Parallel Heat (8 page)

‘‘I must ask myself what logical purpose a letter like this would serve,’’ he reflected aloud. ‘‘How would it divide us—how would it misdirect me? I cannot see any such outcome from taking the letter seriously.’’

‘‘Except that you want to send me back to Laramie.’’ She shoved him in the chest with her open palm. ‘‘Right when it’s actually possible that we could conceive a child—the heir to your throne. That’s one hell of an outcome.’’

He grabbed at her hand, wrestling it against his own chest. Her argument had merit, especially given his approaching infertility. If they were to part ways right now, it was quite likely that he might never cycle again, which could mean the end to his line after nearly a thousand years of unbroken succession. It could mean the end to their dreams of a family and children and a life together—apart from the war. Gods, it was unfair, being asked to make such impossible decisions!

Leaping to his feet, he paced the room again and gestured toward their bed. ‘‘Only
we
know what happens between these sheets, Kelse,’’ he argued, feeling his pulse skitter wildly. ‘‘Only we know what’s starting here, between us, this . . . this uncontrollable
need
.’’ He halted beside his wife, gazing into her beautiful blue eyes, and the flecks of gold in them electrified his entire body. At once the letter seemed less important, as did the strategy of sending her far away; those thoughts were replaced by a far more significant compulsion: the urge to mate. Now!

Wildly, he tugged his T-shirt over his head, and stood before his wife wearing only his uniform pants. With a wicked grin, he noticed how she licked her lips at the sight of his bare chest, her gaze flicking up and down the length of him. They were newlyweds, in some ways barely known to each other; every time she got a good look at his muscular body, he saw how it pleased her—which always, without fail, satisfied him to the very core. He felt warm heat flood his cheeks.

‘‘You like what you see, don’t you, mate?’’ he purred at her, unsnapping his pants with an easy flick of his wrist. He took another step toward her. ‘‘You like my body very much.’’

‘‘Jared!’’ she cried, half laughing, half urgent. ‘‘We’ve got to deal with this.’’ She gestured toward the letter in his hand.

He allowed his pants to slide to the floor, pooling at his ankles so that he stood before her in all his naked, proud glory. His prominent erection leaped at the knowledge that they would come together again in mere moments. She would be his, again. They would mate. Again. And again and yet again. He growled his pleasure at the simple thought of joining with her that way.

‘‘Jared,’’ she protested softly, appealing to his higher nature, but there was only one thing his D’Aravnian self could think of at the moment. Mating. And mating some more . . .

Good grief,
Kelsey thought.
Now that the man is at the edge of his season, all his earlier shame about his mating urges has fallen away completely
. It was apparent that Jared was about to toss the letter aside and ravish her, a thought that caused her own body to quake with a fevered wash of desire.

His eyes narrowed hungrily and he blew out a hot breath, reaching a hand to stroke his proud, hardened length. For a moment he stood gazing at her, slowly touching himself, even as he devoured her with his black gaze.

‘‘You were saying?’’ he whispered, sliding one knee onto the side of the bed, edging much closer toward her. ‘‘Something about’’—he gasped slightly—‘‘that damned letter?’’

She gulped, steadying her thoughts. ‘‘Jared, they could know about this,’’ she tried to answer evenly. ‘‘About your mating season. Somehow they could know that it’s finally happening.’’

‘‘Only we know, love,’’ he murmured dangerously, climbing over her. ‘‘And I know that this need is becoming more intense with every passing hour.’’

‘‘Then don’t send me away!’’ She slammed both fists against the mattress, fully aware that she sounded more like a petulant child than the queen of any realm.

He responded by mounting her, so quickly she hardly had time to anticipate the motion. In the space of a moment he had her pinned beneath his large, bare body, allowing their warm skin to slide together. ‘‘Just once,’’ he panted against her cheek, nipping at her flesh. ‘‘Before I call the meeting. Just one more time, wife—or I swear this fever will take me forever.’’ His voice was alien then, strangled, containing a mixture of rough awe and genuine fear.

‘‘Just once,’’ she agreed thickly, feeling his swollen shaft already pressing against her opening. ‘‘Just one more time.’’

 
Kelsey flexed and bucked beneath him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders, scrabbling at his throat. Jared’s core heat had begun to blaze like ten angry suns.
Must slow down,
he cautioned himself, fully aware that he might Change any moment if he weren’t careful. And his human wife would never survive that. It was one thing to reveal his true nature to her, to allow her to gaze upon him as she’d done once before, but not this. Not his Change, not in the middle of this kind of intimacy.

Gasping, he stilled inside of her, wrestling to master his whirlwind of sensations. He buried his head against her shoulder, sucking in burning, furious gulps of air, and she stilled beneath him, sensing his momentary confusion. The truth was his two halves were locked in a brutal battle for dominance. His Refarian side was solid and corporeal—but his D’Aravnian nature was far more mystical and prone to dominance.
That
man was one of fire, a being of heat and blazing fury and intensity. And that was the man who begged to make love to his mate right now.
Impossible!
he cautioned himself, but still the heat kept on expanding within his abdomen and chest, filtering down his back and shooting straight into his loins like an aggressive, scorching arrow.
Unstoppable! Utterly unstoppable!

He pulled apart from her with an unsteady exhalation. ‘‘Kelsey! W-we must cease!’’

‘‘Not now, no, Jared.’’ She blinked up at him as if in a daze. ‘‘Not now, please . . . not now.’’

He rolled off of her, shaking his head. Damn it all, but his whole body was quaking: his hands, his legs, his fingers. Burying his face in both hands, he was about to explain the Refarian facts of life, how dangerous his natural self was to her human body, but was interrupted when, across their bedroom, his comm began to beep. He’d discarded his uniform hours ago, but had never bothered removing the communication unit from his sleeve.

‘‘In All’s name!’’ he muttered, sliding over her and marching toward where he’d left the thing. Nobody ever bothered him this early in the morning, no matter how early he might wake.

‘‘Bennett,’’ he barked into the piece, ready to dress down whoever among his soldiers had interrupted such a crucial moment with his bondmate.

‘‘Commander,’’ came Scott Dillon’s urgent voice, ‘‘we need to meet with you as soon as possible, sir. There’s been an incident.’’

Chapter Five

Upon entering the meeting room, Jared was surprised to discover the cause for Lieutenant Dillon’s urgent transmission: two strangers who were seated at the large meeting table. Flanked by Scott and Thea, the two men were under heavy military guard. Jared immediately assessed the scenario: This room was where he and his elite officers strategized, planned, and masterminded their attacks. It was not, however, a place where they ever—under any circumstances—brought outsiders.

Scott and Thea each gave him a crisp salute, which he returned, and they then assumed a parade rest stance. But he hadn’t served by either soldier’s side for so many years without being able to recognize the tension visibly apparent in their demeanors.

‘‘Tell me of our visitors,’’ Jared commanded coolly, striding to the center of the room. ‘‘Who comes to see us at this late hour?’’ His gaze never left the two strangers seated at the table.

Thea took a step in his direction. ‘‘They’re Madjin, sir,’’ she answered, then quickly added, ‘‘That’s what they claim.’’

Jared folded both of his arms across his chest. ‘‘I see.’’ He leveled the dark one with his hardest gaze, instinctively sensing that he was the leader of the two. ‘‘And what do you say now that you’ve come into my camp?’’

The man inclined his head, never daring to look Jared in the eye. ‘‘That, just as the lieutenant says, we are your sworn servants from birth.’’

‘‘I don’t suppose you need me to point out that the Madjin vanished long ago.’’

‘‘We’ve been’’—the dark haired one turned slightly toward his companion, but the other man kept his eyes down—‘‘waiting for this time, my lord. We’ve been training, honing our skills.’’

‘‘You don’t expect me to believe that the Madjin would ever run from battle?’’

‘‘No, my lord. Not running,’’ the dark one said. ‘‘Preparing. Waiting. Biding our time until the right moment. Guarding you from . . . a distance.’’

Jared couldn’t contain a snort of disbelieving laughter. ‘‘Were you watching from a distance when Veckus captured me? Were you there those three days when he beat me within an inch of my life?’’

A brief spasm of pain contorted the dark one’s face. ‘‘No, my lord,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Even we can not protect you when you insist on participating in aerial combat.’’

Beside him, Scott Dillon chuckled low. ‘‘Well, now, these boys really do know you, Commander.’’ Jared felt his face flush hot.

Jared leaned his palm on the table until he pulled his face close to them both. ‘‘For what possible purpose would you have gone into hiding?’’ he insisted. ‘‘Tell me that—make me believe you—and I’ll accept that the Madjin have returned.’’

‘‘We have but one purpose, my lord and king: To put you—once again—upon the throne of Refaria,’’ the leader answered, inclining his head low and spreading both palms open on the table until his forehead nearly touched the polished wooden surface. The man couldn’t bow, not in his seat, but Jared understood his posture nonetheless. It was that of a most loyal Refarian servant.

‘‘I don’t believe you,’’ Jared countered evenly.

‘‘That is your prerogative, of course, my lord,’’ the man’s companion interjected. ‘‘But we do serve you. Completely.’’

Jared’s thoughts went to Sabrina, his beloved protector, who had been more a parent to him than his own mother had been; or his father, for that matter. She had raised him until he was ten years old, nurturing him, training him, teaching him. When she had vanished shortly after his parents’ murders, a part of Jared’s heart had died and grown cold. It had stayed that way for far too many years to count.
Sabrina, why aren’t you here now, my teacher?

What the strangers claimed was beyond the realm of possibility. So what purpose did their lies serve? And how did it, perhaps, relate to the mysterious arrival of the letter?

‘‘Tell me your names,’’ he demanded, something eerie chilling his body. ‘‘Each of you.’’

The leader of the two remained with his forehead pressed almost flat against the gleaming table, and in a confident voice proclaimed, ‘‘I am Marco McKinley, personal protector to J’Areshkadau Bnet D’Aravni. I am Madjin, forevermore.’’

‘‘I am Riley McKinley,’’ his companion began, but Jared could hardly hear a word he said, for it was Marco’s name ringing in his ears, deafening him. He turned to one of his soldiers, demanding a pen and paper.

When they delivered the items, he slid the paper before Marco. ‘‘Here, write your names—both of you.’’ But he was only asking for proof. The mysterious letter in his jacket pocket already heralded the truth like a bold shout from the mountaintops.

With his left hand, Marco took hold of the pen, tilting the page slightly as he began to scrawl his name. Even from where Jared stood, he could see that he had difficult, crude handwriting. Not as if he were an unlearned man, but rather that it was something to do with his left-handedness.

When he finished, Marco handed the slip of paper back to Jared, averting his eyes. The Madjin had always believed eye contact with their protected to be a serious transgression; he could easily recall how few times Sabrina had ever met his gaze straight-on. Jared stared down at the page in his hand, and heard Riley ask, ‘‘Mine as well, sir?’’

But he shook his head; with one scrawling sentence, Marco McKinley had identified himself as the author of the letter. And Marco McKinley sat before him now. The question was, did this man serve him as he claimed—or had he come for a much more nefarious and sinister purpose?

‘‘Tell me of Sabrina. What do you know of her fate?’’ Jared asked, pacing around the table with his hands behind his back. Sabrina had been everything to him; her disappearance so close in time to his own parents’ murders had nearly destroyed him as a young man.

‘‘She lives,’’ Marco answered simply.

‘‘She lives?’’ Jared snapped his fingers. ‘‘Just like that. She lives?’’ He felt anger and emotion swell inside of him, making his eyes burn.

‘‘She is our . . . leader. The leader of our unit and the highest member of the Circle.’’

Jared’s eyes slid shut. ‘‘Sabrina is dead.’’ Even as he said it, another part of his heart leaped with a hope that time and warfare had nearly killed: that he might find her once again.

Marco glanced up at him, his dark face serious and unflinching. ‘‘Sabrina
lives
, my lord. I would never lie to you.’’

Jared whirled toward Marco, slamming his fists onto the table. ‘‘Enough is enough,’’ he raged. ‘‘If you are who you claim to be—if you are indeed connected with my protector, then prove it to me now!’’

Marco sucked in a steady, quiet breath. ‘‘You were in the palace vaults waiting for her; she told you she would return, would come for you—but she couldn’t make it back, the fighting around the palace was too intense. She kept trying, all night long, but was unsuccessful. When mortar rounds were fired into the tower wing, she knew she had no choice but to leave you behind. If she’d tried to make it back to the palace to get you—down in those vaults—she would have led your enemies right to you. And so . . . she left you. She left you, there in the palace catacombs, knowing you thought she was abandoning you. That night was her greatest loss during the war, she told me that. Even worse than losing her own son and husband in battle. She said’’—Marco paused, daring to meet Jared’s gaze with a meaningful look—‘‘that she always thought of you as her own son.’’