Bethany's Rite

BETHANY’S RITE

An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005

Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

1056 Home Ave.

Akron, OH 44310

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0187-7

Other available formats (no ISBNs are
assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC)
& HTML

BETHANY’S RITE Copyright © 2005 EVE JAMESON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be
reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely
coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used
fictitiously.

Edited by
Briana St. James
.

Cover art by
Syneca
.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

The X-Files: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

Harley: H-D Michigan, Inc.

West Coast Chopper: James, Jesse

Honda: Honda Motor Co., Ltd.

There were days when fulfilling your destiny could be a real
bitch. Wyc Kilth held the beer bottle loosely between his thumb and forefinger,
rolling the bottom edge in a small, slow circle on the cocktail napkin as he
considered the number of such days—hell,
years
—he could mark off in his
life. He lifted the beer to his mouth, lips pulled in a grim smile.

And then there were days like today.

Finishing off the bottle, he laid it on its side and sent it
spinning with a distracted flick of his wrist. Keeping his long legs bent under
the table, he rested his elbows on the scarred, thickly lacquered tabletop and
let the shadows crisscrossing the back of the bar do their best to camouflage
his broad shoulders. He ignored the women openly throwing him
come-fuck-me-now
stares and concentrated on his intended target through the dim lighting.
Like the predatory animal that lived within him, he tracked every move Bethany
Mitchell made.

Across the room, a customer shot up from his chair and
backed into Bethany and the full tray of drinks she was carrying. In one fluid
movement, she sidestepped and turned, lifting the tray over her head and out of
danger. The action pulled her short black skirt higher up her thighs, the
clingy material forming to every luscious curve of an ass he wanted desperately
to get his hands on.

His gaze traveled down the back of her bare legs, her smooth
skin pale as cream. He couldn’t wait to fit her well-shaped calves into his
palms, push her legs up high and wide and bury his face in her pussy until she
writhed in ecstasy against his mouth.

He adjusted his position to give his swelling cock more room
in his jeans and settled his shoulders back against his corner seat. On the
opposite side of the bar, Bethany placed two drinks in front of a couple who
needed to forget about another round and get a room. The woman pouted and
reached for one of the glasses when the man pulled his hand out from under the
table to reach inside his jacket for his wallet.

Bethany took the money and, unlike Wyc, ignored the man
leering at her breasts. She might be used to men ogling her in her little skirt
and tight T-shirt with the bar’s logo printed in bright red letters across her
chest, but he sure as hell wasn’t. Too bad it was imperative for him to keep a
low profile, otherwise he’d bash the guy’s face in just for fun before teaching
him a serious lesson about what could and could not be looked at.

Turning his attention back to Bethany, he watched her flip
her long ponytail over her shoulder and return to the main bar for change.
Until tonight, he hadn’t seen her since their Matching Ritual that had taken
place on her first birthday. Even as a baby, she’d had the same dark auburn
curls and eyes the color of sunlit emeralds as her royal ancestors. Not to
mention a scream that could curdle milk.

Though only nine at the time, he could recall every minute
of the ceremony. The rebel insurgence had intensified in the previous weeks,
and the Matching Ritual was completed in secret rather than in the normal,
public forum. As a young boy, he had been more interested in the guards’
weapons than the squalling baby that everyone else was clucking over.

Bethany smiled at something another waitress said as she
passed, and Wyc’s entire body tightened in response. He expected her to be
beautiful as her mother and grandmother had been. But he hadn’t expected the
sight of her as a grown woman to seize the breath in his lungs.

Once again he cursed the attack that had panicked Bethany’s
mother, Magdalyne, into fleeing Ilyria with her children through an unmanned
portal. Right into the middle of a damn society that would lock him up if he
did what was his right—toss Bethany over his shoulder, carry her to a place
where he could tear her clothes off and complete the final step in their ritual.

He should have taken her as soon as she stepped out of her
car this evening, but he had wanted a chance to observe her unnoticed. To see
for himself if there was any truth to the myths surrounding the traditional
ceremony that bound an Ilyrian male to his life-mate. Since he was a child too
small to stand against a stiff wind, he and his four cousins had the importance
of joining Mystic bloodlines and royal ancestry pounded into their brains.
Centuries ago, the ritual took place after a couple met and fell in love. But
as the time for the prophecy’s fulfillment drew near, that quaint custom had
been discarded in favor of more practical methods.

Magdalyne had known the royal family would send a retrieval
team into this world after them. She and her children were the strongest known
line of Ilyrian Mystics. All her daughters, except the youngest, were already
matched to royal heirs. Put in place for the prophecy’s completion. What
Magdalyne didn’t foresee was that she’d not live to return to her homeworld,
and her children would be separated and lost within the labyrinthine maze of
this country’s foster care system.

He and his cousins, along with a good number of royal
warriors, had spent years tracking Bethany and her sisters. Twelve years ago
this world, this country, had finally been pinpointed. Most worlds they’d
searched, you went in, asked a question and got an answer—even if you had to
take off a few heads to do it. But he had never seen the kind of screwed-up
mess like this government’s bureaucratic red tape. And with trails long cold,
elusive evidence, false leads and sometimes only hearsay to go on, it had been
like trying to capture a wisp of smoke by grabbing it with your hands.

Nothing could go wrong at this late date. The Guardian
protecting his heart had already begun to fade. If he didn’t complete the final
rite soon, Bethany would be released not only from her obligations to her
people and her birth, but also from his protection. She would be released from
him.

A primitive rush of possessiveness surged through his veins.
He would never allow another to claim her. She had been promised to him and she
belonged to him. Her soul, her heart, her body. Bethany Mitchell was his.

He watched the man return to finger-fucking his date as soon
as Bethany dropped off his change and headed toward another customer. She
didn’t know it yet, but this was her last night working in this dump. Fending
off gropes, parrying unimaginative come-ons while trying to keep the customer
happy enough to leave a tip. Her uniform barely kept her ass covered, for God’s
sake. It was time, past time, for her to know her past and accept her future.

“There’s a guy in my section who’s been tracking you for the
past three hours.”

Bethany started to turn around, and Donna hissed at her.
“Don’t look. He’ll know we’re talking about him.”

Letting out an exasperated breath at her friend’s drama, she
brushed her bangs out of her eyes. Although tonight’s crowd was no busier than
normal, she was still tired from being called in on her day off yesterday. Last
night was the first home game for the local college in this small Midwestern
town, and the bar had been a zoo, complete with gorillas and jackasses.

“We are talking about him. If I have a stalker, I’d like to
know what he looks like.”

Donna snorted. “I wouldn’t mind being stalked by him.”

“Now I’m really going to look. Which table?” Bethany started
to turn again, but Donna grabbed her arm.

“My corner table. Here, I’ll let you deliver his drink.”
Donna plopped a beer onto Bethany’s tray next to the other four drinks already
there. Bethany immediately placed it back on her friend’s tray.

“I have enough work to do. If he’s so hot, you go for him.”

Tucking a blonde strand of hair behind her ear, Donna let
out a long-suffering sigh. “Believe me, I tried. But he barely peels his eyes
off you long enough to order a beer. Probably hasn’t even noticed that I’m
cuter and have bigger boobs.” She winked good-naturedly at Bethany and leaned
in close. “Why don’t you wander back there and let him down easy so I can
soothe his broken heart after shift?”

“No thanks.” Bethany hoisted her tray up off the bar. She
turned, one hand balancing her tray and the other tugging down the ridiculously
short black skirt that Barry insisted all his waitresses wear. Said the sexy
outfit was good for business. In truth, it didn’t hurt her tips any.

“Tell him he’s wasting his time if he’s waiting on me. I’m
not interested.”

Without intending to, she found herself scanning the back of
the bar as she headed toward her tables. Her movements were jerked to a stop by
the dark gaze fastened on her.

Are you sure?

The words—no, not words exactly, more of a distinct
impression—floated through her mind. The difference between someone telling her
the blanket was soft and touching the cashmere herself. And her mind had just
been wrapped in one hell of a blanket. A sensual caress that had her body
immediately reacting. Against her will, her nipples tightened and a burning
awareness swirled low in her abdomen. Even from across the bar, she could feel
heat arcing between them.

In the weak lighting, the man looked huge, dangerous. His
body dwarfed the two-person booth he had chosen for his stakeout. Black hair
brushed past his shoulders and his mouth alone supplied ample ammunition for countless
lust-filled fantasies. The lines of his face were harsh, set off by a heavy
five o’clock shadow.

Gorgeous was too nice a word for him, though she couldn’t
think of another that fit better. Drop-dead, damn sexy maybe. But she wasn’t
going to go there. Not with that voice, or whatever it was, messing with her
head.

She frowned. What was up with that? The long shift was
getting to her, letting her imagination run wild. One corner of his mouth
tilted up, and she realized she had been staring at him while her thoughts
wandered.

He wasn’t the average college frat boy who frequented Straight
Up. She wasn’t interested in them. She wasn’t interested in him.

With a toss of her head, she forced her attention back where
it belonged. Table seventeen and its four customers waiting for their two
beers, a vodka sour and a Coke.

Wyc smiled in pure male appreciation as Bethany turned and
wove her way between tables and drunken coeds. Her heart-shaped ass swayed
seductively with each step, and he couldn’t wait to have it naked and bent over
in front of him. He wanted to reach out and touch her with his mind again.
Stroke her fantasies. Hell, from just one simple mental caress, her body had
responded as if his hands had already been on her.

Seeing her nipples poke at the front of her tight T-shirt
made his hands itch to be filled with her sweet flesh. He’d work those nipples
into hard, puckered peaks that begged to be taken into his mouth. Would she
like gentle flicks with his tongue or sharp nips with his teeth better? He was
impatient to hear the sounds she would make when he put his mouth to work on
her. Wanted to feel her passion ignite under his guidance.

With a grimace, he shifted in his seat again. Damn, this had
been the longest night of his life. As much as he wanted to clear out the bar,
spread and take her on a table, he’d wait. Compared to the years he’d already
waited, a few more hours until closing time was nothing.

His line of sight was suddenly interrupted by tits the size
of watermelons. The busty brunette leaned close and pressed a cocktail napkin
into his hands. Her IQ was likely lower than her bra size, but by the way she
licked her silicone-enhanced lips and presented her cleavage when she told him
that her cell phone number—good day and night—was on the paper, he doubted she
figured intelligence was a determining factor in her appeal. He nodded
distractedly and shoved it into his pocket with the other six numbers he’d been
given.

She turned to leave, and Wyc ignored the practiced pout from
the Midwest’s answer to the Rocky Mountains. He scanned the crowd. Bethany’s
auburn ponytail bobbed between two college boys. Her laughter carried across
the crowded room as she expertly avoided their pathetic advances.

Good girl, Bethany.
A proprietary satisfaction filled
him at her ability to deal with their amateurish come-ons. If she’d been less
able to handle them, he would have had to plow into the whole freakin’ frat
pack, and remaining inconspicuous would be a joke. Hard to stay unnoticed when
you redecorate a public bar with broken furniture and bleeding boys.

A half hour before closing, he paid for his final drink and
left the bar. He waited, hidden in the shadows next to Bethany’s car. She had
pointedly ignored him after their brief interaction. He smiled to himself. The
woman had a stubborn streak, determination. He liked that. But he’d be damned
if he’d let her ignore him again.

Forty-five minutes later, she exited the rear of the
building with one of the bouncers. He smothered the growl that gathered in the
back of his throat when the man said something that made her smile, spring up
to her toes and give him a quick peck on his cheek. Unreasonable or not, he
didn’t care. Now that he had found her, he didn’t want her mouth on any other
man. Ever.

The back door opened again, one of the other waitresses
yelling for the bouncer. The man gave a parting, two-finger salute and headed
back inside.

Bethany walked to her car, digging through her purse for her
keys. The woman needed some basic lessons on safety. Walking through a dark
parking lot at the back of a bar with her head down and attention on anything
other than the surrounding area was stupid. Especially for a woman. His woman.
She’d learn to be more careful with herself. He’d make sure of it.

Wyc moved to stand beside her as she stopped beside the
driver’s side door. “Bethany.” He purposely kept his voice low and
unthreatening.

She dropped her keys, spun around and let out a startled
shriek. Immediately, he moved to reassure her, but she plastered herself
against the door of her car and opened her mouth to scream again.