Bound Guardian Angel (12 page)

He let Micah help him up then followed him
into the master bedroom, where Micah pulled a pair of boxers and a
T-shirt from his bureau.

“Here.” Micah tossed the clothes at him.
“You can wear these.”

Trace held up his hand and motioned toward
the doorway leading to the stairs. “I’ve got my own bedroom,
Micah.” He stayed at the house enough that he’d all but moved in.
“I can go up and get my own clo—”

Micah softly slapped his cheek. “No arguing
with me. Wear mine and get into bed.” Micah snapped his fingers and
pointed to the massive, custom-made bed he normally shared with
Sam.

“But—”

“Do I have to dress you myself and strap you
down?” Micah grinned, crossed his arms, and propped his hip against
the dresser. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“You’re impossible.” Trace dropped the
T-shirt on the bed and unfolded the boxers.

“Sam says I’m incorrigible.”

“Same thing.”

“I know.” Micah chucked his chin toward the
boxers. “Now, get dressed.”

“Shit, but you’re bossy.” He smirked and
pulled the shorts on and snapped the elastic waistband around his
waist.

“Yep. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t
it?”

Trace’s grin stretched even wider as he met
Micah’s gaze. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” He picked up the
T-shirt. “But this is your bed. Where are you going to sleep?”

Micah’s eyes flicked upward, indicating
upstairs. “Sam set us up in one of the spare rooms.” The tone of
his voice, as well as the erection straining his cargo pants,
suggested that while Trace’s fun was winding down, Micah’s was only
beginning.

“Gotcha.” Trace tugged the shirt over his
torso. “Wish I could join you.”

Micah pushed away from the dresser and
closed the distance between them. “Yeah, me too. I’d have invited
you, but you need about a week of sleep,
so . . .”

“Next time.”

“Absolutely.” Micah swiped his palm over
Trace’s head. “We’ve missed you, but we can wait a couple more
days.”

He’d missed their threesomes, too. Missed
watching the two most beautiful people in the world make love to
each other. He got a semi-boner just thinking about it, but Micah
was right. He was exhausted. Hell, he was beyond exhausted. Totally
depleted was more like it.

The comforter, blankets, and sheets were
already pulled back, and Micah ushered him to lie down then pulled
the blankets over him.

“I’ll be right back.” Micah disappeared
inside the bathroom again as Trace sank into the warm, soft
bed.

He hadn’t even had a pillow in King Bain’s
dungeon. How thankful he was to finally be free, back where he
belonged, with creature comforts like soft sheets, a pillow-top
mattress, and indoor plumbing. Within seconds, sleep encroached,
and his eyelids grew heavy.

Micah returned holding a glass of water.
“Drink this.”

He helped Trace sit up and held the glass
for him. Trace downed every drop. He hadn’t even realized how
thirsty he was.

“You need more?”

Trace shook his head. “I’m good.” Even to
himself, he sounded seriously out of it.

“You want to talk about what happened in
there?” Micah bobbed his head toward the dungeon as he crawled onto
the bed and lay down next to him. He propped himself on one elbow
and gently stroked Trace’s bald head with his fingers.

Trace closed his eyes at the gentle touch.
“It was . . . unexpected.”

“Good unexpected?” Micah said.

“Very good.”

“You liked it then?”

Trace nodded lazily.

“I thought you would.” Micah shifted, and
Trace peeked out the corner of his eye to see that Micah was fully
reclined on his side beside him, staring at him. “I loved seeing
your reactions as I applied each coat of wax. The more I put on,
the more relaxed you became. The deeper you fell into
subspace.”

Trace rolled his head on the pillow and held
Micah’s gaze for a long time. The longer they stared at one
another, the louder the unspoken messages between them became.

He was grateful. So damn grateful. Micah
didn’t have to take him in. He didn’t have to give Trace such a
large part of himself and take his time away from Sam, but he had,
and he did. And he seemed ready to continue doing so.

Frowning through his gratitude so that he
didn’t actually shed tears, Trace turned his body into Micah’s and
buried his face against his friend’s chest. “Thank you.” He had
never felt as accepted by anyone as he did with Micah—not even with
his own family—and never would have allowed anyone but Micah to see
him like this. With Micah, he was vulnerable, even afraid, and that
was okay. He could save his scary, tough face for the rest of the
world.

He could save it for Cordray.

Micah wrapped him in his arms and rocked
him. “You’re safe now,” he said softly. “You’re back home and
you’re safe. You’re in my care now, Trace, and it’s my turn to look
out for you for a change.”

Trace gripped him tightly and nodded against
his chest, trying to contain the immense gratitude welling inside
his chest.

“No more prison,” Micah said. “No more being
away from Sam and me. We’re a family again, and you were so good
tonight. So damn good. You made me feel like a true master.”

“And you made me feel . . .”
What? What was the word to describe how Micah made him feel.
“Normal.” Normal wasn’t something Trace had felt in a long time, if
ever. He’d always been different.

Freak!

Until Micah and Sam had welcomed him into
their lives, he had never truly felt normal. With them, he wasn’t a
freak. He wasn’t a demon or a walking natural disaster. He was
just . . . Trace.

And that was the greatest gift Micah could
have given him.

* * *

Micah held his nearest and dearest friend like his
life depended on it.

Trace made him feel powerful. He gave
himself entirely to the process and sacrificed every ounce of
control so that Micah could take it. A responsibility Micah didn’t
take for granted. One slip with a candle—one mistake—and the tiny
bubble of trust that had formed between them would shatter.

The enormous power exchange Trace had
granted him was enough to send Micah on a head trip of his own, so
aftercare was as much for him as it was for Trace. He needed this
time of bonding and cooling off as much as Trace did.

Trace’s hold on him finally weakened, and
Micah gently rolled him to his back and fluffed the pillow around
his head. “Are you comfortable? Too warm? Too cold?”

Trace blinked drowsily. “I’m perfect.”

Micah rolled up his sleeve, revealing his
wrist. “I made you a promise earlier.”

Hunger stirred in Trace’s pale-green irises
as his eyes opened wider and met his.

Lifting his wrist toward Trace’s mouth, he
shifted closer. “Take my blood.”

Trace licked his lips almost nervously but
hesitated.

“I told you before we started I would give
you my blood if you pleased me.” He held Trace’s gaze for several
seconds then nodded before pressing his wrist to Trace’s lips and
lowering his voice. “You pleased me. Very much.”

That was all it took, and Trace’s mouth
opened to expose his fangs, so like Maddox’s. One set of uppers and
one set of lowers. Tonight, after they’d all gotten some
much-needed rest, he and Trace would talk about Maddox and Brak.
They needed to figure out what to do about the situation, and Trace
needed to see his father and brother. But right now Trace needed
rest above all else.

Fangs pierced his wrist, and an instant
later venom euphoria took him. Under the onslaught of sensual
overload, Micah lazed back on the bed, loose and flying high,
moaning as thick arousal stabbed at the heart of him. Sam had
better be ready for him, because he needed her. God, how he needed
her. She would provide the rest of his aftercare, because after
spending more than two hours with Trace, waxing him, cleaning him,
and now feeding him, Micah was in a state unlike anything he had
felt since his calling.

It seemed like five minutes before Trace
released his arm, but Micah knew better than that. There was no way
he had fed for five minutes. One or two, yes, but not five.

“Your blood is”—Trace licked his lips and
rolled toward him—“strong.”

Micah didn’t push him away, still lost to
euphoria. He welcomed Trace’s arm as it curled over him almost
protectively. But wasn’t that at the heart of their relationship?
Protection?

More than once, Trace had put himself at
risk to keep Micah safe. Such as when Sam almost died after he
changed her into his davala. And again two weeks ago, when Micah
had made that insane outburst during Trace’s trial and the king’s
guards jumped him. Trace refused to let anyone hurt him, and he
became severely protective if Micah appeared to be in danger.

What they had was devotion. They were both
unconditionally committed to one another. Trace had proven himself
back in January, when he had helped Micah save Sam. Now, Micah
couldn’t imagine his life without Trace, and he could sense Trace
felt the same way. They were bonded more tightly than brothers,
even when it came to Sam, because Trace was the only male on the
planet Micah could even fathom letting participate in his intimate
time with her.

Micah sank into Trace’s sheltering embrace
and breathed. As with Sam, when he was with Trace, he could breathe
so damn easily. “You make me feel safe,” he said softly, almost a
murmur, as the euphoria finally began to dissipate.

“Ditto.” Trace’s cheek pressed against the
back of Micah’s shoulder, and then he rolled away.

Micah rolled with him so they faced each
other again, and he took hold of Trace’s wrist. The lacerations
that had lined his forearm earlier were already healing now that
Trace had fed, but a few of the particularly bad cuts lingered.

“Let me help you with these.” He pulled
himself up and straddled Trace’s hips over the covers, lifting
Trace’s arm to his lips.

The glands in his mouth released their venom
as he held Trace’s expectant gaze, and then he languidly drew his
tongue across one of the cuts. Trace’s eyes closed, and he sighed.
Again, Micah positioned Trace’s arm and swirled the breadth of his
tongue over another wound. He continued treating each remaining
lesion until the last one silently vanished. Then he laid Trace’s
arm carefully over his stomach.

“All better.” He bent forward so they were
nose to nose and eye to eye when Trace opened his eyes again.

The two simply stared at each other, caught
in the intimacy of the moment. Micah knew Trace could feel his
erection, but he said nothing and gave no indication he did.

After several seconds, Micah leaned down and
brushed his lips over Trace’s. “Welcome home.” Micah held his gaze
for another long moment then slid off the bed and straightened the
covers over Trace’s body, tucking him in. “I’ll stay with you until
you fall asleep.”

Trace didn’t say a word, just nodded once
and blinked as if he were coming out of a dream. Micah pulled the
chair in the corner toward the bed and sat down, sprawled his legs
to give his erection space, and got comfortable as Trace maintained
eye contact with him from across the room.

Unspoken love and allegiance passed between
them, but nothing more was said. In less than five minutes, Trace’s
eyelids grew too heavy to stay open. He blinked wearily
once . . . twice . . . and on the
third, his eyes stayed closed. Within minutes, his breathing evened
out, grew fuller, and his lips parted as he quickly fell into a
deep sleep.

The weeks of incarceration, stress, and now
his first session with Micah, had caught up to him.

Micah grinned, quietly got up, set out a
change of clothes for when Trace woke this evening, and shut off
the main light so that only the dim illumination from the
night-light in the bathroom lit the room. Then he tiptoed up the
stairs, unlocked and opened the door, and noiselessly shut it
behind him.

Now, to Sam.

He started toward the kitchen, ready to dart
upstairs and sink himself into Sam’s waiting heat, needing to feel
her fire and—

He stutter-stepped to a halt as he caught
the scent of a visitor. His upper lip curled. He knew that smell.
As he entered the kitchen, he saw Cordray on the couch next to Sam,
looking as cozy as a hyena robbing the lion of its prey, teacup in
her hand, a smile on her face.

What was that bitch doing in his home? And
why was Sam acting like her presence was no big thing?

Chapter 7

Cordray had been listening to Sam tell her about the
night she met Micah and how she’d shot Apostle when the door to the
basement opened. She and Sam both turned toward the kitchen, and a
moment later, Micah appeared, looking and smelling as ready for sex
as a two-cent whore.

Then his eyes met hers, and the mood
instantly shifted.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said,
his thick, black brows knitting together over the bridge of his
nose.

Not to be intimidated, she set down her tea,
stood, and crossed her arms. “You took Trace without my permission.
I’m here to retrieve him.”

Sam bristled as she stood beside her, but
not as if she were angry. More like she was concerned that World
War III was about to go postal in her living room.

“Everybody just calm down,” Sam said,
holding her hands up.

Micah ignored her and barged forward,
getting in Cordray’s face. “Oh, so now you want to put Trace on
your priority list, is that it? Where were you three hours ago?” He
jabbed his finger toward her. “You were late, and my buddy needed
me, so if you don’t like that I took him without your goddamn
approval—”

“I can suck your ass,” Cordray finished for
him. “Yeah, I got the message from the guard on duty. Now, if you
and Trace are done swapping cock snot, I’d like to take him and get
the hell out of here.”