Born in Blood
Page 8

“A friend warned me that if a man has to brag about his size it’s because he knows it’s going to be a disappointment,” she murmured, her fingers teasing the hair at his nape.
“Let me take a stab in the dark,” he said wryly. “Was this friend named Serra?”
Callie made a sound of astonishment. “You know her?”
“Our paths have crossed.” His lips found an exquisitely tender spot just below her ear. “Unfortunately.”
She arched against the welcome hardness of his body, strangely pleased he didn’t have the usual male reaction to her dearest friend.
“Most men find her irresistible.”
He kissed down the curve of her throat, the rasp of his whiskers making her tremble in pleasure.
“She’s a man-eater.”
It was growing difficult to think. “What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he assured her, his hand gripping the back of her neck, his tongue doing wicked things as it traced the bodice of her stretchy top. “The only opinion I care about is yours.”
Her head fell back, offering Duncan greater access. He seemed to know what he was doing. Why interfere?
“Hmm.”
“I’ve never touched such soft skin,” he rasped, his lips lingering on the gentle swell of her breast. “It’s like heated satin.”
Her nipples tightened, the tingles of excitement becoming a sharp-edged hunger that made her hesitate.
Okay. This was spiraling out of control way too fast.
And one of the first things all high-bloods learned was that bad things happened when they let themselves be out of control.
“What do you want from me?” she abruptly demanded.
“A kiss. That’s all.” He shifted to nibble her bottom lip. “Just a kiss.”
“I don’t—”
“Trust me, Callie. I won’t ever ask for more than you’re willing to give.”
Trust? Fane would tell her that she was crazy. That she couldn’t trust anyone.
Especially not a norm who all but accused the Mave of being willing to harbor a murderer.
But just for a few minutes she didn’t want to be a necromancer who was feared and even hated by others. Or the shy woman who often faded into the shadows.
And more importantly, she wanted to kiss this man.
“Okay.”
The word had barely formed before he covered her lips in a kiss that seared her to the tips of her toes.
Oh ... baby.
Serra’s three-inch heels clicked against the floor of the hallway as she walked past the wide doors to the dining hall and then the art center.
As always the two floors directly beneath the main structure were crowded with high-bloods. The shared area was a place to relax and mingle. Or, for those who were of a more solitary nature, there was a vast library and a Japanese rock garden.
And for the elusive Sentinels, there was a fully equipped gym and attached firing range that allowed them to hone their skills to a lethal edge, while releasing the aggression that was so much a part of their nature.
And that’s where she was headed.
Indifferent to the male, and a few female, gazes that followed her elegant body, shown to lush advantage in the black leather pants and red bustier, she gave a toss of her long, raven hair.
She was far more interested in the tall, lean man storming away from the gym with a thunderous scowl.
Even at a distance, Wolfe, the current Tagos and leader of all Sentinels, looked like a dangerous predator.
He was a hunter rather than a guardian like Fane, which meant he had no magic and no tattoos, but anyone stupid enough to think he’d earned his position by being a slick politician was quickly taught the error of their ways.
He was faster, stronger, and more ruthless than any other warrior. He was also a cunning bastard who could charm the birds from the trees when it suited his purpose. And of course, he wasn’t above using his potent sexual appeal to manipulate others.
With copper skin and eyes that were as black as ebony, he resembled an ancient Egyptian deity. He had a proud, hawkish nose and prominent cheekbones. His dark brows were heavy and his lips carved along generous lines. It was a striking face rather than handsome and so fiercely masculine that some women found it intimidating.
Just as striking was the glossy dark hair that brushed his shoulders with a startling streak of silver that started at his right temple. It was rumored that he’d been touched by the devil when he was in the cradle. Something he never bothered to deny.
Hanging back until he’d continued his ill-tempered stomping in the opposite direction, Serra headed into the gym. She might be fearless, but no one crossed paths with a rabid Wolfe.
Bypassing the mats and the boxing ring, she entered the weight room, honing in on her prey with practiced skill.
Too practiced, she wryly conceded, catching sight of Fane bench-pressing enough weight to crush most men.
How long had she been stalking this stoic, aloof Sentinel?
It seemed like an eternity.
Halting next to the stack of weights, she admired the ripple of muscle as Fane seamlessly lifted the massive weights in a smooth rhythm.
God Almighty. He was a masterpiece.
From the top of his bald head to the tip of his bare toes he was hard, chiseled perfection. As if he’d been created by the hand of Michelangelo. Was it any wonder he’d managed to capture her jaded interest?
And there was the added bonus of his sacred tattooing. The powerful spells made it impossible for her to read his mind, even by accident.
A necessary barrier for any psychic. Nothing like being in the moment and realizing your partner was fantasizing about another woman.
Yeah ... real turn-off.
Of course, the whole lack of high-def peekaboos into his mind wasn’t all good.
The man kept his emotions locked down as if they were some precious commodity that could only be doled out in sparse measure.
His conversations were just as meager. A yes. A no. And an occasional grunt if she was lucky.
There’d been times when she would have given her favorite Fendi boots just for a glimpse of what was going on behind the grim visage.
“I just saw Wolfe stomping off,” she said as Fane continued with his self-imposed task, ignoring her arrival despite the fact he would have sensed her presence the minute she entered the gym.
Aggravating asshole.
Good thing he was so edible.
“He’s not happy that I’ve been forbidden to answer his questions,” Fane said, at least speaking to her.
Sometimes he went into a deep trance that allowed him to block out everything but what he wanted to concentrate on.
A trick he was taught by the monks. As well as how to kill a man in three seconds flat.
“I’m hoping he doesn’t plan on confronting the Mave in his current mood,” she murmured. The only person not afraid of Wolfe when he was on the warpath was the Mave.
She might turn him into a toad if he went charging into her office half cocked.
“Wolfe doesn’t always choose the path of wisdom,” Fane pointed out.
She grimaced. “Few of us do.” No answer. Okay, new subject. “How’s Callie?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her that question?”
“I went by her apartment but she wasn’t there.”
Clank. The weights were slammed onto the rack behind his head. Flowing to his feet, Fane grabbed a towel to wipe his bare chest, clearly determined to go in search of his missing chick. “Dammit.”
Serra felt the familiar irritation scour through her body. She adored Callie. They were, in fact, as close as sisters.
But the knowledge that this man was bound to the beautiful diviner on a level so deep it could never be broken was a constant source of frustration.
“You aren’t her babysitter, Fane,” she said in sour tones. “She’s allowed to travel around Valhalla without asking your permission.”
The dark eyes held an unspoken censor. “She’s mine to protect.”
“Yours to protect or just yours?”
“Now isn’t the time for this conversation.”
She shouldn’t press. She didn’t need to be a psychic to know something was going on. Something bad. And that Fane would be hypercrazy—well, even more hypercrazy than usual—with his need to keep Callie safe.
But she was a female. Which meant she was allowed to be completely illogical when it came to the man she wanted.
Hell, it was her duty.
“When will be the time?”
His forbidding expression never altered. “I don’t know.”
“And if I decide not to wait?”
“I’ve never lied to you, Serra.”
The soft, unyielding response stole her thunder.
Dammit. Why couldn’t he at least get mad like any normal man? A good shouting match was just what she needed to release the resentment that had reached a boiling level.
Instead she ran face first into a wall of truth. Never fun.
“No, you’ve always been brutally honest,” she admitted, her lips twisting in a self-derisive smile.
He frowned, tossing aside the towel. “You can have any man you desire.”
Her gaze compulsively slid over the broad chest, then down to the six-pack that begged to be licked.
“Obviously not any man,” she muttered.
“Serra—”
“Don’t.” She held up a pleading hand. “It’s so ... fucking tragic.” Taking a step back, she folded her arms over her stomach in an unconsciously defensive gesture. “At least tell me that Callie is okay.”
Fane hesitated, as if wrestling with some inner demon. Then, at last, he gave a dip of his head. “For now.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No.”
She shrugged. She didn’t expect him to share. Even routine duties the Sentinels performed were kept top secret. But her curiosity was making her nuts. She was desperate to know what was going on.
“It must have something to do with Callie’s trip into the memories of the dead woman,” she reasoned out loud. “Otherwise the cop would never have been allowed into Valhalla.”