Fairytale Not Required (32 page)

Into his bed.

Quinn stiffened at the thought. Into his bed? Since when? He didn’t engage when it came to women. The risk was too high, for him, and for all Calydons. Any woman he met could be his mate, his fate, his doom. His
sheva.

He was never tempted.

Until now.

Until this cold, vulnerable stranger had appeared inexplicably on his doorstep. He should be pulling out his sword, not thinking that the fastest way to get her warm would be to run his hands over her bare skin and infuse her whole body with the heat from his.

But his sword remained quiet. His instincts warned him of nothing.

What the hell was going on? She had to be a threat. Nothing else made sense. Women didn’t stumble onto his home, and he didn’t get a hard-on from simply catching a whiff of one from miles away.

His trembling quads braced against the cold air, he inhaled her scent again, searching for answers to a thousand questions. She smelled delicate, with a hint of something sweet, and a flavoring of the bitterness of true desperation. He could practically taste her anguish, a cold, acrid weight in the air, and he knew she was in trouble.

His hands flexed with the need to close the distance between them, to crouch by her side, to give her his protection. But he didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He had to figure out why he was so compelled by her, why he was responding like this, especially at a time when he couldn’t afford any kind of a distraction.

She moaned softly and curled into an even tighter ball. His muscles tightened, his entire soul burning with the need to help her. Quinn narrowed his eyes and pried his gaze off her to search the woods.

With the life of his blood brother in his hands, with an Order posse soon to be after him, with his own body still recovering from Elijah’s assault, it made no sense that Quinn had even noticed the scent of this woman, let alone be consumed by her.

His intense need for her felt too similar to the compulsion that had sent him to the river three nights ago. Another trap? He’d suspected it from the moment he’d first reacted to her scent, but he’d been unable to resist the temptation, and he’d hauled ass to get back to his house. Yeah, true, he’d also needed to get back to his cabin to retrieve his supplies to go after Elijah. The fact she’d imbued him with new strength had been a bonus he wasn’t going to deny.

But now he had to be sure. A trap or not? Quinn laughed softly. Shit. He hoped it was. If it wasn’t, there was only one other reason he could think of to explain his reaction to her, and that would be if she was his mate. His
sheva.
His ticket to certain destruction.

No chance.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He had no time for dealing with that destiny right now. It was time to get in, get out, and go after Elijah. His amusement faded as he took a final survey of the woods. There was no lurking threat he could detect. Maybe he’d made it back before he’d been expected, or maybe an ambush had been aborted.

Either way, he had to get into his house, get his stuff, and move on. His gaze returned to the woman, and he noticed a drop of water sliding down the side of her neck, trickling over her skin like the most seductive of caresses. He swore, realizing she wasn’t going to leave. She’d freeze to death before she’d abandon her perch.

He cursed and knew he had to go to her. He couldn’t let her die on his front step. Not this woman. Not her.

He would make it fast, he would make it efficient, he would stay on target for his mission, but he would get her safe.

Keeping alert for any indication that this was a setup, Quinn stepped out of the woods and into the clearing. He’d made no sound, not even a whisper of his clothing, and yet she sensed him.

She sat up, her gaze finding him instantly in the dim light, despite his stealthy approach. They made eye contact, and the world seemed to stop for a split second. The moment he saw those silvery eyes, something thumped in his chest. Something visceral and male howled inside him, raging to be set free.

As he strode up, she unfolded herself from her cramped position and pulled herself to her feet, her gaze never leaving his. Her face was wary, her body tense, but she lifted her chin ever so slightly and set her hands on her hips, telling him that she wasn’t leaving.

Her courage and determination, held together by that tiny, shivering frame, made satisfaction thud through him. There was a warrior in that slim, exhausted body.

She said nothing as he approached, and neither of them spoke as he came to a stop in front of her.

Up close, he was riveted. Her dark eyelashes were clumped from the rain. Her skin was pale, too pale. Her face was carrying the burden of a thousand weights. But beneath that pain, those nightmares, that hell, lay delicate femininity that called to him. The luminescent glow of her skin, the sensual curve of her mouth, the sheen of rain on her cheekbones, the simple silver hoops in her ears. It awoke in him something so male, so carnal, so primal he wanted to throw her up against the wall and consume her until their bodies were melted together in single, scorching fire.

She searched his face with the same intensity raging through him, and he felt like she was tearing through his shields, cataloguing everything about him, all the way down to his soul.

He studied her carefully, and she let him, not flinching when his gaze traveled down her body. His blood pulsed as he noted the curve of her breasts under her rain-slicked jacket, the sensuous curve of her hips, and even the mud on her jeans and boots. He almost groaned at his need to palm her hips, drag her over to him, and mark her with his kiss. Loose strands of thick dark hair had escaped from her ponytail, curling around her neck and shoulders like it was clinging to her for safety.

Protectiveness surged from deep inside him and he clenched his fists against his urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her inside, away from whatever hardship had brought her to his doorstep.

Double hell. He’d hoped his reaction would lessen when he got close to her, but it had intensified. He’d never felt like this before. Never had this response to a woman.

What the hell was going on?
Sheva.
The word was like a demon, whispering through his mind. He shut it out. He would never allow himself to bond with his mate. If that was what was going on, she was out of there immediately, before they were both destroyed forever.

Intent on sending her away, he looked again at her face, and then realized he was done. Her beautiful silver eyes were aching with a soul-deep pain that shattered what little defenses he had against her. He simply couldn’t abandon her.

It didn’t matter what she wanted. It didn’t matter why she was there. She was coming inside. He would make sure it didn’t interfere with his mission. He would make dead sure it turned out right. No matter what.

Without a word, he grabbed her backpack off the floor, surprised at how heavy it was. Either she had tossed her free weights in it, or she had packed her life into it.

He had a bad feeling it wasn’t a set of dumb bells.

Quinn walked past her and unlocked his front door. He shoved it open, then stood back. Letting her decide. Hoping she would walk away and spare them both.

She took a deep breath, glanced at his face one more time, then walked into the cabin.

Hell.

He paused to take one more survey of his woods, found nothing amiss, and then he followed her into his home and shut the door behind them.

(Order of the Blade, Book Five)

(Dark & Sexy Paranormal Romance, Available Now)

Even with his chest heaving from exertion, his weapons burning in his hands, steam rising from his bare torso from the humidity, and the very earth itself ruthlessly torn up from the battle, Kane Santiago wanted more.

He needed more. He needed to keep going until sheer, raw exhaustion clawed at him and dragged him ruthlessly into the sleep that wouldn’t come, until he was so drained that he couldn’t think any more.

Kane had been driving himself relentlessly for eleven days straight, but it hadn’t been enough to chase away the gaping void trying to consume him. It had been coming at him for months, this great pit of hell, stalking him at every moment, but now it felt like his entire soul had been sucked from his body and thrust into a bottomless void of blackness.

He didn’t know what was coming for him or how to stop it. He didn’t have answers. All he had was a scarred body that looked like an artist had used his flesh for a canvas and a knife for a paintbrush.

Kane’s skin looked like ancient designs had been traced into it, but no one on this God-forsaken earth could explain why he had them or what they meant. Kane’s memories of his life began five hundred years ago, the day Dante Sinclair, the Order of the Blade’s former leader, had hauled him out of the gutter. How old had he been that day? Thirty? A hundred? Two hundred? How had he ended up there, covered in body art of the most brutal kind?

He had no idea, but the story carved on his body and the enormity of the blackness overtaking him made it clear that there was shit he needed to know about his prior life, and he was running out of time to do it.

The air in the southern Oregon woods was thick with moisture, rich with the scent of earth saturated by the rain that was too cold for this time of year. Steam was rising off the warm moss, and thick fog was rolling in fast, sucked in by the dance of the heat and cold. The very air Kane was breathing was alive with vibrant energy, and yet all he could feel was the endless freefall of his very soul into the bottomless chasm of darkness.

“These guys were serious shit.” Caked with sweat and blood from the battle, Ryland Samuels crouched beside one of the two rogue Calydons they’d been hunting for the last six hours, deadly bastards that had put up a hell of a fight before Ryland and Kane had taken them down. Usually two-on-two battles were weighted so heavily in favor of the Order of the Blade that they lasted less than a second.

These two rogues had kept Ryland and Kane at max capacity for over two hours before the good guys had won, which was bizarre as hell because the rogues had been so underdeveloped physically that they couldn’t have been more than eighteen. No rookie should ever have been able to put up that kind of battle against elite warriors who had been saving the world for over five hundred years.

Ryland hooked his machete under one of their wrists and raised the dead warrior’s hand. “What’s with the manicure?”

Kane swung his head around to look. Ten-inch claws protruded from the tips of the Calydon’s fingers, still covered in Kane’s blood from when it had tried to cleave his heart out. “Maybe they came up from Hollywood. You know how these fancy Californians are all bailing up to Oregon nowadays. How the hell would I know what his deal is?”

Ryland narrowed his eyes at Kane’s aggression. “You seen it before?”

“No.” Kane shifted restlessly, unable to settle now that the battle was over. He was on edge, his instincts still ready for more action. He knew they needed to figure out what was up with the strangers who had invaded their territory, but he couldn’t focus. All his senses were on overload, telling him that something was deadly wrong. He scanned the woods, hunting for a clue, but came up with nothing.

Ryland dropped the kid’s wrist. “What’s your deal, Santiago?”

Kane whirled around to face his teammate, his adrenaline leaping at the tense undercurrent in Ryland’s voice. “What?”

Ryland flashed him a grin that didn’t reach his pitch-black eyes. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be on the edge of going rogue, not you. You planning to snap so you’re the next one who has to be cut down to save the world, instead of me?”

“I’m not going rogue.” Most Calydons went rogue only after bonding with their soul mates, but a rare few turned into mindless, killing machines on their own. Expectations were high that Ryland fell into that category, but Kane had his shit together. “I’m fine.”

Ryland rose to his feet, his well-muscled bulk innately aggressive, accented by his black jeans and t-shirt, shredded mercilessly from the fight. “Don’t lie to me, Santiago. There’s no room for that shit between us.”

The brands in Kane’s arms burned, and he fisted his flails, the spiked balls spinning on the ends of the steel chains. The clang of the metal balls cracking against each other jerked his attention to them, making him realize what he’d been about to do. Hell, he was ready to strike first against his own teammate? Kane swore and sheathed his weapons. They vanished into the air, returning to the brands on his arms that were an exact match for the weapons they housed. He held up his hands in surrender. “Stand down. I’m good.”

Ryland raised his brows, and he sheathed his own weapons, taking the temptation away from them both. “Shit, man. You’re off, big time.”

“I—” A sound caught Kane’s attention, and he turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Ryland went still, and the air hummed as both Calydons reached out into the night with their senses.

For a moment, Kane heard nothing but the skitter of rodents’ feet, the hoot of owls, and the crackling of the earth as it drank in the moisture from the night.