House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) (50 page)

“Come on,” she murmured. “Bed.”

His face became more alert, but he didn’t object when she tugged him from the shower, dripping water from her sodden clothes and hair. Didn’t object when she led him into the bedroom, to the chest of drawers where he’d put his things.

She pulled out a pair of black undershorts and stooped down, eyes firmly on the ground as she stretched out the waistband. “Step in.”

Hunt obeyed, first one foot and then the other. She rose, sliding the shorts up his powerful thighs and releasing the elastic waist with a soft snap. Bryce snatched a white T-shirt from another drawer, frowned at the complicated slats on the back to fit his wings, and set it down again. “Underwear it is,” she declared, pulling back the blanket on the bed he so dutifully made each morning. She patted the mattress. “Get some sleep, Hunt.”

Again, he obeyed, sliding between the sheets with a soft groan.

She shut off the bathroom light, darkening the bedroom, and returned to where he now lay, still staring at her. Daring to stroke his damp hair away from his brow, Bryce’s fingers grazed over the hateful tattoo. His eyes closed.

“I was so worried about you,” she whispered, stroking his hair again. “I …” She couldn’t finish the sentence. So she made to step back, to head to her room and change into dry clothes and maybe get some sleep herself.

But a warm, strong hand gripped her wrist. Halted her.

She looked back, and found Hunt staring at her again. “What?”

A slight tug on her wrist told her everything.

Stay
.

Her chest squeezed to the point of pain. “Okay.” She took a breath. “Okay, sure.”

And for some reason, the thought of going all the way to her bedroom, of leaving him for even a moment, seemed too risky. Like he might vanish again if she left to change.

So she grabbed the white T-shirt she’d intended to give him, and twisted away, peeling off her own shirt and bra and chucking them into the bathroom. They landed with a slap on the tiles, drowning out the rustle of his soft shirt as she slid it over herself. It hung down to her knees, providing enough coverage that she shucked off her wet sweats and underwear and threw them into the bathroom, too.

Syrinx had leapt into the bed, curling at the foot. And Hunt had moved over, giving her ample room. “Okay,” she said again, more to herself.

The sheets were warm, and smelled of him—rain-kissed cedar. She tried not to breathe it in too obviously as she took up a sitting position against the headboard. And she tried not to look too shocked when he laid his head on her thigh, his arm coming across her to rest on the pillow.

A child laying his head on his mother’s lap. A friend looking for any sort of reassuring contact to remind him that he was a living being. A good person, no matter what they made him do.

Bryce tentatively brushed the hair from his brow again.

Hunt’s eyes closed, but he leaned slightly into the touch. A silent request.

So Bryce continued stroking his hair, over and over, until his breathing deepened and steadied, until his powerful body grew limp beside hers.

It smelled like paradise. Like home and eternity and like exactly where he was meant to be.

Hunt opened his eyes to feminine softness and warmth and gentle breathing.

In the dim light, he found himself half-sprawled across Bryce’s lap, the woman herself passed out against the headboard, head lolling to the side. Her hand still lingered in his hair, the other in the sheets by his arm.

The clock read three thirty. It wasn’t the time that surprised him, but the fact that he was clearheaded enough to notice.

She’d taken care of him. Washed and clothed and soothed him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that.

Hunt carefully peeled his face from her lap, realizing that her legs were bare. That she wasn’t wearing anything beneath his T-shirt. And his face had been mere inches away.

His muscles protested only slightly as he rose upward. Bryce didn’t so much as stir.

She’d put him in his underwear, for fuck’s sake.

His cheeks warmed, but he eased from the bed, Syrinx opening an eye to see what the commotion was about. He waved the beastie off and padded to Bryce’s side of the mattress.

She stirred only slightly as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to her own room. He laid her on her bed, and she grumbled, protesting at the cool sheets, but he swiftly tossed the down comforter over her and left before she could awaken.

He was halfway across the living area when her phone, discarded on the kitchen counter, glared with light. Hunt looked at it, unable to help himself.

A chain of messages from Ruhn filled the screen, all from the past few hours.

Is Athalar all right?
Later,
Are you all right?

Then, an hour ago,
I called the front desk of your building, and the doorman reassured me that you’re both up there, so I’m assuming you two are fine. But call me in the morning.

And then from thirty seconds ago, as if it were an afterthought,
I’m glad you called me tonight. I know things are fucked up between us, and I know a lot of that is my fault, but if you ever need me, I’m here. Anytime at all, Bryce.

Hunt glanced toward her bedroom hallway. She’d called Ruhn—that’s who she’d been on the phone with when he got back. He rubbed at his chest.

He fell back asleep in his own bed, where the scent of her still lingered, like a phantom, warming touch.

55

T
he golden rays of dawn coaxed Bryce awake. The blankets were warm, and the bed soft, and Syrinx was still snoring—

Her room. Her bed.

She sat up, jostling Syrinx awake. He yowled in annoyance and slithered deeper under the covers, kicking her in the ribs with his hind legs for good measure.

Bryce left him to it, sliding from bed and leaving her room within seconds. Hunt must have moved her at some point. He’d been in no shape to do anything like that, and if he’d somehow been forced to go back out again—

She sighed as she glimpsed a gray wing draped over the guest room bed. The golden-brown skin of a muscled back. Rising and falling. Still asleep.

Thank the gods. Rubbing her hands over her face, sleep a lost cause, she padded for the kitchen and began to make coffee. She needed a strong cup of it, then a quick run. She let muscle memory take over, and as the coffee maker buzzed and rattled away, she scooped up her phone from the counter.

Ruhn’s messages occupied most of her alerts. She read through them twice.

He would have dropped everything to come over. Put his friends
on the task of finding Hunt. Would have done it without question. She knew that—had made herself forget it.

She knew why, too. Had been well aware that her reaction to their argument years ago had been justified, but overblown. He’d tried to apologize, and she had only used it against him. And he must have felt guilty enough that he’d never questioned why she’d cut him out of her life. That he’d never realized that it hadn’t just been some slight hurt that had forced her to shut him off from her life, but fear. Absolute terror.

He’d wounded her, and it had scared the Hel out of her that he held such power. That she had wanted so many things from him, imagined so many things with her brother—adventures and holidays and ordinary moments—and he had the ability to rip it all away.

Bryce’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard on her phone, as if searching for the right words.
Thank you
would be good. Or even
I’ll call you later
would suffice, since maybe she should actually say those words aloud.

But her thumbs remained aloft, the words slipping and tumbling past.

So she let them fall by, and turned to the other message she’d received—from Juniper.

Madame Kyrah told me that you never showed up to her class. What the Hel, Bryce? I had to beg her to hold that spot for you. She was really mad.

Bryce ground her teeth. She wrote back,
Sorry. Tell her I’m in the middle of working on something for the Governor and got called away.

Bryce set down the phone and turned to the coffee machine. Her phone buzzed a second later. Juniper had to be on her way to morning practice, then.

This woman does not peddle in excuses. I worked hard to get her to like me, Bryce.

June was definitely pissed if she was calling her
Bryce
instead of
B
.

Bryce wrote back,
I’m sorry, okay? I told you I was a maybe. You shouldn’t have let her think I’d be there.

Juniper sniped back,
Whatever. I gotta go.

Bryce blew out a breath, forcing herself to unclench her fingers from around her phone. She cradled her mug of hot coffee.

“Hey.”

She whirled to find Hunt leaning a hip against the marble island. For someone heavily muscled and winged, the angel was stealthy, she had to admit. He’d put on a shirt and pants, but his hair was still sleep-mussed.

She rasped, her knees wobbling only slightly, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” The word held no bite, only a quiet resignation and a request not to push. So Bryce fished out another mug, set it in the coffee machine, and hit a few buttons that had it brewing.

His gaze brushed over every part of her like a physical touch. She peered down at herself and realized why. “Sorry I took one of your shirts,” she said, bunching the white fabric in a hand. Gods, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Did he know?

His eyes dipped toward her bare legs and went a shade darker. He definitely knew.

Hunt pushed off the island, stalking toward her, and Bryce braced herself. For what, she didn’t know, but—

He just strode past. Right to the fridge, where he pulled out eggs and the slab of bacon. “At the risk of sounding like an alphahole clich
é
,” he said without looking at her as he set the skillet on the stove, “I like seeing you in my shirt.”

“Total alphahole clich
é
,” she said, even as her toes curled on the pale wood floor.

Hunt cracked the eggs into a bowl. “We always seem to end up in the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind,” Bryce said, sipping her coffee, “as long as you’re cooking.”

Hunt snorted, then stilled. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For what you did.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, taking another sip of coffee. Remembering the one she’d brewed for him, she reached for the now-f mug.

Hunt turned from the stove as she extended the coffee to him. Glanced between the outstretched mug and her face.

And as his large hand wrapped around the mug, he leaned in,
closing the space between them. His mouth brushed over her cheek. Brief and light and sweet.

“Thank you,” he said again, pulling back and returning to the stove. As if he didn’t notice that she couldn’t move a single muscle, couldn’t find a single word to utter.

The urge to grab him, to pull his face down to hers and taste every part of him practically blinded her. Her fingers twitched at her sides, nearly able to feel those hard muscles beneath them.

He had a long-lost love he was still holding a torch for. And she’d just gone too long without sex. Cthona’s tits, it’d been weeks since that hookup with the lion shifter in the Raven’s bathroom. And with Hunt here, she hadn’t dared open up her left nightstand to take care of herself.

Keep telling yourself all that
, a small voice said.

The muscles in Hunt’s back stiffened. His hands paused whatever they were doing.

Shit, he could smell this kind of thing, couldn’t he? Most Vanir males could. The shifts in a person’s scent: fear and arousal being the two big ones.

He was the Umbra Mortis. Off-limits in ten million ways. And the Umbra Mortis didn’t date—no, it’d be all or nothing with him.

Hunt asked, voice like gravel, “What are you thinking about?” He didn’t turn from the stove.

You. Like a fucking idiot, I’m thinking about you.

“There’s a sample sale at one of the designer stores this afternoon,” she lied.

Hunt glanced over his shoulder. Fuck, his eyes were dark. “Is that so?”

Was that a purr in his voice?

She couldn’t help the step she took back, bumping into the kitchen island. “Yes,” she said, unable to look away.

Hunt’s eyes darkened further. He said nothing.

She couldn’t breathe properly with that stare fixed on her. That stare that told her he scented everything going on in her body.

Her nipples pebbled under that stare.

Hunt went preternaturally still. His eyes dipped downward. Saw her breasts. The thighs she now clamped together—as if it’d stop the throbbing beginning to torture her between them.

His face went positively feral. A mountain cat ready to pounce. “I didn’t know clothing sales got you so hot and bothered, Quinlan.”

She nearly whimpered. Forced herself to keep still. “It’s the little things in life, Athalar.”

“Is that what you think about when you open up that left nightstand? Clothing sales?” He faced her fully now. She didn’t dare let her gaze drop.

“Yes,” she breathed. “All those clothes, all over my body.” She had no idea what the fuck was coming out of her mouth.

How was it possible all the air in the apartment, the city, had been sucked out?

“Maybe you should buy some new underwear,” he murmured, nodding to her bare legs. “Seems like you’re out.”

She couldn’t stop it—the image that blazed over her senses: Hunt putting those big hands on her waist and hoisting her onto the counter currently pressing into her spine, shoving her T-shirt over her midriff—his T-shirt, actually—and spreading her legs wide. Fucking her with his tongue, then his cock, until she was sobbing in pleasure, screaming with it, she didn’t care just so long as he was touching her, inside her—

“Quinlan.” He seemed to be shaking now. As if only a tether of pure will kept him in place. As if he’d seen the same burning image and was just waiting for her nod.

It’d complicate everything. The investigation, whatever he felt for Shahar, her own life—

To fucking Hel with all that. They’d figure it out later. They’d—

Burning smoke filled the air between them. Gross, nose-stinging smoke.

“Fuck,” Hunt hissed, whirling to the stove and the eggs he’d left on the burner.

As if a witch spell had snapped, Bryce blinked, the dizzying heat
vanishing. Oh gods. His emotions had to be all over the place after last night, and hers were a mess on a good day, and—

“I have to get dressed for work,” she managed to say, and hurried toward her bedroom before he could turn from the burning breakfast.

She’d lost her mind, she told herself in the shower, in the bathroom, on the too-quiet walk to work with Syrinx, Hunt trailing overhead. Keeping his distance. As if he realized the same thing.

Let someone in, give them the power to hurt you, and they’d do exactly that, in the end.

She couldn’t do it. Endure it.

Bryce had resigned herself to that fact by the time she reached the gallery. A glance upward showed Hunt making his descent as Syrinx yipped happily, and the thought of a day in an enclosed space with him, with only Lehabah as a buffer …

Thank fucking Urd, her phone rang as she opened the gallery door. But it wasn’t Ruhn calling to check in, and it wasn’t Juniper with an earful about missing the dance class. “Jesiba.”

The sorceress didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Get the back door open. Now.”

“Oh, it’s horrible, BB,” Lehabah whispered in the dimness of the library. “Just horrible.”

Staring up at the massive, dimly lit tank, Bryce felt her arm hair stand on end as she watched their new addition explore its environment. Hunt crossed his arms and peered into the gloom. Any thoughts of getting naked with him had vanished an hour ago.

A dark, scaled hand slapped against the thick glass, ivory claws scraping. Bryce swallowed. “I want to know where anyone even found a nøkk in these waters.” From what she’d heard, they existed only in the icy seas of the north, and mostly in Pangera.

“I preferred the kelpie,” Lehabah whispered, shrinking behind her little divan, her flame a quivering yellow.

As if it had heard them, the n
ø
kk paused before the glass and smiled.

At more than eight feet long, the n
ø
kk might have very well been the Helish twin to a mer male. But instead of humanoid features, the n
ø
kk presented a jutting lower jaw with a too-wide, lipless mouth, full of needle-thin teeth. Its overlarge eyes were milky, like some of the fishes of the deep. Its tail was mostly translucent—bony and sharp—and above it, a warped, muscled torso rose.

No hair covered its chest or head, and its four-fingered hands ended in daggerlike claws.

With the tank spanning the entire length of one side of the library, there would be no escaping its presence, unless the n
ø
kk went down to the cluster of dark rocks at the bottom. The creature dragged those claws over the glass again. The inked
SPQM
gleamed stark white on his greenish-gray wrist.

Bryce lifted her phone to her ear. Jesiba picked up on the first ring. “Yes?”

“We have a problem.”

“With the Korsaki contract?” Jesiba’s voice was low, as if she didn’t want to be overheard.

“No.” Bryce scowled at the n
ø
kk. “The creep in the aquarium needs to go.”

“I’m in a meeting.”

“Lehabah is scared as Hel.”

Air was lethal to n
ø
kks—if one was exposed for more than a few seconds, its vital organs would begin shutting down, its skin peeling away as if burned. But Bryce had still gone up the small stairwell to the right of the tank to ensure that the feeding hatch built into the grate atop the water was thoroughly locked. The hatch itself was a square platform that could be raised and lowered into the water, operated by a panel of controls in the rear of the space atop the tank, and Bryce had triple-checked that the machine was completely turned off.

When she’d returned to the library, she’d found Lehabah curled into a ball behind a book, the sprite’s flame a sputtering yellow.

Lehabah whispered from her couch, “He’s a hateful, horrible creature.”

Bryce shushed her. “Can’t you gift him to some macho loser in Pangera?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“But he’s—”

The line went dead. Bryce slumped into her seat at the table. “Now she’ll just keep him forever,” she told the sprite.

“What are you going to feed it?” Hunt asked as the n
ø
kk again tested the glass wall, feeling with those terrible hands.

“It loves humans,” Lehabah whispered. “They drag swimmers under the surface of ponds and lakes and drown them, then slowly feast on their corpses over days and days—”

“Beef,” Bryce said, her stomach turning as she glanced at the small door to access the stairwell to the top of the tank. “He’ll get a few steaks a day.”

Lehabah cowered. “Can’t we put up a curtain?”

“Jesiba will just rip it down.”

Hunt offered, “I could pile some books on this table—block your view of him instead.”

“He’ll still know where I am, though.” Lehabah pouted at Bryce. “I can’t sleep with it in here.”

Bryce sighed. “What if you just pretend he’s an enchanted prince or something?”

The sprite pointed toward the tank. To the n
ø
kk hovering in the water, tail thrashing. Smiling at them. “A prince from Hel.”

“Who would want a n
ø
kk for a pet?” Hunt asked, sprawling himself across from Bryce at the desk.