Under His Wings (3 page)

Her breath hitched in her throat and a shudder raced down
her slender spine. But she didn’t ask him to stop his steady, determined
invasion. This was no gentle easing like the first few times they’d made love.
And from the subtle rocking of her hips, she didn’t want gentle or easy.

“More,” he snarled. Lust was a ruthless master and he
submitted to the fiery lash of its whip. He abandoned her hip and splayed one
hand across her spine. He urged her to arch back over his arm. When she
complied, he rose, latched onto her nipple, suckling so hard she cried out and
bucked like a wild filly. Desire, sharp and brutal, struck at his gut, throbbed
in his dick, and in response her pussy took him a couple inches deeper. He
grunted against her flesh, his tongue lashing the stiffened tip with hard,
quick flicks.

Again, her sharp wail filled his ears and the room. Her back
bowed, her fingers rose to his head, twisting and tugging on his hair. He
switched from one mound to the other, treating the neglected nub with the same
attention while he continued to bury his cock inside her grasping sex. The bead
of flesh on his tongue, the velvet clasp of her pussy—it was good. So fucking
good.

He lifted his head, freeing her nipple with a soft pop as he
transferred his grip to her hips and lifted her off his cock. Her shivery moan
of objection turned into a yelp of shock as he eased her back down, needing to
be as close to her as possible.

“Again,” she whispered.

He stroked his palms up her back and cupped her shoulders,
his arms creating a brace for her as he leaned forward and momentarily withdrew
from her body. Within seconds, he grasped her waist and plunged back into her
wet heat. He set up a pounding pace that catapulted them both toward the
inevitable climatic end of this ride. With each thrust, he ground his pelvis
against her clit and ripped a cry from her throat. His lips settled in the dip
at the base of her neck as he rode her toward oblivion.

She tilted her head back, arched into a deeper bow. The
submissive posture snapped something in his chest and the animalistic growl
that emerged from the soul of his beast reverberated against her skin. Her
scream rang out seconds before her pussy clamped down on his cock. He swore as
the orgasm swelled and broke over him. It seized him in its powerful jaws, a
willing captive. Just as he surrendered, a sizzle prickled low between his
shoulder blades and raced down his spine—the only warning he received before,
with a hollow whoosh, his wings punched the air behind him.

Her eyes, hazy with release, widened in awe and delight.

She reached out and her fingertips grazed the white feathers
of his underwings. Pleasure careened through him at the trembling caress. He
leaned forward, opening his mouth over the slim column of her neck, and allowed
ecstasy to crash down, hauling him under.

And as he dove into the crazy, wild free fall, he clasped
his arms and wings around her, dragging her with him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So close. He was so close.

Evander paced the length of the living room like a hamster
on a wheel. Although the laceration scoring his lower torso had already started
knitting together, it pulled and ached with each stride. The cramped apartment
caged him. A growl rumbled in his throat. Nicolai had brought him to
this—running, hiding like a rabbit.

He was a warrior, not a coward.

But this was only temporary. The rinky-dink living quarters,
the hit ’n’ miss skirmishes with Nicolai and the rest of the
krinos
, the
killing…well… The corner of his mouth quirked. He enjoyed that part of this
little game. He’d acquired a taste for the hunt, the tearing of human skin under
his claws, the gush of their warm blood in his mouth, over his hands. It
was…addictive.

And had been for the six months he’d been slaughtering the
weak, spineless mortals.

The first kill had been an accident.

He’d been home visiting Gregor and, as had been their
tradition since childhood, they’d gone soaring above their homeland, flirting
with the sea and racing each other across the dark sky. As they’d tumbled to
the ground, shifting, laughing and shoving one another, they’d noticed too late
the human woman who stood gaping at the sight of them. All three had been
shocked but when she’d turned and fled across the empty field, her action had
snapped his and Gregor’s paralysis.

Animal instinct had seized him, propelled Evander after the
female. He’d reached her first and pounced. The audible snap of her neck
reverberated in the silence. Staring down into the female’s lovely features
forever frozen in a mask of fear, Evander hadn’t experienced the expected
horror or guilt.

Exhilaration and excitement had raced through his blood,
lighting him up inside like the blazing Grecian sun. And the fierce thrill had
made him want to throw back his head and roar to the night sky that shamed him.

At first.

Soon he created situations where he convinced himself the
taking of a human life was necessary. This woman had seen him do a partial
shift—she had to die to preserve the secret of their existence. Or that woman
had witnessed him without his
gyges
—she must be executed for the good of
their society. But eventually he didn’t bother with an excuse other than he
liked it.

Of course, Gregor had discovered his activities. He’d begged
Evander to stop before Nicolai found out. If there was anyone Evander would
sacrifice for it was Gregor. In a society where twins were rare and therefore
revered and cherished, his and Gregor’s childhood had been hell meted out by
the two people who should have protected and treasured them. Passion and love
had brought his parents together, but their desire had eventually waned and the
adoration had soon tarnished into bitter, resentful hatred—hatred they’d taken
out on their twin boys. Separation wasn’t unheard of in the hippogryph society,
though it was frowned upon. The simplest—kindest—action would’ve been to part
ways, but the narcissistic, selfish creatures who had given Evander and Gregor
life would never concede failure. Never admit their pairing was a monumental
mistake. So instead they rained hell on their young. Through the beatings,
cruelty and neglect, he and Gregor had clung to one another, depended on one
another.

So when his brother asked him to quit his behavior, Evander
had promised he wouldn’t continue. But he’d lied. He’d yearned to stop for
Gregor’s sake, but by then it was too late—he
couldn’t
stop. To never
feel the splitting of a woman’s flesh under his claws, to never savor the flow
of her precious blood over his tongue—blood still warm from her beating heart,
to never see the knowledge of her death darken her eyes even as the light of
her mortality faded…

He didn’t want to give that up. Not even for his twin—the
person he loved most in this world.

And it had been his twin who had paid the ultimate price for
his pursuits. Evander had become careless and neglected to cover one of his
kills with his usual precision. As identical in hippogryph form as they were in
human form, Gregor had been mistaken for him and labeled “rogue”. No one had
questioned it—of course a member of the
Dimios’ krinos
could not have
been guilty of such savagery.

So Gregor had been executed, innocent of the crimes that had
been committed by his brother.

The guilt, shame, horror and grief Evander should have
suffered from that initial kill had consumed him with Gregor’s death. His
brother hadn’t uttered a word, but accepted the accusation and resulting
punishment of a rogue rather than betray his twin.

Evander had begged Nicolai to spare Gregor…had
pleaded
with him not to destroy his brother. But Nicolai hadn’t listened, hadn’t
granted mercy on behalf of the soldier and brother-in-arms who had served him
loyally for over seven hundred years.

Grief had turned to hate.

Hate for Nicolai who’d destroyed his twin. Hate for the
hippogryph society that had failed to protect him and Gregor as children, then
condemned him for the monster they had ultimately created. Hate for the humans
his king insisted they—the more powerful beings—hide their existence from like
rats in a sewer and yet protect like menial servants.

Gregor’s death and Nicolai’s ruthlessness had obliterated
Evander’s allegiance to his people, to Lukas, Adon, Dorian…and especially
Nicolai.

Bastien had been his first victim as a declared rogue.

Nicolai had taken the person Evander had loved so he
returned the favor with the
Dimios’
best friend. Every kill afterward
had been a humiliating nail in Nicolai’s coffin as he failed to capture the
rogue he’d trained in the art of tracking and execution.

And now—Evander paused in front of the hotel window and
stared out over the quiet backwater town called Grace Crossings—his greatest
revenge loomed close. All the players were set in place.

Soon, very soon, it would be game and match.

Chapter Two

Tamar Ridgeway rolled over, sighing.

Her internal alarm clock blared the six o’clock hour with an
annoying ring that refused to let her burrow back under the covers for a few
extra moments of sleep. With an irritated grumble, she stretched out her arm,
seeking warm, hard flesh, but instead encountered a cool jumble of blankets.

Damn.

For an instant, sorrow and disappointment crashed down on
her like a cruel dousing of frigid ice water. A dream. That’s all it’d
been—that’s all it ever was. After three years of fantasies about her winged
warrior, she should be used to waking up alone. Yet the knowledge didn’t
prevent the initial despair or loneliness from claiming her in that gloaming
between sleep and wakefulness. It was like the morning following Christmas Day,
after the excitement and joy of the holiday had passed. And the time before it
came around again stretched an interminable three hundred and sixty-five days
forward.

Shoving the regret aside along with the covers, she rose
from the bed and padded across the hardwood floor. A blunted ache took up
residence in her left hip and thigh and she winced at the muted pulsing of
strained and tired muscles. She stopped, exhaled a breath. Lowering her hands
to the scarred flesh, she kneaded and massaged the tight sinew, ligaments and
tendons. They were always stiff first thing in the morning and needed time to
catch up with the rest of her body.

She glanced down at her leg and the hardened whorls and
thick ridges that creased it like a child’s scribble-scrabble drawing. The
scars that covered the left side of her body were constant reminders of the
plane crash she’d survived at twenty-five years old. After years of intensive
physical and psychological therapy, she walked with a limp, had broken up with
her fiancé and was still afraid of the dark…and flying. She hadn’t slept in a
dark room or stepped foot on a plane since the crash, but she lived. And
finally—
finally
—three years later, she had her life back.

When the throbbing had subsided to a negligible thud, she
headed toward the bathroom and a much-needed shower.

Most people who had suffered the kind of trauma she’d
endured had nightmares for years. Her? She dreamed of a lavender-eyed, blond
winged warrior. For the first two and a half years after the crash he’d been
her champion. She’d watched him laugh with his small unit of men, charge into
battle and recover from his wounds. He’d been her nighttime protector, her
comforter. But the last six months…damn. In the last six months instead of a
spectator, she’d become a full active participant. And he’d become the man who
made love to her as if he’d invented the act. Her dreams had always been vivid
and detailed—even as a child. But how she imagined the things he did to her
with his fingers, tongue and cock…
whew
.

In the safety of her mind, she morphed into a sexual
creature she hadn’t known existed. She’d enjoyed sex before, but had never
craved it. Nicolai’s frank, unapologetic sexuality—from his caresses to his
words—allowed her to be as uninhibited and free as he. Heat flowed to her face
as she recalled some of those words. In her twenty-eight years, she hadn’t
uttered the word…
pussy
aloud. Hell, she even whispered it in her own
head!

But when Nicolai said the erotic term, it sounded natural,
raw…and tender. His husky plea from last night came to her.
Take me in your
sweet pussy.
As if he couldn’t bear not being inside her a moment longer.
As if out of all the women he’d been with—because a man that gorgeous most
definitely had many lovers—she was special.

Tamar rolled her eyes at her foolish whimsy. “Get a grip,
girlfriend.” Not only had she imagined a fierce warrior lover, but she’d
invented a sexual history for him as well. They had a name for that. Bat-shit
crazy.

Rationally, she understood her mind had conjured the
mythical images as a coping mechanism. That reliving the horrific life-altering
event of the crash over and over would have stolen what little sanity she’d
retained. So she dreamed of men with huge, beautiful wings, chiseled bodies,
epic battles and, in the last six months, a devastating, attentive lover. It
sounded logical, reasonable even. But shoot, if they were her fantasies why
couldn’t she envision herself as a tall, svelte, scar-free temptress with hair
that didn’t resemble a brown Brillo pad?

Shrugging free of her sweat-dampened nightgown, Tamar let
the material pool at her feet before stepping out of the silk ring and skating
the green shower curtain to the side. She reached in, twisted the knobs,
adjusting the water to the right temperature and speed. Wiggling her fingers
under the stream, she tested the heat then climbed into the tub and tugged the
shower curtain closed behind her. The steady, firm pulsations dragged a
half-sigh, half-groan free from her. And as she passed the soapy washcloth over
her breasts and inner thighs, a flash of heat and embarrassment bloomed inside.

Nicolai—she shuddered at the mere name of her dream
lover—might be a figment of her imagination, but upon wakening her body ached
as if it had been truly taken, and not in the realm of Nod. Her breasts were
sensitive to the touch, the nipples and surrounding skin reddened as if
masculine lips with a faintly cruel curve really had been sucking and pulling
on them. Her inner thighs were sore as if she’d squeezed them around slim hips
time and time again. She shivered and it echoed deep within where Nicolai’s
cock had been buried as he’d fucked her most of the night.

Heat streamed up from her chest and flooded her cheeks. That
word was relegated to the night and her erotic fantasies, not daytime where
reality came in the form of sunshine, lesson plans and PTO meetings. She wasn’t
a prude—could lob the F-bomb herself. But she’d never used it in a sexual context.
And she couldn’t describe Nicolai’s…
conquering
as anything else. None of
her previous lovers had made her feel like a foreign land coming under the rule
of a new master. But Nicolai did.

With him she felt cherished, wanted, precious and…well…fucked.

A sudden spike of pain in her calves and thighs jerked her
attention back to the steam-filled bathroom.

“Not again,” she muttered, dropping the bath cloth on top of
the soap dish. She lifted a foot to the edge of the tub and rubbed the muscles
harder and with more vigor than she had earlier in the bedroom. Her doctors and
physical therapists had warned her she would have cramps and gradations of pain
most likely for the rest of her life. So this new emergence of pain wouldn’t
have worried her if it appeared only in her left leg.

But in the last few months the sharp stabs had attacked her
right limb as well and shot up her spine to throb between her shoulder blades.
It more than troubled her—it scared the hell out of her. In the last year, she
had worked out religiously to strengthen her body. As a result, her physical
therapy sessions had been reduced from three times per week to once and she’d
returned to her job as a sixth grade social studies teacher at the local middle
school.

Finally her life seemed back on track, or getting there, and
now these new symptoms had emerged.

God
.
She closed her eyes and willed back the
tears stinging her lids. Before the plane crash, she’d taken “normal” for
granted. Like the weekends and summers filled with rock climbing, hiking,
traveling. Then there were the simple things such as rising out of bed, walking
from her home to her car, standing in front of a class, fixing a cup of coffee…
Now she valued each and every task. When a person’s existence converged down to
lying in a hospital bed, unable to move, trapped in an uncooperative body, the
small inconsequential actions became treasured gifts.

Despair squeezed her chest in its freezing grip. Just when
normal hovered within her grasp, something else jeopardized it.

Life could be such a cruel bitch sometimes. In one hand
“life” had saved Tamar from a fate no one else had walked away from. Yet in the
other, she taunted Tamar with the possibility of that same blessing being
snatched away years later.

A brilliant and hot surge of anger welled up from a
desperate and wild place in her spirit. The rage spilled over, incinerating the
grief.
No
, a voice roared, bouncing off the walls of her mind and
resounding in her soul.

Death hadn’t defeated her. The man she’d loved turning into a
monster before her eyes hadn’t broken her. Learning to walk and function again
hadn’t beaten her. Neither would this unknown adversary. She’d battled
physical, mental and emotional foes for this slice of life. No matter what, she
would go down swinging, punching and cursing to keep her piece of normal.

That’s what fighters did.

* * * * *

“Do you know what today is?”

Tamar glanced up and smiled at her fellow teacher and friend
Theresa Hanson—or Resa as she was nicknamed. The slender blonde’s infectious
grin invited others to join in the laughter that bubbled out of her like a
champagne fountain. If the teacher wasn’t so nice, her perkiness would be
downright annoying.

“You mean besides the last day of school?” Tamar asked,
returning to the task of cleaning her classroom before the janitorial crew came
in to store the desks and chairs for the next ten weeks of summer vacation.
Unlike the other teachers at Grace Crossings’ only middle school, she didn’t
look forward to this time of year. She missed the clamor of children’s voices,
the homework, projects and lesson plans that kept her busy. Her mother had died
right after Tamar had graduated from college and, as the only child of an only
child, she had no family to visit over the break. The distant relatives she did
know of were too distant by blood, time and miles to drop in on.

“Yes, besides that,” Resa said, bouncing—did the woman walk
anywhere?—across the room to remove posters of Ghandi, Martin Luther King and
John F. Kennedy. “Although the last day should be a national holiday. I
petitioned Congress, but haven’t heard back yet.” Tamar snickered and Resa
giggled. “I really did. I’m expecting the FBI to show up at my door any day to
see what sort of nutcase actually submitted the request.”

“Hey, as long as the agent looks like Jason Statham, I
wouldn’t even put up a protest at being frisked and manhandled.”

“Amen to that, sister,” Resa crowed. “But back to the
significance of today.” She paused for affect, whipped around and held her
pointer finger in the air as if requesting silence from an esteemed assembly.
“It is
get-stinkin’-drunk-off-your-ass-because-we-don’t-have-to-go-to-work-or-deal-with-kids-for-the-next-two-months
day!”

Tamar burst out laughing. “You are so bad,” she admonished,
but her huge grin ruined the scolding.

Resa waved off the reprimand. “Oh please.” She rolled her
eyes. “I’m like that little devil on your shoulder who just says what you’re
thinking. So how about it?” she asked, her green eyes sparkling with deviltry
and merriment. “Several of the teachers are going to meet at Paulo’s for dinner
and drinks. Maybe head to Boston afterward for some dancing.” Resa performed an
impressive pirouette in her pink flip-flops. She followed it up with a hip
grind that would have made
Dirty Dancing
’s Johnny Castle proud.

Even as she smiled at Resa’s gyrations, dread coiled in
Tamar’s stomach like a rattler’s body prepared to strike at the most
inopportune moment. Paulo’s—the one bar in town—had been a favorite hangout of
hers and Kyle’s, her ex-fiancé.

Her brain transmitted the assurance Kyle was long gone, but
her gut cramped and her heart pounded. It didn’t take much these days to jog
her nerves or memories of him. Jesus, she was damn tired of being scared. She
hadn’t laid eyes on her ex in well over a year, but in the last four weeks the
hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if someone watched her…followed her.
She’d felt it while grocery shopping, leaving her physical therapist’s office,
exiting school.

Foolish, really. Her ex had left the state a year and a half
ago after she’d threatened to report him to the authorities for domestic
violence. And since the bruises from his last round of vicious abuse had barely
faded, she’d had the evidence. Rather than face the criminal consequences, he’d
fled Grace Crossings and the state of Massachusetts.

The bruises had disappeared with time. But the wounds of
fear, shame and betrayal were branded on her soul. The person she’d trusted
above all others—aside from her doctors—had hurt her when she’d been weak and
defenseless.

After all this time, had he returned to torment her again?

“Tamar?” She met Resa’s concerned stare. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Tamar shook her head and placed a bright-red ceramic
apple that had been a gift from a student in a box. “I’m sorry. I zoned out for
a second.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Her friend clasped her shoulder and
gave it a small squeeze. “Don’t feel pressured to go. If not tonight, we can
always go out another evening. I’m sure I’ll have no problem thinking up a
reason to celebrate.” She grinned, but worry still darkened her green eyes.

“No,” Tamar reassured her and summoned up a smile that
wavered then fell away. “I—” She paused, hesitant about dumping her worries on
her friend. But when Resa rubbed her back, she forged ahead. “I don’t know.
Ever since that special interest ‘Where is She Now’ piece aired on the news a
few weeks ago…” Tamar smoothed her fingertips over the top of the cardboard
storage box. “I’ve felt antsy. Like someone’s been following me around.” Resa’s
eyes widened and her lips parted. Immediately Tamar felt stupid. Really, who
would be that fascinated in her to spend their time stalking her? She forced a
laugh. “Forget it. It’s silly.”

“Tamar, are you sure? Maybe you should go to the police—”