Rise of the Lost Prince (11 page)

“Knew what?”

“You were real. My very own
angel.”

Listening to her heart beat slow,
he placed his chin on top of her head and breathed her in, his arms banded
around her, holding her tight. “I’m not an angel. Far from it in fact.”

Her left palm, which was still
latched onto the back of his neck, moved—her fingers twining into his hair.
“You’re my angel, Petúr.”

They sat in silence for a long
moment, listening to the sea gulls squawk below them, and floated, encased
within the clouds.

“Petúr?”

“Hmm?”

Wyndi pulled back from him
slightly and stared into his eyes. “Will you kiss me?”

Softly, he placed his mouth to
hers. He delighted in the feel of her lips against his, tongue slipping into
her mouth, twirling over and around hers, tasting, taking her breaths and those
small mews of pleasure she made, claiming them as his own.

****

Kros stalked the confines of his
underground sleeping chamber, hearing what could only be described as
blood-curdling screams echo off the cavern walls. Atalos, and some of the
others, were feeding again.
Fucktards.
Of course, he hadn’t been invited to partake.

Snarling, he picked up a knife
from the bedside table, tossing it in the air, watching it flip blade over
hilt, silver glinting in the candle light, catching the weapon by the blade,
feeling pleasure in the slice of his flesh.

“Yesss,” he hissed and curled his
fingers tight, watching his blood drip, drip, drip from his hand and trickle
over his fingertips in rivulets of red.

Toss. Catch. Squeeze. Toss.
Catch. Squeeze.

With every slice his rage
increased. “I loathe all of you!’ he shouted, knowing the screams of the humans
would drown out his own.

With every slice, pleasure/pain
thrummed through him—a gale force. He groaned, his cock rising to the occasion.
He could use his mutilated hand and the slick glide of his own blood, giving
himself a quick release by tossing off, but…. He shook his head, the tips of
his silver-white hair swishing along his collarbone. His depravity could wait,
focusing instead on his seething anger. Anger he wished to bring to the surface
and unleash on every being in the under-verse of shadow.

An evil grin started at the
corners of his mouth. If he did unleash his fury, it would be an epic bloodbath
the likes of which no one had ever seen. Not only did he hate his father, he
despised being the only darkling who was truly his father’s son. Unlike the
rest, Kros had been born into the world of Fae, torn from his mother’s bosom as
a babe, and transformed against his will into the darkness by the bastard’s
warped magic. And what did he gain in the process? Nothing he wanted. Not to mention
he was detested by all Grappling’s half-breed offspring with Narvon.

“Narvon.” He spat the word. He
was glad Narvon was no more, choosing the ultimate death by flinging herself
into the fiery pits of hell, and unless Ariette offered up another suitable
breeder, there would be no more newborn darklings to join the too large group
already making his life miserable.

No
more darklings.
Kros smiled wickedly at that thought, and stomped to the book of shadow and
spells, his blood leaving a trail. He dropped his knife, listening to it
clatter on the rocky floor. Why he weakened on the surface of man, unlike his
father, and unlike the lost boys and Petúr, he didn’t know, however with any
luck deciphering the book he’d stolen from the demoness, he would soon find
out. And there was one thing he did know for sure. With knowledge, came power.

****

 
Running her palms down her hips, feeling the
smooth slide over her yoga pants, Wyndi made her way over to the Ferris wheel,
glad to at least be wearing something she did indeed own. After Petúr kissed
her almost senseless as they floated in the clouds, they made a trip to her
penthouse apartment, then to Bell’s little one room efficiency. They both had
enough clothing to last a couple of weeks away from home now.

Glancing up, she took in the fact
Petúr was perched atop the rundown ride, while twilight brushed the colors of pink,
orange, and molasses across the sky as his backdrop. It was hard to pull her
attention away from him, but she somehow found the will.

“What’s up?” she asked Dash, who
stood across from her a ways, over by Bell. Vibe quickly took up a position on
Bell’s other side. Her poor bartender looked so tiny standing between the two
hulking men.

“You’ll see,” was all Dash said.

Vapor strolled up beside her. Wyndi
supposed she was glad to see him strolling instead of rolling in like fog.
“Ready for this, sugar lips?”

Hand on her hip, she looked up at
him. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

He laughed.

Firefox took a spot on Wyndi’s
left flank and nodded at her. Then Tera and Byte, who were both wearing black
and white referee uniforms, came to stand in the middle of the group.
What is this, the line up for some bizarro
game of fairy dodge ball?
She almost broke a snort at the thought.

Petúr swooped down from his spot
overhead.
Sweet.
A tingle shot the
length of her spine watching him land in a crouch by Tera before standing. God.
He was impressive.

“We only have a few days until
tourist season officially begins,” Petúr said, hands at his sides, feet spread
apart in a battle stance. “Grapple and the darklings will be out in full force
when the townies roll into Oceanport.” He glanced over to Bell, then to Wyndi.
“You two need to know how to fight, and win against the darklings.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Wyndi
said, her voice hitting the octave of ain’t-no-way-in-Hades shrill.

 
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not.”

“But we’re not big, burly warrior
types.”

“You don’t need to be. You just
need to be fast, smart, and know how to take down a darkling.”

Wyndi looked from man to man,
then back at Petúr. They were all stone-face serious. “Let me guess. This,” she
said doing the whole Vanna White impression with her arm to encompass everyone.
“Is Down a Darkling 101?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah!” said Bell, completely
stoked, hopping from foot to foot, not unlike a boxer in a ring. “Let’s get
this party started.”

All the men, including Petúr
broke out into laughter.

“Way to be bloodthirsty, little
bit,” Vibe said, high fiving her.

Wyndi definitely wasn’t as
enthusiastic when Vapor put his arm around her shoulders and said, “Don’t
worry. I’ve got your back.”

Her gaze shot to Petúr when he…
growled?
Yes. He actually growled in a
teeth baring event.

“Vape!” he snapped. “Arm.”

She probably shouldn’t be so
thrilled about his possessiveness, but she was over the moon happy about it.

Grinning, Vapor removed his arm
from her, hands up. Mea culpa. “Just giving some encouragement, big guy. Settle
down.”

Wyndi wondered why most of the
men called Petúr ‘big guy.’ He was big, and totally imposing, but they were,
too.

“Now,” Petúr said, voice and
features smoothing out. “All of us have been fighting together as a unit for
years, and while we have learned what to expect from each other, and complement
each other in a tussle with the dark ones, each of us have different styles of
fighting.” His sharp gaze homed in on Wyndi. “I want you to watch and learn
from your team mates. You have ten minutes to absorb as much as you can, then
round one begins.”

“Wait. Hang on,” Wyndi said.
“Only ten minutes?”

“You have to be able to think on
your feet, learn from your opponents and adjust quickly. When you have
darklings coming at you, they won’t give you time to consider your options.
Understand?”

She nodded and tucked a piece of
hair behind her ear. “I guess.”

Petúr narrowed his gaze on
Firefox, then over to Vapor. “Don’t hold back.”

“Won’t,” said Vapor.

Fire flickered from the tips of
Firefox’s fingers. “You’re ass is ash, Vape.”

“Bring it, fire boy.” Vapor
conjured a ball of swirling water in the palm of his hand.

“Hey,” Wyndi said in a whiny
protest. “The human here doesn’t have any neat tricks to pull out of her hat.”

“Don’t need them, Wyndi,” said
Petúr. He crooked his fingers at her. “Come stand by me.”

“Okay,” she muttered, going over
to him, shoulders slumped.

“Pay attention to them,” he said.
“Watch their moves and counter moves.”

“I will.”

Petúr glanced over his right
shoulder. “You too, Bell. Keep your attention trained on Vapor and Firefox.”

“Got it,” she said.

****

Wyndi wanted to groan when she
stepped out of the cooling bath. Her muscles, and even muscles she didn’t even
know she possessed, were a little bit looser coming out of the water than going
in, nonetheless they still protested the movement.

She stretched her neck and rolled
her shoulders. She’d been knocked on her ass more times than she had fingers
and toes, and never made it remotely close to having a kill shot. On the other
hand, petite, sweet-looking Bell, with her long blonde ponytail and hot pink
form-fitting jogging suit, had her fake blade to the throat of more than one
opponent during the training session, teeth bared, snarling as she did.

 
Efficiently wrapping a towel around her, she
muttered, “Face it, Darlingheart. You suck at this warrior business.”

“You don’t suck.” She jumped,
catching a glimpse of her bathroom intruder standing not too far behind her in
the half fogged mirror. “You just need more practice.”

 
“Jeez! You scared the crap out of me, Petúr.”

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t
sound sorry at all. “I wanted to tuck you in for the night properly before I
head out on patrol.”

She spun around. “You’re leaving
me here?”

He bobbed his head. “I have to
go.”

“But—”

He stopped her protest when he
picked her up, sat her backside down on the cool marble countertop, stepped
between her legs, and kissed her.

As their tongues danced, heat
infused every inch of her skin.

“Wyndi,” he said, sounding on the
verge of breathless, his voice almost gravelly, kissing down the column of her
neck. She shivered. He sucked on her earlobe. Nuzzled his nose into the hollow
behind her ear. Licked. Sucked her flesh.

“Petúr. Oh….”

She couldn’t form any more
coherent words.

Tongue sliding lower, he sucked
once more, hard enough to leave a mark, she was sure. She didn’t care. Her
fingers tangled into his hair, the moment he twined his fingers into hers and
tugged her head back with restrained force, exposing her throat.

“I love how you taste,” he said,
licking the pulse of her. “And how you smell.” He kissed. Licked. Breathed her
in. A hunger started low in her quivering belly. “I need more.”

She managed to utter, “Yes.” She
too needed… “More. Please, more.”

Air hit her exposed skin, and she
was exposed, the towel wrenched away, and Petúr wasting no time, lapping,
laving, sucking at her pearled nipples, squeezing her breasts together, and
burrowing his nose within the cleavage. Her eyelids closed.

When the tip of his tongue dipped
into her navel, she jerked at the sensation, her hand and nails pressing into
the material covering his wide shoulder. She was mindless. Burning. On fire.
She licked her lips.

His big hands were on her hips,
scooting her forward. “Wyndi. Put your heels on the counter and spread your
thighs for me.”

Her eyelids fluttered open.
“Huh?”

His expression was ravenous. A
shudder racked her.

“Put your heels on the counter,”
he said.

She knew she was blushing, and
probably the color of fire truck red. She was naked. And….

“Please. Do it.”

She bit at the inside of her
cheek. She wanted to give him everything he desired.

Wyndi pushed back the
embarrassment and put her heels on the counter, knees bent up, slowly opening
her thighs, seeing the dark pupils in his eyes pulse and hearing his low,
hungry groan.

Had he ever seen anything so
mind-blowingly beautiful as this woman, completely bared to him, her tender
pink flesh glistening and spread for his pleasure? Petúr’s dick was so hard he
hurt, yet there was satisfaction in the ache.

“You’re perfect,” he said, going
to his knees to worship her.

“I—”

Her moan, when he placed his
tongue to her sex, spurred him on.

L-i-c-k…. One long swipe of his
tongue from opening to clit had him tasting sweet heaven. Her nectar was just
as delicious as her scent.