Sigrid unlocked her front door and flipped lights on as she wandered through her house. The three-story, brick Victorian was hell to maintain, but its size and cozy rooms were perfect for her needs. Here, her family could visit whenever they wished, stay as long as they liked, and never interfere with her privacy.

She trailed a hand over the antique Chippendale settee in her office, then settled into the sleek, ergonomically designed chair behind her desk and booted up her laptop. That hadn’t always been the case. The first two centuries of her life had been rough. She’d lived hand to mouth, hired her sword arm to foreign princes and the occasional queen, took work whenever she could find it, and otherwise did whatever she had to do to survive. It was a typical life for an immortal Daughter, even now in the luxurious golden age of affordable technology and easy access to work.

A few well-placed taps on the keyboard and the tax assessor’s website popped up in the browser. Sigrid input the address for The Omega and waited patiently for the results. If Moira had told her the young barkeep’s identity, it wouldn’t be necessary to snoop on his parents, the most likely owners of the tavern he worked in. Stubborn Irish was getting a little big for her breeches.

The search netted one entry. Sigrid clicked into it and frowned. The owner was listed as Wilhelmina Corbin, and Sigrid knew of only one Daughter with that given name. Wilhelmina the Fierce was a child of Anya Bloodletter, a member of the Council of Seven representing the line of Abragni, the youngest of the Seven Sisters.

Sigrid relaxed into her chair and drummed her fingertips on the top of her desk. Anya was younger than her by sixteen years. They’d joined forces often in the first few heady decades of their lives, battling marauding armies, reaping precious bounty, sharing the spoils of their labor.

Men being the primary spoil.

Assuming the barkeep was Wilhelmina’s son and, by extension, Anya’s grandson, he would be under the protection of women who knew Sigrid by personal acquaintance rather than rumor. Anya would protest a dalliance on that knowledge alone. A permanent alliance in the form of a concubinage or marriage would be welcomed by the councilmember, given their longstanding friendship, but Sigrid was far from wanting one, even as tempting a figure as the barkeep cut.

But that kiss.

She touched her fingertips to her mouth and smiled at the memory of his caress. Masterful, patient, delicious. Would he offer her another at their next encounter, or would she be forced to maneuver him into one?

Unwelcome memory surfaced. Moira had said the barkeep had his eye on a woman. If so, what was he doing kissing her instead of pursuing this other female? Would his interest in another forestall his involvement with Sigrid?

She swiveled her chair around and pushed out of it. What did it matter? She could claim him on the kiss alone, by dint of the People’s long-standing traditions concerning the management of male progeny. Whether she wanted to or not was another matter entirely.

Now that she knew his probable family, she could discover his name through the People’s extensive genealogies, currently maintained by Robert Upton, the husband of another battle-hardened acquaintance, Rebecca the Blade, one of Anya’s nieces. Until then, Sigrid could bide her time. Patience was a warrior’s companion, determination her abiding strength. The barkeep would be in her grasp sooner or later, and when he was, perhaps he could be coaxed into sharing more than a simple kiss or two.

 

 

Will woke up with an aching hard-on and the memory of Sigrid’s kiss lingering on his mouth.

He cursed under his breath and buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the painful throb of his dick pressed into the mattress. Sleep had eluded him while his mind flirted with tasting her again, touching her, her fingers gliding around his shoulders as she studied him.

Friggin’ Daughters and their friggin’ games. Maybe he would’ve been ok if she hadn’t put her hands on him. Maybe then he could forget her the way he ought to and start moving on with his life.

He shoved Sigrid out of his mind and threw the covers back. The air in his apartment chilled his heated skin, doing not a damn thing to ease his hard-on. He padded into the bathroom, brushed his teeth while he waited for it to wilt. Remembered the smooth stroke of Sigrid’s fingers on his shoulders and cursed the blood surging into his groin.

Two years he’d been playing this game. He spat toothpaste out, rinsed his mouth, patted it dry, and avoided the grumpy stare of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Futile to keep hoping. Hadn’t he decided that on Friday? Futile to dream, futile to want, and yet there it was, a grinding need built deep into his bones.

It was the quickest he’d ever broken a resolution before and it didn’t sit well with him. A Son should have more discipline than that, especially where women were concerned, and most especially when a Daughter entered the picture.

A sharp rap on his front door interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. He heaved a sigh, snagged a pair of shorts on his way through the bedroom, and loped into the living room.

A lightly accented feminine voice called, “Will?” and he froze where he stood, half into his living room, naked as the day he was born with a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts hanging from one hand.

Sigrid.

Questions swirled through his mind, eddying into a torrent of anticipation and curiosity. What was she doing at his apartment? How had she even found him? Why had she bothered after ignoring him for so long?

Only one way to find out.

He shimmied into his shorts and jogged to the door, swung it open before remembering the hard-on he still sported and the fact that he hadn’t washed his face, combed his hair, or put on deodorant.

His first look at her drained every other concern out of his mind. She was a cool breath of fresh air dressed in a slim, ivory skirt and a tailored navy button down under an ivory colored wool coat. Her toned legs ended in heels the same color as her shirt, putting her on eye level with him. He slouched against the doorframe and looked his fill, reveling in the light musk of her perfume, the filtered sunlight glinting off her golden braid, the perfectly arched eyebrow she aimed at him.

“Will Corbin?”

“Yeah.” And just to be contrary, he crossed his arms over his chest and let the cold, winter air wash over him, raising goose bumps on his skin. She was there, sure. Didn’t mean he had to let her in, though he’d be a fool not to, if only to satisfy his curiosity. “What can I do for you?”

She waggled the small paper bag she held in her gloved hand. “DNA sample. Everyone needs to be tested.”

He shrugged. “And?”

“You haven’t been.”

Which he by golly already knew. He’d received a kit in the mail weeks ago and tossed it on his kitchen counter with a pile of other junk mail, where it rested still. And damn it all, he should’ve already gotten around to taking care of that. Duty demanded it of him, to his family, to his People, to the need they had to preserve their heritage and keep themselves safe from an ever dangerous world.

On the other hand, if he’d sent the sample back already, he might not’ve ever had the pleasure of standing across from the woman of his dreams while wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts.

“Simpler to mail a reminder,” he said.

“Simpler, yes. Not as rewarding as a personal visit.” Her icy eyes flicked down his body and back up again, and a small smile tilted her luscious mouth. She nodded toward the interior of his apartment, a regal tilt of her head. “May I?”

Oh, yeah, she could. He stepped back, welcomed the brush of her coat against his bare, chilled skin, shut the door behind her. She sauntered into the room, cool demeanor firmly in place, every inch a war-hardened Daughter as she surveyed his living room. Cushy leather sofa set squarely in the middle of the floor next to a glass-topped coffee table, the row of bookshelves against the far wall, the entertainment center housing his TV, the movies and games stacked untidily around it.

The fine layer of dust, the empty beer bottle he’d neglected to recycle last night, and his gym shoes and socks thrown on the floor, exactly where he’d left them.

He scowled at them. Good thing his mother was out of the country. She’d skin him for inviting a woman into his apartment when it wasn’t picture perfect.

But hey, at least the original landscapes dotted along the eggshell colored walls were straight. The dust on their frames was hardly noticeable from where they stood.

Sigrid turned in a slow half circle and stopped, facing him. “Very nice.”

He nearly heaved a sigh of relief. Great. She hadn’t noticed the dust. “It’s home. Can I get you something? A coke or some water?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She handed him the paper bag, stripped off her gloves, and shrugged out of her jacket, patiently exchanged her outerwear for the bag, and waited for him to hang the jacket on the hook by the door. “This won’t take long. Do you have plans for lunch?”

He paused with his hands on the sleeves of her coat, in the middle of smoothing them out. “Ah, no. Why?”

“You do now. Sit.”

“Wait.”

He scrubbed a hand over his hair, mussing it as he rewound the conversation through his befuddled mind. Sigrid knocking on the door, his hard-on still hard, DNA kit and polite niceties, the whiff of her perfume teasing him where it lingered in the air. Nothing about a meal. Hunh. Maybe he’d missed something.

“What plans do I have again?” he asked.

“Lunch. Unless you prefer an evening date.”

“I have to work,” he murmured. “Are you asking me out?”

Her mouth quirked up at one corner. The half smile softened her icy beauty. “I’m not asking. Sit, Will. I’m expected at work soon.”

She wasn’t asking.

A tiny thrill pulsed through him. She wasn’t asking for a date. She was telling him what she expected him to do, as if she had any right to control his actions. He inhaled a shaky breath and walked to the couch on legs that weren’t quite steady. Sank into the plush leather, tried to reel in the hope poking through two years of rejection, and failed.

Who was he kidding? It was a dream come true. He’d be a fool not to grab hold of her interest while it lasted and enjoy every single moment he could before she discarded him and sent him on his merry way.

She pulled medical gloves out of the bag and snapped them into place on her slim hands. “Have you a preference among the local restaurants?”

He shook his head, too stunned to respond around his hammering heart and the heat coursing through his blood.

“What time does your shift start tonight?” she asked.

“Two.” He shook his head again, attempting clarity, and was unsurprised when it eluded him. “I have to be on the floor by three, but I usually go in an hour or two early to deal with paperwork.”

“An early lunch then. Franklin?”

“Yeah,” he said, and grinned. This was really happening. Sigrid really wanted to go out with him. Hot damn and hallelujah. Sometimes the Great Mother did answer prayers. “There’s this place on the Highlands Road. Makes great pizza.”

“Pizza it is.” She pulled the kit out of the bag, dug into it, extracted a cotton swab sealed in paper, and ripped it open. “Open wide. A good scraping ensures we won’t have to do this again.”

He obliged, opening his mouth and waiting patiently as she positioned herself between his widespread knees, leaned forward, and rubbed the swab along the inside of his cheek. He fixed his gaze on her face and not on the hint of cleavage peeking through the drape of her shirt. Her scent washed over him, just as tempting as the view, and he closed his eyes, willing his body to behave.

She stepped away, snapped her gloves off, then brushed cool fingers along his jaw. “Look at me, Will.”

His eyes flew open and met the brilliant blue of hers. She was close, so close her light breaths feathered along his mouth and the end of her long braid tickled his chest. For a moment, he thought she might close the distance between them and kiss him, and his heart leapt into his throat, hoping against hope for another kiss, another touch, anything to sustain him until he could see her again.

At lunch. On a date. Just him and her.

She scratched her fingernails gently along his jaw and stood. “Meet me at my office at eleven.”

“Yeah. Ah.” He cleared the thick gravel coating his throat and tried again. “I’ll be there at eleven sharp.”

“Good.” Her luscious mouth tilted into a full smile, sparking humor in her eyes. “Be ready for my full attention.”

He stifled a groan, but just barely. Her full attention? Holy cow. What was she trying to do, make him cum right then and there? She might as well have stroked her hand over his dick; her words hit him that hard.

She gathered the kit together and strode toward her coat hung near the entrance. “Don’t get up. It would be a shame not to enjoy your arousal while it’s fresh.”

Rampant need shot through him, shoving him close to an orgasm. Sweet Mother. Sigrid was deliberately stirring him up. And that’s what he got for letting her in the door while wearing a thin pair of gym shorts over his morning hard-on.

He clapped his hands over his face and ignored the soft sounds of her shrugging her coat on and leaving. Oh, he was in for it now, and he had no one but himself to blame. That kiss. Two years of wanting her, of biding his time trying to catch her eye, and a hotheaded, impulsive kiss was what she noticed.

Maybe he should’ve tried that sooner.

He snorted out a laugh and, resigned, eased the elastic waistband of his shorts down over his throbbing erection and stroked a firm fist along its length. Pleasure shuddered through him, rolling along in a steady grind under the lingering musk of her perfume tickling his nose and the remembered feel of her skin on his, and he lost himself in the possibilities she’d opened when she’d stepped through his front door.