Heat of the Night (6 page)

Gasping for air and wracked by violent shivers, Connor emerged from the frigid lake and crawled up the sandy bank. As he pushed to his feet, his Elite uniform clung heavily to his body. He was so focused on fighting off the tension that came from hypothermia that he didn't realize he wasn't alone until he was tackled and knocked backward.

As a smaller, wirier body wrapped around his, his roar of outrage reflected off the surface of the water and released his mounting tension. Connor twisted and grappled with his assailant until the moment they both fell back into the lake in an explosion of water and slapping skin.

The sting of the unexpected impact combined with the shock of being attacked really
, really
pissed Connor off. He grabbed his assailant by the scruff of his robes and dragged him onto the shore
.

"Wait!" Dressed in gray, the man could only be an Elder.

Unfortunately for him, Connor wasn't feeling so charitable toward Elders right now and he was in the mood to kick some serious ass. He reached over his shoulder and pulled his glaive free of
its scabbard. "If you had a death wish, old man," he growled, "you should have just said so outright."

"Cross needs you."

Connor stiffened at the sound of the familiar voice. Of course it couldn't be just
any
Elder. Not on a crappy day such as today. It had to be Elder
Sheron. His instructor from the Elite Academy
.

"What Cross needs are answers, Sheron. We all need answers."

The Elder pushed back the soaked cowl that hid his face and Connor took a good look at the man who had helped to mold him into the warrior he was today. Sheron's appearance had changed so drastically he was nearly unrecognizable as the vigorous Master he had once been. His dark brown hair was now pure white, the suntanned skin now an unhealthy pale, and his pupils were so wide and dark they swallowed the whites of his eyes all together. In that respect he looked very much like the thing that had been sealed up in the Temple.

Disgust filled Connor only to be quickly replaced by fury. Aidan had looked up to
Sheron as one would a father. Deserted by his birth parents for entering the Elite Academy, Aidan had needed a parental figure and turned to
Sheron to fill that role. It angered Conner further to think that his friend's trust had been so misplaced.

For his part, Connor came from a long line of Elite Warriors. Male and female alike, the Bruces all joined the Elite
. Live and die by the sword
was their family creed, which was why Connor had little patience for lies and deceit. Time was precious, even for a nearly immortal
.

Aidan's parents, however, were a different breed of Guardian altogether
—
one a Healing Guardian, the other a Nurturer. They couldn't understand the path their son had chosen and the constant
questions they'd pestered Aidan with had eventually driven him away. The Crosses couldn't understand why their only child needed to be working
against
the Nightmares, not repairing the damage they caused after the fact. Since they were the only family Aidan had, that left him with only two bonds
—
Connor and
Sheron
.

And Sheron had been unworthy of such esteem and affection.

"Others have been sent to the mortal plane after Cross," Sheron said grimly, both hands clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword. "Powerful Elders. He will require assistance."

"We're not as out of the loop as you might think," Connor scoffed, circling his adversary with slow, steady steps. "And while you're in a sharing mood, why don't you explain what that thing was in the Temple?"

Sheron stilled, his sword lowered. "I warned them. I told them the system was untried and unsecured. It was too risky, but they were determined."

"What are you talking about?" Connor's gaze narrowed on the Elder, his wariness increasing. He'd seen this ruse before, the one where a combatant pretended to lose interest in the fight only to strike with the element of surprise.

Sheron paused mid-step. "The cavern was our primary means of controlling the flow between the mortal plane and the Twilight, but we knew that such heavy reliance on one location left us too vulnerable. We altered a
room in the Temple of the Elders in an effort to attract Medium slipstreams. It worked, to a lesser extent. But the Temple is not secure from Nightmares."

"It isn't?" That struck a deep cord of unease in Connor. He had always looked at the shining white edifice of the Temple and felt peace. It was untainted by their enemy and filled with the history of his people in the Hall of Knowledge. While he'd never personally made use of the information there, it had calmed him to think of it.

"No." Sheron pushed back the sodden shank of pure white hair that fell over his brow. "The Nightmares have grown more desperate. The older ones have learned to stalk their prey, rather than simply attack in a frenzy. Every shadow you see is suspect and only the cavern is safe, though we are not certain why. Something to do with the water, I suspect."

"Maybe it's too damn cold," Connor suggested, shivering in the gentle breeze. With a wave of his hand, he heated the air around him, forming an insulating pocket. Outside of that immediate space, the velocity of the breeze picked up exponentially and the sky darkened with roiling clouds.

"We do not know, Bruce. I tried to dissuade the others, but they felt the risk was worth the gain."

"And what exactly is the risk?"

Sheron's lips pursed. "That Nightmares will…"

Thunder cracked and blackness descended in an all-consuming blanket. The Elder screamed and the clouds began to take shape, reconstituting into the familiar form of Nightmares.

Thousands of them…

Connor awoke in terror.

He jackknifed upward in the bed, startled by his surroundings, his brain taking a moment too long to register where he was. His heart raced, his skin was coated in sweat.

The mortal plane. He was in hell.

His chest heaved with labored breaths as he swung his legs off the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

Nightmares, the bastards.

As if the smells of this world weren't bad enough, now he had Nightmares to deal with.

Disgusted, Connor pushed heavily to his feet and stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He opened the door to the guest room he'd selected after seeing that the other two bedrooms were occupied. One was the master suite, the other smelled like the hottie who had opened the front door to him.

His mouth curved grimly. At least there was something—
someone
—he liked about this place.

Stacey was round, ripe, curvy perfection with those full hips, shapely ass, and big tits. She was the kind of woman a man could hang on to and ride hard.

His dick swelled at the thought and he moaned softly, his blood beginning to simmer from the combination of too long abstaining, too shitty a day, and too fine a woman. He wanted to wrap his fist into that riot of tight black corkscrew curls and possess that lush red mouth of hers. Even with teary green eyes and red nose, her heart-shaped face had been alluring in the basest sense. He wanted to see it flushed, glistening with sweat, and etched with the tormented need for orgasm. If he hadn't felt as if he was dying, he would have cheered her up right.

Of course, better late than never. He needed cheering up, too. He felt torn—angry and disillusioned and lost. It was the last that affected him most. He prized a firm foundation. Aidan was the adventurer. Connor liked his life well-defined and without surprises. He didn't like this sensation of free-falling and knew just how to find a spot of peace in a frenetic world.

That spot was inside Stacey.

And she was downstairs waiting for him. Although she didn't know it yet.

Connor went into the guest bathroom and took a cold shower. It felt like heaven to wash up after the day he'd had so far and when he stepped out into the hallway a few minutes later, he felt better contained. Less restless and more in control.

He thought about getting dressed before heading downstairs in search of food, then decided against it. He didn't feel like putting his uniform back on until it was cleaned and as far as he was concerned, the towel wrapped around his hips made him decent. His lack of attire might just rile Stacey, too, which could be the impetus needed to get her into his bed. Passion of any kind could be turned to passion of the sexual kind, with the right persuasion. And Stacey already wanted him—those long, tight nipples proved it—even if she didn't
want
to want him.

He'd fulfilled enough human fantasies to know that sometimes women denied their desires for reasons that had nothing to do with the sex itself. Whether a man had a good job, liked kids, was faithful, a decent cook, knew how to fix cars, or wore a suit to work—the reasons for saying "no" to sex were way more numerous than the reasons for saying "yes."

Guardians didn't have such unrelated concerns. Sex was comfort and desire and a necessary slaking of needs. It promoted health and elevated moods. It was as necessary as breathing, and although some Guardians partnered permanently, most kept their options open.

He needed comfort now and forgetfulness, and if he gave Stacey more reasons to say "yes" than he did to say "no," he could have her. And he wanted her. Badly.

As Connor stepped off the last stair onto the marble tile of the foyer, he shot a quick glance at the decorative window above the sliding glass patio door. The reddish tint to the sunlight told him it was late afternoon, and a glance at the cable box above the television affirmed that it was a little past six o'clock.

"I'm not trying to guilt-trip you!" Stacey protested hotly.

Who the hell was visiting?

He was about to return to his room for his pants when she said, "I can't help it if I sound sad. I miss you. What kind of mother would I be if I didn't miss you? That doesn't mean I'm trying to make you feel bad for going!"

She was on the phone. He felt the tension in his shoulders fade. They were alone after all. Just what he needed. He didn't think he could handle a larger interaction at this point. His nerves were stretched too thin.

Connor crossed the living room and paused on the threshold of the dining room. Stacey was facing away from him, her back tense, her hand rubbing at the back of her neck.

Damn, she had a nice ass. Big, she'd called it. He had to admit it wasn't small, but it was tight and round and more than a handful. He wanted to palm those firm cheeks while he tilted her hips to the perfect angle to take his cock to the root. Hard and deep fucking… He wanted it like he wanted to breathe, wanted the tangible connection to another person. A shudder of longing wracked the length of his frame. Then her voice grew more agitated and he frowned.

"I understand you haven't seen him in years. As if I could forget that… No, that wasn't a dig… Jesus, it's the goddamned truth… he hasn't sent me a dime of support for you! I'm not making it up…
Get over it
? He's skiing and I'm broke, and
I'm
supposed to get over it? Justin?
Justin
? Honey…?" She sighed heavily and slammed the phone back into its cradle. "Shit!"

Connor watched as she ran both of her hands through her riotous curls. Then he noted that her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Suddenly, the need to fuck and forget became something else entirely. The need to share misery, to sympathize.

"Hey," he rumbled softly, relating to the frustration and grief he heard in her curse.

She screeched and leaped at least a foot or more into the air.

"Fuckin' A!" she yelled, turning to glare at him with a hand pressed over her heart. Tears hung on thick black lashes and stained her pale cheeks. "You scared me to death!"

"I'm sorry."

Her gaze dropped to his hips and the boner that tented his towel, parting the two halves to reveal his thigh all the way to his waist. "Oh my god."

His lust, her pain, and the Nightmares of just moments ago made false charm impossible. "You have the loveliest ass I've ever seen," he explained.

"I have a lovely…?" She blinked but didn't look away. "You're walking around the house half-naked with a hard-on and all you can say is 'you have a lovely ass?'"

"I can be fully naked, if you prefer."

"Oh, hell no." Her arms crossed over her chest, which only served to
accentuate her braless breasts. Desire, building for weeks, flared across his skin and left a light mist of sweat behind. "The house doesn't come with those kind of benefits."

"I don't care what the house comes with," he said honestly. She was soft, warm, emotional woman. That's what he needed. "I want to know what
you
come with. A soft touch? Something rougher? Do you like to be loved fast and hard? Or long and slow? What makes you hoarse, sweetheart?"

"Jesus! Don't beat around the bush or anything."

Connor watched her pupils dilate, an unconscious invitation. He stepped closer. Carefully. No quick movements, because he could tell she was in the grip of the fight-or-flight response and he didn't want her to run. Doubted he could let her run.

"I've no patience for lies at the moment," he murmured. "I want you. A night with you would be heaven after what I've gone through recently. I don't like it here. I'm homesick and just plain sick."

"S-sorry—" Stacey swallowed hard, her eyes big in her piquant face, her tongue darting out to wet cherry red lips. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't tonight. I have a headache."

He stepped closer.

She backed up and bumped into a barstool. Her chest lifted and fell rapidly, as did his. Her nostrils flared, sensing danger. Inside him, coiled tightly, was the need to snatch her close. To convince her to stay and say yes. To prevent her from denying that she was his, which some primitive voice inside him was whispering she was.
Mine
, it insisted.
She's mine
.