Rise of the Lost Prince (3 page)

“Do it,” said Petúr, feeling a
brief pang of guilt over the decision. Why, though? This woman didn’t need to
remember the details of the night. Nothing good would come of it if she did. He
grabbed hold of his resolve. “Dash is right. One attack tonight won’t be all.
Grappling Hook and his darklings seem to be getting more desperate.”

The wave of heat and vibration
became stronger. Beneath Petúr’s hand, she relaxed. Exhaled. Closed her eyes.

“She’ll think it was a mugging.
She knows she’s safe with us and won’t remember the details,” Vibe said. “She
thinks she fainted.”

“Ma’am,” Petúr said, softly.

“Hmm?” she muttered, glancing up.
Her eyes held a trace expression of being dazed.

“Are you feeling a bit better?”

She blinked. “I think so.”

“I’d be happy to escort you
home.”

She rubbed at her temple.

“Ma’am?”

 
Her long lashes fluttered, causing spiky
shadows to stipple the tops of her cheeks. “I forgot my laptop. I need to get
it from my office,” she said. “That’s where I was going when I got mugged.”

“Here you go,” said Dash. He’d
gathered up the woman’s things and tucked them back into her purse. “I don’t
think he got anything.” He handed the tan bag over to her. “I think we
interrupted the mugger. Petúr tried to catch him, but he got away.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking her
scuffed-up purse.

“It’s a good thing we were
walking past this alley,” said Vibe. “We heard you scream and—”

“Yes,” she said in a robotic
voice, nodding. “You scared off the mugger.” She was looking at Petúr in that
unseeing, vacant way, the pupils in her eyes large and pulsing.

He inclined his head. “Here,” he
said. “Let me help you up.” He gave her his hand. She took hold, and he
couldn’t stop himself from noticing the petal softness of her skin. After she
was steady on her feet, he thought to introduce himself. No need to be
uncivilized. “I’m Petúr.” He pointed to his right. “That’s Vibe.” Vibe gave her
a two finger salute. Petúr tilted his head to his left. “And that’s Dash.”

“I’m Wyndi,” she said, her voice
becoming less animated. “Wyndi Darlingheart.”

“Of Darlingheart Incorporated?”
Petúr asked.

She brushed a few strands of hair
from her face. “In a roundabout way.”

What did that mean?

“Roundabout?” Dash asked the
question he himself was dying to know.

She glanced at Dash and kept her
gaze trained on him for a long moment. A too long moment. Something hot and
possessive twisted in Petúr’s gut. He wanted to reach out and turn her pointed
little chin back in his direction, away from the other warrior.

“Cromwell Darlingheart is my
father,” she said.

That piece of information got the
muscle in Petúr’s jaw to working and quickly stamped out the unusual
possessiveness he’d been experiencing.

“Father?” he asked, needing the
confirmation one more time.

She nodded and looked up. Her
sky-blue gaze went to his mouth then flitted up to his eyes, locking with him.
She gasped.

“What?”

The woman welded her beautiful
eyes shut and muttered, “Nothing.”

Could she be afraid of him? No.
He didn’t think it was fear he saw swimming in the depths of those liquid blue
pools. More like realization of him, mixed with feminine lust.
 

His golden gaze meandered over
her, catching on her cleavage a moment, before moving on to the shape of her
hips.
Curvaceous.
He cleared his
throat. Her long lashes fluttered open. Unable to help himself, he was staring
at her spectacular face once again. She worked her bottom lip over with her
teeth.

She was an oddly captivating,
deliciously sweet smelling, eye sparkling female with a mouth he wanted to
taste.
Taste? Really?
He mulled that
over for a moment. Yes. He wanted... No. What he was experiencing was more than
mere want. He needed to taste her.
All of
her
, he realized taken aback.

He’d been with numerous women
before in a quick, rough coupling just to satisfy his animalistic desires,
however he was having thoughts he’d never had. Animalistic, yes, but….

He studied her, the arch of her
brows, the way strands of her hair framed her face. How delicate she was
compared to him.
Wyndi Darlinghart.
He allowed her name—the daughter of the rich scum-sucking asshole who’d
purchased Neverland, intent on clearing the land, as well as him and the lost
boys out of their home—to simmer.

Her sweet cotton candy scent
assaulted his nose once more. His dick stirred beneath the leather of his
D-ring jeans. Would she melt in his mouth like the candy would? His brow
furrowed. What was wrong with him? He took in another deep breath, allowing her
bouquet to linger. Maybe the ache would go away if he just tasted those full
lips. No. He shook his head in an attempt to shake away the urge.

Seconds ticked by. Damn it. He
couldn’t shake off what he was feeling. His eyes narrowed. Of all the women in
the world, why did it have to be this woman he seriously wanted to thoroughly
enjoy in a slow, lingering manner?

Because fate is a cruel bitch.
That’s why.

 
“She’s a Darlingheart,”
he heard Vibe
say.

No. Not say, but project inside
his head.

“Right,” he mumbled, but when
Wyndi’s eyelids fluttered open, and she locked gazes with him once more, all
the hardened steel he’d erected around himself, as well his common sense, fell
away.

Crazy though it might well be,
Petúr found himself, for the first time in his long life, wishing for
more.
More time with her. He wanted to
talk, and touch, and kiss. Shit. He wanted to kiss her so bad he physically
hurt.

He broke the eye contact this
time, and turned away. Who was he kidding? He might want more than fast,
anonymous, no strings attached sex, but he wasn’t a choirboy either. For what
he had in mind, there would be strings. Maybe even ropes.

“We’ll walk you to your office,”
Petúr said, unwilling to let her out of his sight, as he tried to tell himself
the over-protectiveness was necessary, even though darklings never attacked the
same person twice.

“Um…” Wyndi muttered.

He watched her out of the corner
of his eye. “That’s where you said you were headed, right?”

“Yes.” She straightened her
shoulders and took the lead.

Petúr homed in on the sway of
those hips as she walked in front of him.
Oh
yeah.
He might want more. More than he’d ever given or received from any
other woman, yet he also wanted to strip this little human, go to his knees,
and map her feminine folds with his mouth, listening to her call out his name
in a breathy entreaty as he tasted her pleasure upon his tongue.

Chapter Two

“So, what do you say?”
 

 
“About what, Blain?” Bell asked. She’d sorta
zoned out and missed the first part of his question.

“Dinner and a movie on Saturday.
It’s your night off.”

Ugh.
“Look,” she
said, striving for polite. He held up a hand, stopping her.

“I know. I know. You already told
me you don’t date guys you don’t really know.” He gave her his shark toothed grin.
“But, I come in here all the time, so you know me.” No. She didn’t. And more
importantly, she didn’t want to know him. “I’m not some crazy dude, looking to
tie you up and spank you.” He paused and raked his gaze over her. Her skin
tingled with the heebie-jeebies. “Unless you’re into that kind of thing.” She
didn’t bother to answer. “Are you into that?” he asked, too curious.

“OMG. My rum and coke,” the
snooty redhead standing next to him at the bar snapped. “I’m still waiting.”

“Blain. I’m working here.” Bell
grabbed a bottle of rum.

“All right,” he said. “Sooner or
later, my charm and persistence is going to get you to finally say yes.”

Never
going to happen, big boy.

Pouring rum into a glass, Bell
was distracted by a giggling snort.
The
birthday girl.
She glanced up to see the tiara toting princess stumble past
the bar, clearly headed toward the doors. One of the big linebacker looking
frat boys quickly caught up to her and scooped the silver clad, and obviously
intoxicated gal, up into his arms.

“You’re a sexy little thing,” he
said.

She batted her lashes. “So are
you.” Giggle, giggle, snort. “Sexy, but not a little thing though.” She fondled
his bulging bicep.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, sexy for sure,” she said.

The linebacker turned toward
Blain, eyes reflecting a mirror shine, the birthday princess still secured in
his arms. Bell concentrated on his face. His eyes. They were hazel colored. Her
own eyes must be playing tricks on her, or that flash within his eyes she
thought she saw was a trick of the light.

“I’ll catch ya later. I’m
giving…” He glanced down at the bundle-o-girl in his arms. “What’s your name,
doll?”

“Dalia,” she said, seductively.

The big guy winked at her. She
broke into another bout of giggles as he returned his attention to Blain.

“I’m giving Dalia a ride home.”

Blain nodded. “Later, dude.” Then
he joined the rest of his frat pack and the remaining party girls.

Bell slid the drink to the pissed
off redhead. “That will be three fifty.”

The woman pressed four crinkled
dollars toward her and grabbed the drink. “You took forever on this, so don’t
expect a tip. I want my change.”

Bell turned and tapped in the
particulars into the point of sale. The cash drawer opened. She put the singles
into the drawer and slipped fifty cents out, shutting the drawer with her hip
then twirled around.

What
in the elf?
Her jaw just about dropped. Her boss walked in, looking a little worse for
wear, with three massive, devastatingly good-looking men.

“My change,” said the redhead,
tapping her nails on the bar.

“Oh. Um, here,” she said, giving
the snooty gal the change, while keeping her gaze on the foursome as they
started to trail down the hallway.

Bell didn’t even notice if the
redhead left or not, and she didn’t care. She just turned on her heel, walked
over to Sven and said, “Take over for me a minute.”

“Sure, Bell.”

She hightailed it to the hall
which led to the manager’s office.

“Hey,” she said, and elbowed past
two of the men. One of them, the tallest, and probably the most delish of the
trio, blocked her view. “Wyndi, are you okay?”

She stepped over the threshold of
the office, only she didn’t see her boss.

“She’s fine,” said Mr. Tall, Dark
and Gothically Handsome, whipping around to glower down at her. And that’s when
she saw….

Bell gawked. His shirt and black
and silver button trench coat had been torn, revealing a muscled bicep,
shoulder, and part of his steely chest.
It
can’t be.
She stared at the spot over his heart.
He
survived. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Three
concentric circles with a stylized sun placed in the middle were branded on his
flesh.

She reached out, intending to
touch the symbol. The blond came from behind her and grabbed her wrist,
stopping her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”
Bell ignored him and glanced up, into the angelic face of
Petúr.
That’s what Illia had named him. “Look at me.” The blond’s
voice was compelling. Something she very much doubted humans would pick up on. However,
compelling or not, she continued to ignore him and kept her gaze on Illia’s
son, tugging her wrist free.

While Petúr’s golden eyes were
hard and unyielding, they were unmistakably the same color of his beloved
mother’s.

“It’s really you,” Bell muttered,
then went down on one knee, bowing.

****

“Kros!”
 
Grapple bellowed, his meaty—and only—fist
hitting the bloodied banquet table. “I gave you simple instructions.” Kros
bristled, hatred and fear working its way up his spine. “Find the human girl
and bring her down here to me.”

“Father, I—”

“Silence!” Grapple lifted his
right arm and shot a barbed grappling hook from the stump. Kros fell to the
floor, the weapon barely missing his head. “You were to return to the surface
and do a simple snatch and run. You were not to consider the Darlinghart girl
your due, or to toy with her until Petúr of the lost boys arrived, let alone
engage him in battle.”

“But I almost—”

“You almost nothing.” Kros
glanced up, kneeling now, to see his father’s always brutal face distort into
the picture of disgust. “You cannot win against him.”