Windburn (Nightwing# 2) (6 page)

Maybe I
was
giving mixed signals to wear such attire to a business dinner with someone I’d determined
not
to pursue. But the vixen in me couldn’t help it. She liked to taunt. Especially Lorian. Even after I’d put him in the you-don’t-get-any category.

The car he’d sent waited for me at the curb when I stepped out of my apartment building. The chauffeur, though discreet, seemed to appreciate my attire. Even draped in a sleek, black coat, a hem of vibrant red peaked out the bottom. Coupled with shiny, black pumps and my hair spilling in wild waves down my back, I might have painted it on a bit thick for someone determined to ignore the advances of a certain Morgon man.

Oh, well.

The chauffer drove me deep into the Morgon District, stopping in front of a restaurant with a sign reading
Vallero’s
. I’d heard of it—a high-end restaurant frequented by humans and Morgons, but Morgon-owned. By some miracle, not by the Nightwings. A doorman, a Morgon, bowed politely as I entered. I gave my name to the dainty russet-winged hostess.

“Yes, Ms. Linden. Right this way. Mr. Nightwing is waiting for you.”

She wove us through the restaurant to a back parlor. Glasses tinkled, silverware clinked against plates, patrons murmured to one another at candlelit tables. She led me into a private room, gesturing me through the door and closing it behind her.

Lorian rose from his seat and stalked forward in smooth, fluid steps. He stepped behind me and removed my coat, fingers grazing bare skin, chest brushing my shoulder, breath warming my neck. One of my spaghetti straps slipped off a shoulder. With one, long finger, he slid it back into place.

And that quick. I wanted him. Now. In this room. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing wayward thoughts to leave me. He stepped away, gesturing toward the seating area.

In the Morgon lounging style, there were two, wide chaises, covered in sumptuous gold velvet, pulled up to a low table. Two glasses and a bottle of chilling wine sat on the black, marble-topped table. Seriously? Adrenaline rushed through my body and pooled in low feminine places. How could
not
having sex be such a turn-on? I was seriously losing it.

I arched a brow at him as he sprawled on a chaise with his back to the wall. Wild eyes unreadable, he seemed quite content with himself.

“A business dinner, Nightwing?”

“I see no reason why a business dinner should be stiff and uncomfortable.”

He shifted his lower body as if he had something stiff and uncomfortable in his pants. Good.

I smiled. “Of course not.”

I spread my body out on the chaise, propped comfortably on the pillows at the head.

“This is quite a room. Let me guess. You know the owners and get certain privileges others don’t.”

“Family friends.” His eyes trailed over my body, unapologetically bold.

He poured a glass of wine and set it on my side of the table. “I took the liberty of ordering for us. Hope you don’t mind.”

“And what if I do?”

“Too bad.”

Aggressive didn’t even describe this man.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Lorian shouted, “Come.”

A human server entered with a cart. He bowed and placed the silver dishes on the table—a bowl of pasta in a creamy herb sauce, a platter of butterfly, broiled prawns, asparagus with a buttery sauce, and a basket of three kinds of fresh baked rolls. Once delivered of his burden, the server asked. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. Be sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Of course, sir.” He gave a tight bow and exited in silence.

I eyed the feast while Lorian served me a plate. “I don’t like asparagus.”

“Don’t eat it.”

Hmph. “No dessert?”

His mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He didn’t have to. Keep dreaming, Nightwing. I’ve got my libido under control tonight. Well…sort of.

Right on the tail of that thought, I became mesmerized by the movement of his large hands. Broad and rough, yet he picked up a soft roll with a delicate touch. There were calluses on his palms. He dipped his long fingers into a bowl of shredded parmesan, sprinkling the cheese on my pasta, rubbing the pads of his fingers together. I squirmed in my seat as he passed me the plate.
Stop, Sorcha!

I sipped the wine to cool my thoughts. It didn’t work, but took the edge off. I started in on the prawns first, but the way Lorian watched me sent lovely shivers up my body. A flush of heat crawled up my neck. I wasn’t even eating in some cheesy, slow, sexual way. I was simply chewing and swallowing. But good God, the way his gaze zoned in on my lips was beyond unsettling. And I didn’t get unsettled, damn it!

I forked several bites of the creamy pasta, then launched into something to distract him. “How is it possible I’m carrying your scent when we aren’t even lovers?”

“What Morgon man told you that?”

“How do you know it was a man?”

“Morgon women would never admit they smell a man on you.”

“You’re evading, Nightwing. How is it possible?”

“You’re evading, Linden. Who’s the Morgon man?” He leaned forward, a subtle move, but his body appeared ready to pounce.

I blew out a frustrated breath. “His name is Torin Greyclaw.” Did he just growl at me? “Torin and I are no longer seeing each other, not that it’s any of your business. But he was aware I, um, smelled of someone else.”

The fury dimmed a fraction from his heated gaze. The hard lines of his face softened. Sort of. “How long have you known him?”

“Not long. Now, tell me what it means.”

His mouth quirked up, stretching his features into a divine smile. An
actual
smile. Something fluttered in my stomach, a foreign sensation I hadn’t felt since high school. He shoved a stalk of asparagus in his mouth, licking the butter from his thumb before answering. “A woman only holds a Morgon man’s scent if she wants to.”

What!

“Um, what?”

He winked, all smug and masculine arrogance. “You heard me. The scent only remains if the woman wants him in her skin.” The cords of muscle in his neck worked as he swallowed a gulp of wine. His wings opened a fraction, revealing the power he held contained in his half-man, half-beast body.

I shifted again in my seat, which aggravated the hell out of me. I wasn’t the fidgety type. “That’s biologically impossible.”

“So you say…but it’s true, which means, you want
me
in your skin.”

I lurched upright, hostility making me rigid. “I most certainly do not! I choose who I’m with and who I want.”

“Exactly. And you want me.” No question, no hesitance in his voice. I’d never met someone
more
sure of himself than I was of myself. I was shaken.

Was he lying? Though I didn’t want to face reality, I still wanted him, even after all of the nasty truths he’d slung in my face. And he knew it, making me even angrier.

Trying to calm my nerves, I switched subjects. “Tell me about Borgus Fireblade.”

Yep. That did it. His eyes thinned from smoldering to angry slits. He picked up a roll, chewed, and practically swallowed it whole, then gulped a swig of wine.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t let this go.”

“If there’s a chance some creeper is out there resurrecting a cult and is targeting me, then I deserve to know who this Borgus was. I tried looking him up, but found absolutely nothing.”

“You wouldn’t. His history is kept private from human records.”

“Aha! A Morgon dirty little secret. So tell me.”

He poured himself another glass of wine, taking his sweet time. “Borgus Fireblade was a sanctimonious, overzealous egomaniac.”

“Wow. That’s quite an introduction.”

“I’m being mild. His ideas about Morgon superiority weren’t just self-righteous. They weren’t just immoral. They were sociopathic. He viewed humans as less than inferior. He believed humans should be used as slaves to serve Morgon needs. He also raised the first Morgon, Larkos Nightwing, to the equivalent of a god. His followers worshipped him as such.”

Suddenly, I’d lost my appetite. I downed my wine and let him refill my glass.

“When did all of this happen? This cult or whatever?”

“Five hundred years ago.”

“They worshipped Larkos. How?”

He sat up, clasping his hands between his legs. “Sacrifice.”

I coughed on a sip of wine. “Sacrifice?”

He nodded.

“You mean human sacrifice.”

“A human woman. A blood bride.”

“A—a what?”

“A blood bride. Each Larkosian targeted a human woman as his blood bride. He’d woo her. On the night of the gathering, he’d have sex with her on the altar before she was sacrificed. The Larkosians viewed the spilling of blood from a fertile, human woman the ultimate sacrifice to appease Larkos and get his favor in the afterlife.”

I flinched. “That’s…monstrous.”

“Indeed.”

I shook my head, dazed. I stood up and walked over to my bag, pulled the card from inside, and set it on the table facing Lorian. “Explain this symbol.”

Without looking at it, he did. “The hourglass is the shape of a woman, representing the blood bride. The wings represent Larkos. The cross symbol down the center is a dagger, representing the sacrifice.”

“But, wouldn’t they want a virgin or something? If the guy who left this knows me at all, surely he’d know—”

“Being a virgin wasn’t a requirement for a blood bride. She only need be young, beautiful, and…vibrant.”

I picked up the card and studied the handwriting. “It could be Torin. I told him I wasn’t interested anymore, but he hasn’t stopped calling. And today he—”

“He…what?” Lorian’s features had darkened, a deep scowl transforming his face into a fierce mask.

“He caught me on the street with Willow and Belka. He was…” I glanced up to find the beast staring back at me from stony features. “He was persistent.”

Lorian’s hands clenched together. “You need protection. You’re too vulnerable in your apartment. Alone.”

I walked over and put the card back in my purse. “I’m as safe in my apartment as anywhere else.”

When I turned, he was standing a few feet away, death in his eyes. “No, Sorcha. You’re not,” he said in clipped words, emphasizing my name with a growl.

I bristled as I always did when a man tried to tell me what to do. “And where exactly do you think I should go? Camp out at the Gladium Police Precinct? Nightwing Security?”

“My place. I have an extra bedroom. You can have the privacy you need. And the security, until we catch this guy.”

An old fear crept into my gut, snaking around my lungs, constricting my chest till I couldn’t breathe. I was twelve years old again, standing in our doorway, staring at the drive, hoping for a car to appear that would never come. I took a deep shuddering breath, pushing away the shadows of my past.

“Hold up, Nightwing. First of all, no one tells me what to do, least of all a man. And I don’t care whose scent is lingering on my skin. It still gives you no right to give me orders.” I snatched up my coat, knowing full well if he touched me, my body would react totally different from my smart mouth. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

I rushed out before he could say another word, feeling his gaze burning into my back. He didn’t stop me.

By some miracle, the driver was still outside and drove me home without any resistance. I was certain Lorian would instruct him to hold me there. But he didn’t. Maybe he was respecting my boundaries. Something rubbed me wrong.

I rushed inside my apartment building and up the elevator to my door. As soon as I closed and bolted the door shut, a strong arm snaked my waist, a large hand clamped my mouth, muffling my scream. My heart hammered against my ribcage. Only his familiar scent kept me from kicking back against his shins.

A low baritone whispered in my ear, lips grazing the sensitive shell. “That was too easy, Linden. The lock on your balcony door is faulty. You have no alarms. He could break in any time and be waiting for you.”

His arm tightened beneath my breasts, proving how helpless I was. I yanked his hand away from my mouth. He let me.

“For God’s sake, Nightwing! You scared the shit out of me. How did you know which apartment was mine, anyway?”

He spun me around, pressed me against the wall, and planted his hands on either side of my head, bracketing me within the shadow of his formidable body. His eyes glinted in the dark, his beast simmering beneath the surface, longing to break free.

With one hand, he untied my coat and slipped it from my shoulders, tossing it to the floor, and then caged me in again. His gaze raked the V-neck of my dress where my cleavage rose and fell quickly as his massive presence pushed into my personal space.

“I like the dress you wore for me.” His voice rumbled so low, it registered on some primitive level, tantalizing my feminine senses, heightening my awareness of the rock wall of Morgon man standing so delectably close.

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“You know what your problem is, Nightwing?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You think because you’re an overbearing beast with too many muscles and a bad ass attitude that you have the right to barge into my home and bully me.”

“Too many muscles?” His wings twitched.

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want?”

“To prove something to you.”

“What? That you know how to fly onto my balcony, pick locks, and scare the crap out of a girl coming home from a hard day at the office? One, you have wings, so flying isn’t impressive. Two, I’m sure your questionable and possibly criminal past contributed to your lock-picking skills. And three, grabbing a woman from behind in the dark of her own apartment would scare the piss out of anyone. All points proven, so now you may remove your large self from my space and leave.”

His thighs bracketed the outside of mine as he leaned closer. I kept my palms flat against the wall at my sides. They itched to reach up and plunge into the dark silkiness of his hair, and I sure as hell wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of letting him know his proximity amped up my libido to knee-buckling levels. I was quite happy to have the sturdy wall behind me to keep my ass off the floor.