Obsidian Flame (Guardians of Ascension #5)

Obsidian Flame (Guardians of Ascension #5) Page 23

But Arthur simply shifted sideways and caught the sword by the grip as though he’d been doing it all his life. Yep, an inch away from being all grown up.

Thorne moved in a blur toward the house and onto the porch. Once inside, he found Marguerite unconscious, on the floor. A very tall woman with shoulder-length black hair and a web tattoo on her neck had her hand on Marguerite’s arm, but his woman’s body twitched and spasmed. She was naked from the waist up.

He thought he understood the problem, or at least one of them.

“Don’t touch her,” he barked, his gravel voice acting like fire to two pairs of hands. The women jerked back, rose to their feet, and moved to stand together by the window.

“What happened here?”

The tall woman said, “She was really upset about something that happened earlier and couldn’t seem to breathe. We’re both Seers, Jane and I, and all the Seers in the colony take care of one another as a community. We sent her what we thought was hands-on healing assistance and it did seem to calm her. Sort of. I think her wings were ready to mount, which might have been a problem in this small space. But in the end she passed out. We thought we could bring her around but nothing we’ve done has helped.”

He pulled her onto his lap. Her back was wet, which meant the apertures of her wing-locks had been weeping, readying for a mount. Why the hell had she been about to release her wings?

She was out, completely unconscious, a limp doll in his arms. “Did she see something in the future streams?”

“No, we don’t think so. The situation didn’t have the flavor of a vision.” She drew a deep breath. “We honestly don’t know what happened except that she seemed to be very intent … on you.”

Okay, he didn’t quite know what to make of that, but he asked, “Did you have your hands on her the entire time?”

She nodded.

He looked back at Marguerite, sliding his fingers through her hair. Her forehead was damp. He knew what her life had been. “She doesn’t like to be touched.”

“What?”

He looked up at the woman, his lips tight. “Marguerite doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Oh … I see.” The tattoo lady frowned. The women looked at each other as though trying to make sense of this or maybe communicating telepathically.

“We’ll leave you, Warrior Thorne, unless there’s something more we can do.”

“No. And … and thank you for preventing the wing-mount but I’ll take it from here.”

They left, silent, concerned.

When he was alone with her, he rocked her gently, his gaze still on her face. Her complexion was very pale, almost as white as her hair.

How could they understand? He wasn’t even certain he could make sense of all that she had suffered. That she’d been physically beaten in the name of religion was a big part of the problem. How does the mind reconcile love and that kind of violence?

After about a minute, as he stroked her cheek with his finger and just held and rocked her, she began to stir.

She sat up still in his arms, a hand planted on his damp chest. Sword instruction was sweaty work.

“Did you have another vision?”

She shook her head. “No.” She tugged at the few fine hairs between his pecs. “You aren’t wearing a shirt.”

“I was showing Arthur a few things. So you didn’t have a vision?”

She shook her head. “No, I … shit, I must have fainted.”

He chuckled, relieved. “Okay, why did you faint? What the hell happened in here and who were they?”

“A pair of Seers who live here in the colony. They touched me, put their hands on me.” She pushed away from him and struggled to her feet. He joined her and because she was barefoot, he towered over her.

She stared up at him and scowled. “I have to get out of here, Thorne. Now. This is the wrong place for me.” She rubbed her arms like she was cold.

The movement jiggled her chest, which caused his gaze to fall straight to her breasts. And like any normal male, he lost sight of the subject at hand. His woman had beautiful breasts, full, weighted at the bottom, with large areolas. The nipples were peaked in the cool air. Before he could prevent it, a soft growl rumbled in his throat.

She rolled her eyes and folded her robe on, covering up all that beauty that suddenly had his cock doing gymnastics.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going back to the Holiday Inn.” She lifted her right arm, a sure signal she intended to dematerialize.

But before a nanosecond had passed, he blurred to her and grabbed both arms. “Not without me, babe.”

“Don’t you dare ‘babe’ me.” But her shoulders eased down and she lowered her arm.

“Please don’t leave, Marguerite. I’m begging you for at least that much. I know this situation sucks, but you feel it, too, don’t you, that we need to be here? Tell me that you feel it. That somehow fate has brought us here, together, to a place that has been hidden for almost three thousand years.”

She glanced up at him. She opened her mouth then closed it as though there was something she needed to say to him. Something was going on. “Spill it,” he said.

She met his gaze straight-on but her hands were planted on her hips. “All right, I’ll stay. I have to stay because of the visions, but I will have my own life.” Her cheeks worked. “I’m going out with the girls tonight. We’re meeting at a club for drinks.”

He frowned. Seemed harmless enough but she still looked so damn belligerent, not a good sign. “Okay,” he said, knowing full well there was a second shoe in her other hand.

“Apparently, there’s entertainment.” The slight lift of her chin also did not bode well.

“What kind of entertainment?”

The shoe fell. “Dancers.”

He lifted his brows. “Male dancers?”

She nodded. She also stared at him, hard, one big challenge in those large brown eyes of hers. His wing-locks swelled and he felt sudden moisture on his back. His breathing hitched up, high in his chest. He stepped toward her, his feet moving before he’d made the mental command.

“Cherry tobacco,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

He took her arms and held her. He looked down into her face. His woman was going to a place where she would be staring at other men’s naked bodies, lusting after them.

He wanted to tell her not to go, but his mind had started flashing again with red strobes.

She blinked. Her eyes dilated. Fear, maybe? Desire? He wasn’t sure he cared which it was, but as his nostrils flared, he caught her rose scent and it thickened in the air.

Thorne? she sent.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t certain he could. He had seen a small yard out back, a stretch of rough lawn, a picnic table. At this point, he didn’t have much of a choice. This time, his wings were on the edge of mounting and just like Marguerite, if he mounted them inside the cabin he’d do some serious damage.

With his hands on hers, he folded her to the backyard.

She protested, but he still didn’t care.

He glanced around. It was a private yard except for Diallo’s large house on the massive outcropping of rock. Some of his windows faced this direction. Maybe they’d be seen. Maybe not.

Again, he didn’t care.

The rational part of his mind seemed to be slipping away in quick stages.

He dragged her to the picnic table and flipped her onto her stomach so that she hung off the ground, her bare feet just touching the ground.

“You can’t do this,” she cried.

But he smelled a rush of rose so strong that he threw a quick dome of mist over the yard and released a sudden cry because his wings flew through his wing-locks. Releasing wings was always pleasurable, an intense rush, a release of endorphins, and very sexual. He roared, his chest aimed at the sky. He beat his wings in strong thrusts as he held on to the table. He kept her pinned with the strength of his thighs.

He folded off his kilt.

“Your wings,” she whispered, her voice low and rough. “So beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything. He just rubbed his erection down the slick line of her leather-covered ass.

“Get my pants off.”

He rubbed her back. His wings wafted and because they were so big, a breeze flowed.

“Oh, your scent. It’s grabbing me low. Thorne.” She sounded in agony. Good. About damn time.

She was pressed against the picnic table. He put his hand on her ass and folded off her pants. He stroked her ass, running a finger deep, then he pushed her legs apart. Her hips were already rocking into the table.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Oh, God, just fuck me.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and folded off her robe. Her back was a mess. Her wing-locks were swollen and weeping. She wasn’t far away from a mount herself, but he knew of one sure way to keep the wings from releasing.

He leaned over and began to suck. He started at the upper left wing-lock and gorged on the moisture that wept from the aperture. The taste of roses flowed down his throat and kept him stiff.

She cried out over and over beneath his mouth. She moved her hips wildly, trying to get a connection that would give her some relief. But he was pissed that she would even think about going to a male strip club and he knew exactly how to punish her. He kept her orgasm just off shore. In the meantime, his hips rocked and he teased her with his cock sliding along the insides of her legs.

“Please, Thorne. Please.”

Forget it, sweetheart. Sounds like you’ll be getting your kicks tonight. I don’t think you deserve my cock. What do you think?

She tasted so good. He sucked harder on the next wing-lock. Her back arched. She tried to slide her hand under her hip, to give herself some relief, but like hell he would allow that. He grabbed her wrist and held her tight.

Please, Thorne, I’m begging you.

He released her suddenly and backed away, his wings shimmying with the tension in his body. He held his cock in his hand and stroked himself, moving to the side to let her see.