries and melting whipped cream. There was a side plate with a scrambled egg and two crispy slices of bacon.

For a heart-pounding moment she didn’t know if she wanted to eat her meal or grind it into his face, but then a surge of hunger consumed her. Unable to think about anything else, her mind shut down. She dove into her breakfast and didn’t come up for air until both plates were clean. At some point Esperanza brought them fresh coffee and iced water with lemon slices, then she left with Hughes.

If Niniane could have come up with any excuse for them to stay, she would have. She sat back and cradled her mug in both hands. She stared into the fragrant hot liquid to avoid looking directly at the lunatic Wyr that lounged at the table beside her.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He folded his arms and balanced his chair on its back two legs. He was topheavy as most of the warrior Wyr were, with massive muscles in his chest and arms from heavy sword work and wielding other weaponry. His stretched-out legs went on forever. She kept her feet tucked under her own chair to avoid coming into contact with him in any way.

She pretended to sip her coffee as the tiny hairs along her arms rose. He was staring at her, a moody, brooding look from under level black brows, while his Power pressed down in the room with the sulfurous weight of an impending thunderstorm.

“Of all the shit I’ve got to think about and deal with right now,” she remarked in a cool voice. “You should not even make the list.”

“So you think you can ‘deal’ with me,” he said. The insolent, silken tone of his voice stroked down her spine even as it raised the danger level in the room. “You can try.”

She raised her head and met his gaze. She watched her own hand move out, grasp the stem of her iced water and toss the contents into his face.

Water cascaded down his face and neck. His chair came down on all four legs. His eyes filled with lightning. She pushed to her feet and backed away from the table as he came to his feet in a leisurely movement.

A sharp rap sounded at the door. His head snapped around, and he glared as the rap sounded again. She took that moment to escape toward the bedroom. His soft growl followed her. “Goddammit, Tricks. Go ahead, try to run. See what good that does you.”

She scowled. Try to run? Hell, no. She stormed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She flipped the kitchen faucet on and started pulling all the mugs and glasses out of the cabinets. She filled each one with water and lined them up on the kitchen counter.

She’d had it. And she had not just merely had it—she had really most sincerely had it.

Just a week ago, before she had even left New York, she had ambushed Tiago so she could smack him in the back of the head and yell at him for cursing at her. They had lived for her entire stay in New York—two hundred years, to be exact—as near strangers. Then all of it sudden it was “Goddammit, Tricks” or “Tricks, goddammit” with him. When her temper had finally erupted, he had had the gall to laugh in her face and call her cute.

Ordering her around. Acting like a world-class bastard. He was rude. He was crude (well, okay, maybe she didn’t have so much of a problem with that). He hardly paid attention to a thing she said. One word from her, and he went ahead and did whatever the hell he liked anyway. He scared normal sane people and manhandled her without permission, and maybe his particular brand of crude, dominating sexuality was exactly the kind of thing that made her knees melt and her foolish heart go pitty-pat but that didn’t give him any right—

In the meantime, Tiago stalked to the suite door and yanked it open, his anger fueled by the fact that he hadn’t been paying attention and hadn’t heard someone approach the suite door until they had knocked. That damn faerie was messing with his head and screwing up all kinds of finely honed instincts.

Cameron Rogers stood with her hand raised to knock again. He barked, “What.”

The lieutenant’s hand lowered as she stared at him. Her cinnamon-sprinkled features became suffused with sudden strain. “Ah,” she said with a cough. “Looking a little damp there, sentinel.”

“Fuck you,” he snapped. He swiped at his dripping face with the back of his hand. “What do you want?”

The policewoman’s mouth twitched but she quickly sobered. “Councillor Severan will speak with her highness at her earliest convenience. One of her attendants has been insisting on delivering that message in person.”

He mentally dismissed the attendant. Tiago and Cameron had already agreed; nobody was allowed on the floor that wasn’t on their preapproved list. “Tell Severan her highness is indisposed. We’ll get back to her when we’re ready.”

Rogers lifted a sandy eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell the Councillor that yourself?”

“I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” he muttered. He slammed the door shut and glared at it as he heard Rogers laugh.

Niniane listened as Tiago spoke with whoever had knocked on the door. Soon enough his arrogant, oversized silhouette filled the kitchen doorway.

She turned off the faucet, picked up the nearest full glass and threw the water on him.

He stood absolutely still, a giant statute of carved muscle and bone. Something dangerous throbbed in the air between them. Her heart pounded. “You did not just do that,” he said in a conversational tone. “Nobody is that suicidal.”

“You can’t do anything to me. You swore you would protect me, and I’m injured.” She picked up the next full glass and threw the water on him. “What is my name, asshole?”

He tilted his head and put his hands on his hips as he regarded her. His obsidian gaze glittered with a strange light.

“My name,” she said between her teeth. The next one was a mug. She threw the water on him. “You know what it is. I’ve reminded you often enough. Funny enough, it is not ‘Tricks, goddammit.’ And if you ever shorten it to Ninny, I WILL BITE YOUR NOSE OFF!”

His broad, powerful shoulders jerked, and the clear sharp lines of his stern mouth spasmed. “Back in New York you told me I was supposed to say something else. What was it again? Oh yeah. Goddamn, ma’am.”

“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” she shouted. She grabbed hold of the next mug with both hands.

Suddenly he was behind her, his sodden chest pressed against her back. His hands encircled her wrists. He said in a strangled voice, “Lady, back away from the kitchen sink.”

She clung to the mug with all her strength as he tried, gently, to pry her fingers away. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing their hands and drenching the countertop. “It’s the last one,” she panted. “I’ve got to throw it.”

He buried his wet face in her hair and exploded. She tried to twist her wrists out of his grasp, quite without hope of getting free, as he roared with laughter. He managed to say after a moment, “I don’t think you have a single sane synapse firing in your brain.”

“I don’t think you’re any judge of sanity,” she snapped. Disgusted, she dropped the mug onto the counter. They had jostled all the water out of it. “And in case you’re thinking of patting me on the head and calling me ‘cute’ again, I’ll have you know all of my weapons are still poisoned.”

He let go of her wrists and turned her around, pressing her back against the counter. His drenched T-shirt soaked wet patches into her lounge suit, the muscles of his hard torso flexing with sinuous strength. The sparkle in his eyes turned smoky as her curvy body wriggled against his. “Oh, I don’t want to pat you on the head, faerie,” he said low in his throat in a deep purring growl that vibrated through her body. He bent closer until his lips brushed hers. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

Said mouth dropped open, and the breath left her body. She couldn’t believe what she just heard. “You–you what?”

The world swung as he picked her up and carried her in long, swift strides to the bedroom. He set her on the bed. She suddenly found herself lying down, as he planted a knee on the mattress by her hip and pinned her wrists over her head with one hand.

She looked up his body, from those strong legs that went on forever to the tight angle of his hips, the lean, long torso and the cut of his muscled arms. He bent his head until his mouth just brushed the sensitive skin of her open lips, and he spoke the words right into her body. “I said I want to fuck your mouth, first with my tongue”—he licked her lower lip—“and then with my finger, and then with my cock. Maybe that will shut you up.”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” she whimpered. He was outrageous, completely uncivilized. She had to find the switch in her head that would turn off her traitorous arousal. She twisted her wrists against the long fingers that held her with such ease.

“Why not?” Sharp white teeth nipped at her upper lip. “Don’t you like it?”

Like it? Like was far too insipid a word for how she reacted to what he did or what he said. His raw sensuality was whipping up a hurricane in her body. Confused and a little scared, she shifted restlessly, and his black glittering gaze swept over her.

“You said you were sorry. Right after you kissed me,” she said. She hadn’t meant for it to sound so breathless or accusing.

“Hell, yes, I was sorry, but not because I kissed you. There I was, eating you alive while you were exhausted, wounded and burning up with fever. I had no idea I could be such a low-down, self-serving bastard,” he said. He brought his other hand up under her soft loose shirt, and he gently cupped her ribs where her knife wound was. “How are you feeling, faerie? Does it hurt?”

The concern in his face was genuine. She took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh, and melted just that little bit further. “Yeah. But it’s not too bad if I’m careful.”

“We’ll be careful,” he murmured. “No more fever?”

She shook her head.

“Well-fed and rested?”

She nodded, mesmerized by the dark Power that blanketed her and by the intent focus in his hawkish face.

“Then kiss me,” he whispered. He spread his hand on her torso and caressed down the curve of her hip.

He was a master of lightning. His request sent a bolt of it shooting down her body. It pooled between her legs, causing her to throb with hungry need. She moved her lips lightly against his in a sexy pout. “Why would I kiss such a low-down, self-serving bastard?”

He gave her a slow smoldering grin, a white rakish slash across the dark brown of his skin. “Because you like me,” he said in a low voice. “And because you know in your bones it would be good.”

No, she knew in her bones it would be wicked-bad, quite possibly the worst thing she could do to herself. She already wanted too much to lean on him, to rely on him. Kissing him, getting more emotionally involved with him than she already was, would be nothing short of self-destructive. She felt like a gambling addict galloping into a casino with a week’s pay in her pocket.

But there he was, untamed and uncensored, crouched over her like a lion waiting to pounce. Her breathing roughened.

Oh, what the hell, she thought. It’s not like I’m known for my common sense.

She tilted her head, and with a light, delicate touch she caressed the line of his sensual, tough mouth with hers.

Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. Strangely enough, her reaching up to touch him of her own volition seemed to calm down the unpredictable violent storm that had seethed through his energy since before they had breakfast. The kiss turned into a sweet, gentle exploration of him while he held himself poised over her, rock-steady, and he submitted to her touch.

She murmured something wordless as her own hurricane calmed, her heart sped up, and pleasure spun out in a slow, expanding liquid spiral. He teased her lips open and eased inside, an expert invasion she discovered she relished. When he let go of her wrists, she ran her hands up his arms to grip his shoulders as he pressed into her mouth more deeply. The hand stroking her hip shifted to cup her between her legs and pressed against that sweet, hungry ache.

She stiffened, and he lifted his head to whisper, “Shh, easy now. You’re injured and we’re not doing anything. Just relax.”

She met his gaze. They were dark cauldrons of sexual heat. He ground the hard heel of his hand against her as he bent his head back down. He took her mouth again, this time hard and rough, while he rubbed her clitoris through the soft folds of her clothes. She sobbed out something incoherent as she ran shaking hands down the contoured landscape of his taut body. Feeling as if something inside of her had broken loose, she cupped both hands over the long length of his own arousal, which pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He hissed against her mouth and pushed his hips at her, moving against her touch.

“Goddamn,” he whispered unsteadily, running his lips down the side of her neck. “You feel like heated silk.”

She gasped out a laugh and gave him a gentle squeeze. He hissed again and licked her collarbone while he worked her, and her pleasure spiraled higher. He bent down to bite at her nipple through her shirt.

He was a puzzle box constructed of aggression and thorns. She didn’t want to want him, but oh gods, his hands and his mouth felt so good. She wanted his tongue, his finger, his cock in her mouth. She wanted his body covering hers as he pushed inside of her and drove the rest of the world away.

She shook her head as some part of her rebelled against the pleasure he sought to give her. She was her own puzzle box of contradictory feelings. He touched a place so deep inside, she couldn’t bear to have him there. Her breathing roughened as anxiety tightened her muscles. She pressed a hand to her ribs as her wound gave a warning twinge, and she took hold of his wrist with the other. “Stop,” she gasped. “Please.”

He froze and searched her damp, bewildered gaze. “Did I hurt you?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. She turned her face away, covering her eyes with one forearm. “I–I can’t do this.”

She waited for some explosion of temper or aggression, but he held still, kneeling over her. Moments trickled by as his breathing deepened and steadied, and then he shifted onto his side beside her. He covered the hand she had pressed against her ribs and settled a heavy muscled thigh across her hips, pinning her in place.

“You were with me,” he said. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “Reality intruded, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“Niniane,” he said in a calm voice. He fell silent, studying her face.

Hearing him call her by her real name tugged again at that spot deep inside of her, that place that was more private and vulnerable than even the place where his hand still rested.

“Would you please give me some privacy?” she asked, forming the words with some difficulty. “I need a few moments alone.”

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse and push at her boundaries again, but something about her trembling mouth and unsteady voice must have made him pull back. He gave her a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll go make more coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll talk. All right?”

She nodded and turned her face away as he pulled off the bed and walked out of the room. He left the bedroom door cracked and strode into the small kitchen to go through the mindless motions of starting a new pot of coffee. The suite was beginning to feel too confining to him. Maybe if she was up for it, he could sneak them out of the hotel and they could go for a drive along Lake Michigan while they talked. He could use a blast of cold, sharp air in his face.

He braced his hands on the countertop and shook his head. Back in the bedroom he had almost said to her, “Niniane, we’re going to become lovers, so we’ve got time. That’s all the reality you need to know.”

Somehow he had managed to stop himself from saying it, because in that moment there had been something breakable in her expression and some instinct had held him back, for her sake.

Not for his sake. He knew in his bones what he had almost said to her was the truth. She prevaricated and tried to push him away, but he would have her in the end.

He would have her. He wouldn’t stop or rest until he did.

The edge of the countertop cracked under his hands. He frowned, and for the first time he acknowledged that he wasn’t acting as rationally, or nearly as calmly, as was normal for him.

Not rational. Not calm.

Obsessed with her. Unable to let go.

She was a long-lost goddamn faerie princess like something straight out of a hybrid Disney/horror flick. She would soon be Queen of the Dark Fae, an Elder Race well known for its relentlessly Byzantine politics. She was a constant pain in his ass.

She couldn’t fight worth a damn without cheating (well, okay, maybe he didn’t have so much of a problem with that). All her pretty designer clothes were named strange things. What was a shrug or a gladiator stiletto or a Vera Wang? What the fuck was wrong with calling clothes what they really were, like dresses or shirts or pants or shoes, anyway?

And he was old, very old and not just middle-aged old, and set in his ways. He was self-contained, well-used to the autonomy of command, comfortable in the violent roaming of his life, satisfied with army life, a predator, a warlord that liked pounding the shit out of things, and a Wyr sentinel.

This fixation he had developed for her was beyond insane. It was incomprehensible, a recipe for a perfect storm disaster.

He rubbed his face hard with both hands. First things first. Rune and Aryal would be here within the next twenty-four hours. While they investigated the rogue Wyr in yesterday’s attack, they could help with bodyguard detail. Their presence would dilute this impossible, intense one-on-one craziness he had going on with Niniane. Then things would calm down.

From the direction of the bedroom came a thump and a muffled cry. He lifted his head and called out sharply, “What happened, did you fall?”

There was no reply. His stride turned into a lunge. He slammed the bedroom door open with a flattened hand, his sharp gaze darting around.

The room was empty, as was the adjoining bathroom. The silence in the suite roared in his ears. The bedside lamp was on the floor. There was a strange wild scent in the room, a sense of an immense expenditure of Power, a wild upsurge in energy that was already fading.

The bottom of his stomach dropped away. Unbelievably, she was gone again, but this time it was not of her own choosing.

“Oh shit,” he whispered. “Niniane.”