Warrior Enchanted: The Sons of the Zodiac (18 page)

“Then by all means”—Quinn’s wicked smile flashed in the late-afternoon sun that streamed in the windows—“let’s roll the joint.”

They worked in companionable silence, Drake taking the duffel that sat on the unmade bed as Quinn searched the walls for some sort of escape. As the bull moved past the window, he let out a low whistle. “That’s a thirty-foot drop to the ground, which only reinforces our as-yet-unvoiced concern that he has the ability to port, too.”

“Where did he come from? From the few things Emerson’s said, it sounds like he’s been the family fuckup for a while. I just don’t see that making him Warrior material.”

Quinn continued his sweep of the perimeter. “It’s not like Themis has hit a home run with every man she’s turned. Shit, we know that better than anyone. Ajax. Arturo.”

Drake couldn’t ignore the truth of Quinn’s observation. The man’s battle the previous spring with a fallen Taurus Warrior had taken a toll on all of them and, despite the passage of time, was still far too fresh for comfort.

No matter how discriminating she tried to be, Themis couldn’t counteract simple free will.

“Besides,” Quinn added as he opened the room’s lone closet door, “this doesn’t have Themis’s imprint on it. It’s too dark.”

Drake finished rooting through the T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans in the duffel when his hand hit on something hard. Dragging it out, he turned the small book over in his hands.

“You got something?”

“I’m not sure.” Flipping through the pages, his gaze caught on some ancient text. His brain translated the words immediately, the Greek he’d learned as a boy
surprisingly clear. Puzzled, he realized it was the story of Eris’s triumph with the Judgment of Paris when she used the Golden Apple for the first time. “It’s like a diary.”

“Of what?”

Drake flipped a few more pages, all more short stories of Eris’s triumphs. A peasant uprising in the eighth century in Ireland. A tribe in South America she managed to wipe out in a matter of months. And the particularly nasty mess she made in the French Revolution. “It reads as a series of small stories and triumphs.”

“This place is empty. Let’s take that with us and see if Callie can figure out what it means.”

Drake flipped to the back of the book, an idea taking root. As his eyes roved over the words, he felt a small sliver of fear take hold of his spine. Before he could show it to Quinn, that familiar rush of air filled the room and Magnus landed in front of them.

The port was clumsy, but there was no mistaking the man had done it on his own. The immediate leap to his feet also confirmed his reflexes weren’t half-bad. His widened eyes darted around the room. “How the hell’d you get in here?”

“Same way you did.” Quinn’s laconic voice rumbled from the far side of the room and Magnus whirled on the bull as he realized there was someone else there too.

“What do you want?”

Drake quickly hid the book in his waistband, then moved up into Magnus’s face. The tension humming in his system morphed to anger at the speed of light. “Let’s start with the fucking snake you let attack your sister.”

“Wait. I didn’t. It hit you.”

He didn’t back off, but did see Quinn’s stance shift from the corner of his eye. This could turn ugly any moment and they both knew it. “By default. You were aiming for her.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“She’s my sister. She just…”

Drake refused to back down. “She just what?”

Magnus’s voice was low as he clenched his shoulders, the nervous gesture only heightening the tension in the room. “She just got in the way.”

Drake knew there was a fourth sense a person honed in battle, the stress of the situation lending itself to a heightened awareness that was very real, even if it couldn’t be easily explained.

He could only thank the gods he and Quinn fought so well together.

Without warning, the same snake from earlier leaped off of Magnus’s form, striking so fast all Drake had time to do was stumble backward.

Quinn’s bull joined the fray immediately, the animal’s powerful body keeping Magnus at bay even as its hooves tried to stamp out the snake. Heavy grunts and groans rose up in the small room as the bodies of two large men and two equally large animals crashed onto furniture.

Scrambling to his feet, Drake made a wide circle around the battling forms and, as soon as he had a shot, he took it. With swift footwork, he sidestepped the snake and went in low at Magnus. On a heavy grunt, he pushed the man off balance and sent the snake flailing in the air.

He’d wanted to believe there was some power—some reason for the power—that he’d seen in Magnus earlier, but there was no other explanation. The fact that the snake followed him to the floor meant it operated from within Magnus’s aura, not independently of him.

The man had the same set of gifts he and his brothers carried in their own bodies.

Before either of them could get a good grip on him, Magnus vanished once again.

E
merson knew she was being a bitch, but she didn’t give a flying fuck. How dare he leave her here?

Like she was some little woman who needed protecting.

She paced Drake’s room, the familiar surroundings a vivid reminder of why she was so mad. He knew who she was. Knew what she was capable of. Knew she was strong. He had no right to leave her behind like some child who needed to be watched over.

Especially when it involved her family.

She wouldn’t break, damn it. Hell, she had enough power inside of her to blow this place into smithereens. And just like that, Magnus’s words curled through her mind like whispers of smoke.

“Don’t you want more?”

“Why won’t you use it?”

“Don’t tell me you’re so bound up in all that white witch bullshit you can’t see you’re entitled to some benefits.”

On a hard shake of her head, she sat down on the side of Drake’s enormous bed.

What was wrong with her?

She’d never before questioned who and what she was. The purity of her gift and the responsibility that came with its use.

So why now?

She’d been mad before. So mad she’d thought she’d never be happy or bright or fun or normal again.

Why were his words so seductive?

Emerson flopped back onto the bed, the mattress absorbing the hard lines of her body. Despite her best intentions, she felt her body relax at the opportunity to finally sit still and think for a few minutes.

She wanted to be mad at Callie. Had taken a few strips off of her when she’d done the whole block and tackle in the kitchen, but Emerson knew it wasn’t the woman’s fault. And if the look of rebellion in those dark brown eyes was an indication, Callie wasn’t any happier about it than she was.

Her body relaxed another fraction and she instinctively knew Drake had returned. The raging storm that lived in her heart always calmed a little bit when he was near and, despite her anger, this moment was no different.

The light knock announced his arrival just before he stepped through the door. Emerson toyed briefly with the idea of feigning sleep, but discarded it in favor of sitting up and fighting. She caught sight of the still-ripped T-shirt as a new thought took hold.

Maybe she could work off some tension instead.

“You look mad.”

She stood and moved a few steps, not fully closing the gap between them. “I’m not talking to you.”

“I needed to do it, Emerson. And I couldn’t take you back in there.”

“For the moment, we’re going to ignore the fact that you locked me up in your house to go investigating mine. We’re also, for the moment, going to forget that I’m so mad at you I’d like to pour honey over every inch of your body and set a rabid band of fire ants loose on you.”

His eyebrows arched, but he didn’t stop her.

“And, for the moment, we’re also going to forget that you continue to insinuate yourself in my life without asking my permission, which is, frankly, the root of my anger, upset and all-around vindictiveness toward you.”

“Em—”

“I said I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh.” His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Take your shirt off.”

He did as she asked and Emerson drank him in. The long, lean lines of his body that descended into a narrow torso, capped off by a broad pair of shoulders that would make Atlas weep. He had a swimmer’s body, she realized with sudden clarity, the knowledge making perfect sense as she considered his Pisces nature and its connection to how he was.

“Turn around.”

The twitch in his full lips turned into a full-on smile. “Isn’t this talking?”

“Turn. Around.”

He did as she asked, presenting his back to her.

Reveling in the chance to observe him while he was unaware, she continued her inspection of his body. She’d seen his tattoos before, fascinated by the elaborate ink on his skin, but in his silence she could truly look her fill.

Could see the beautiful design that wrapped around his left shoulder before settling on his upper back.

The dark ink swirled over his shoulder into sharp points, with the tribal design surprisingly similar to her own tattoo. From the angle where he stood, she could see the ink as it spread onto his back. As her gaze followed the design, it stopped, giving way to a second tattoo—two fish joined at the tail.

With tentative fingers, she reached out to lightly touch his skin, surprised when the tattoo began to move. Like that feeling when her magic unlocked and began coursing through her veins, the scales of the fish winked an enticing silver as they moved in a slow circle, as if preening under her attention.

The tattoo was relatively small, covering only the upper quadrant of his back over his shoulder blade, but she couldn’t fight the sense that there was power there, barely leashed and far greater than it appeared.

How had she never noticed it before?

In all the times they’d been together, she’d looked but never really seen.

Reaching up, she ran her hands along the firm ledge of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin branding her like fire. She felt her own magic rising within her body, coursing through her with a certainty that left her breathless.

She knew who she was and she knew what mattered to her.

With a flick of her wrist, she made their clothing disappear into a heap on the floor. Her gaze descended to take in the firm globes of his ass as need flooded her body, pooling between her thighs.

His body was a marvel. Not a single inch of him wasn’t long and lean, hard and
able
. She was half his size and yet when she was with him he was fiercely gentle.

Right now, she wanted the fierce.

Maintaining contact with his shoulders, she slid around him and pressed her breasts to his chest, gratified when his hard erection fit flush against her stomach.

Hard and able was right.

Her arms were still around his neck and he reached up with his hands and skimmed his fingers along the underside of her arms. The light touch was so simple—so elegant, really—and it was her undoing.

He treated her as if she were a precious jewel. When had she come to love it so much? To crave it with a desperate longing she’d never known?

Then she lost the ability to think as his mouth came down over hers and the tables were turned on the huntress. In that moment, Drake brought the fierce.

Drake feasted on her, this small, slender package of conflicting emotions and generous passions.

How had he ever lived without her?

With lips and tongue, he tried to show her what was in his heart. The desperate need he carried for her that
wouldn’t be sated no matter how many times they were together.

No matter how sweet the touch or how precious the moment, his body always craved the next one with her.

Emerson
.

Her grip on his shoulders grew more urgent as the kiss continued to spin out between them. He caressed his way from the backs of her arms, over her shoulders, until he came around her front and filled both hands with the heavy fullness of her breasts. With a move that tortured them both, he flicked his thumbs over her nipples, satisfied when she arched into his hands.

As her body shifted, her hips rubbed against his erection, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body. He felt her triumphant smile under his lips and the low rumble of her breath before she caught herself from speaking.

“Nearly caught at your own game, eh?” he couldn’t resist teasing her as he squeezed her nipples between thumb and forefinger, gratified as her breath exploded on a gasp with a whispered exclamation of “Bastard” against his lips.

Not to be outdone, her movements faster than a whip, she had her hands between their bodies and wrapped around his cock. With exquisite pressure, her fingers traveled the length in a series of constricting motions that had him seeing stars. Hand over hand, she fisted him until he almost came in her palm.

Any sense of finesse or drawing the moment out vanished in the heat of what built between them. He wanted her with a desperation that bordered on madness and he had to have her.

Staggering to the bed, he wrapped his arms around her and fell backward, absorbing her weight as she sprawled against him. Still gripped in the midst of the heat and need that drove them both, she moved over him, rising onto her knees. Before she could fit him to the wet warmth at her core, he gripped her hips and flipped her aside, straddling her from behind.

She glanced at him over her shoulder—her gray eyes going an opaque blue with passion—before pressing her backside toward him and exposing her glistening folds to his cock.

Drake didn’t waste another moment. He fitted himself to the hilt, then reached around to press a long finger against her slick channel, rubbing the sensitive core of her body until she was writhing against him in manic need.

Blind need drove them on as their bodies met again and again, blistering passion consuming them both. Emerson’s climax rushed upon her and Drake felt his entire body tightening in answer. On a strangled moan, he buried himself inside her and gave himself up to the mindless needs of his body as it answered hers.