Chapter 1
Morgan
Sweat clings to my skin, pooling in my lower back. My hands are slippery, encased in the heavy, padded gloves.
“Two minutes,” Clinton commands, starting his stopwatch. “Now.”
With arms that feel like lead, I pummel the sandbag, hardly making it sway. I’m not weak; I’m just exhausted. I wake at dawn for three hours of nonstop writing to fulfill the obligation of my acceptance into the University arts program. But once that’s complete I move on to the rest of my required lessons.
Two hours of physical training every other day. Two in ancient history. The same divided between art, chemistry, and divination. Evenings, after our mandatory dinner, I mostly spend alone. I’ve noticed the guys tend to slip off—sometimes leaving the building. No one has extended an invitation for me to join them.
“Faster!” Clinton shouts.
I glance at him in the mirror. Just seeing him ignites a spark of energy that fuels my movements. Clinton is not just good-looking—he’s hot. He’s a huge man with muscles on top of muscles. His abs are more nine-pack than six, and I’m pretty sure his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. I swipe at the bag, getting in a hard jab, eyes focused on the dark hair that grazes his shoulders. With each punch I pretend I’m trying to get my hands in his hair, which is one step closer to getting his mouth against mine.
The Goddess’ power flares deep within.
His eyes watch my every move. He assesses my form, speed, and skill. Tomorrow we’ll work with blades. The next day, hand-to-hand combat. His job is to help me become strong enough to fight the Darkness. Because it’s not about if it will come, it’s about when it will come. And I need to be ready to fight it off, unlike last time.
“Focus, Morgan,” he says. But the energy wanes and my muscles scream. My biceps feel like Jell-O, barely able to make contact. Clinton steps behind me, easing his arms next to mine. He takes over, guiding each punch, landing them with more power than I’ve ever mustered.
The stopwatch beeps and he cradles my arms in his.
“Time,” he whispers huskily in my ear. Goosebumps ripple across my hot skin. Even though I’m burning up, a shiver rolls down my spine and I push my body against his.
“How was that?” I ask, knowing the physical part of the training is over. Well, maybe not all of the physical. We’re just not going to need the punching bag any longer.
“You’ve improved.” He holds up the watch and the number blinks.
02:15
“Wait,” I snatch it from him. “I did an extra fifteen seconds?”
“Yes, you did. You’re stronger than you think.”
I spin, pressing my palms against his chest. It’s impossible to think of my own strength when faced with his. I run my hands down the soft cotton of his shirt, feeing the hard muscle beneath.
Clinton is so tall that when we stand like this, face to face, he rests his hands just under my ass and lifts me up until I wrap my legs around his waist. He does that now, amplifying the tingling shiver in my spine. The only thing I can think of is his mouth and--from the way he looks at me, like a hungry wolf--he’s thinking the same. I get a tickle of anticipation and lick my lips.
“I think I deserve a reward for a workout like that.”
“Do you now?” he replies gruffly. But I feel his hardness against my lower body.
“Hmmhmm.”
A wicked grin appears on his mouth. “I’m not one to deny my queen.”
Queen. It’s weird. So, so weird.
He tightens his grip and tosses me onto the thick, padded, training mat. I yelp as I fly through the air, but it’s out of excitement, not fear. Leaning back on my elbows, watching the hulking man stalk toward me, I inhale.
Okay, there’s maybe a little fear.
The kind where I’m terrified I’ll break my own rules. Cross the barriers I’ve firmly established between me and my potential mates.
Clinton crawls over me and I wrap my hands around his massive biceps, reveling in his size. He’s the strongest of my guardians—the ancient shape-shifters that followed my spirit through the millennia. When his lips finally meet mine I feel a surge of mystical power—our connection—and I move my hand to the back of his neck, tugging on his hair. His hand travels down my body, grazing my bare stomach, and ghosting over the heat of my core. I steal his breath, absorb his strength, and whine when we part.
The stopwatch, lying a few feet away, beeps.
“My time is up, sweetheart,” he says, grimacing as though he’s in pain. One look between his legs and I understand his struggle.
I grab him by the shirt and tug him back down. His eyebrow lifts. “Just one more minute. Bunny won’t mind.”
He laughs, shaking his head, because we both know that even if Bunny cared he wouldn’t say a word. He’s the sweetest of the group. Despite this, Clinton kisses me long and slow, dragging it out until I feel it in the soles of my feet. When we separate I lean back on the mat and rake his hair over his ear. “I guess there’s a reason for the time limit,” I say. “Another five minutes and the choice would have been made for me.”
Clinton helps me off the ground, plucking me with ease, like a flower from the grass. “Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, Morgan.”
“I know, I know.”
No, I don’t get the luxury of letting the boys fight it out over me and letting the best man win. No. It has to be the right one. The one. And I have to make the decision.
I’m on a quest for my mate and the clock is ticking.