Chapter 2
Morgan
I wash the sweat and exhaustion off in the shower. The small tryst with Clinton recharged my weary muscles, and like each physical encounter with my guardians, I come away more balanced.
With a towel around my body I walk out of the bathroom and into the spacious bedroom. It’s all part of the suite given to me when I came here a month ago. I thought I’d won a prestigious writing scholarship. In truth, although I did win a coveted spot in the writing program at New York University, the housing grant was something different.
This house--or rather, this mansion--was called The Nead. Gaelic for The Nest. I’d come to live here with five skilled artisans. They each had an interest in their craft as well as a deep bond with me—something I didn’t know until I arrived and the secrets of the past were spilled.
I walk past the bed, where two open books lie. Homework from Dylan. He’s insistent that I read up on every reference to the Morrigan that exists. Why? I stare down at the illustration of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her eyes are dark with power, her lips full and red. There’s a crow perched on her shoulder and dead bodies at her feet. The Morrigan is a terrifying force that if betrayed will rain ruin down on the living.
I am the most recent incarnation of the Morrigan.
My guardians are doing everything they can to ensure I keep my power in check and find the chosen one out of the five. My mate will be the anchor to my soul. The tie that binds me to earth and keeps the Darkness lurking just outside our realm at bay. But, until I choose, my power has to be kept in check and the best way to do that is to let the guardians absorb my dark energy. The best way to do that? One sexy encounter at a time.
I’ve spent the last few weeks processing the strange situation. Some, like my friends back home, surely would think I’ve accepted it too easily. Who am I to just blindly accept that I’m an ancient goddess holding the fate of society in my hands? Maybe I should have laughed it off when Dylan told me the truth. Maybe I should have run like hell, considering that these men want me as nothing more than a sexual plaything.
But I knew instantly in my heart that the stories I’d been writing were true. That Maverick, the little girl in my book, isn’t a character I imagined. She’s a reinterpretation of myself.
Of my ravens.
When Dylan revealed my destiny he explained everything I’d been feeling since I was a child. The joy the birds brought me, the vision-like imagery for my book, the moments of anger and uncontrollable emotion. And the fact I knew, deep down, I was saving myself for someone special.
My phone chimes, letting me know I’m already late for my session with Bunny.
I grab my shoes and head out the door for another date with destiny.
*
“Sorry,” I say, entering Bunny’s attic studio. “I’m late. Totally my fault.”
He looks up from his low worktable, once wood but now just a thick pile of paint and goop. A cup with a stirring stick is in his good hand and his sweet smile nearly cracks my heart.
“It’s fine.”
I cross the room and stand next to him. The substance he’s mixing is gold and shimmery. I rest my hand on his shoulder and feel the instant heat between us. “It’s not. It’s important for me to keep my time with everyone equal.”
He nuzzles his face in my neck and I feel the ticklish prick of his spiky copper hair. “You took a shower after training and smell delicious. It was worth the wait.”
I wrap my arms around him. “You’re too good to me.”
With a light kiss to my neck he holds up the container and says, “Come on, I want to try something new today. Can you grab those brushes?”
Bunny lost the use of his left hand and arm when he was in the shape of a raven. I was there when it happened and it’s my biggest regret and most lingering guilt. I’d led an agent of the Darkness, in the form of a cat, deep into the forest. Bunny tried to stop us. The result was a terrible disfigurement, including limited use of his arm and hand. As a raven he could no longer fly, but as a human he miraculously still creates the most amazing pieces of art.
I pick up the slender cup holding a variety of brushes of all lengths and sizes. Bunny is already across the room where a table has been set up. A thick cloth covers the top.
“What’s this?”
“Today I’m going to paint you.” His eyes flash coppery-brown behind the dark frames of his glasses.
“Bun, you paint me every day.” I glance around the room at the dozens of massive canvases lining the walls, floor to ceiling. They each have the same theme. Me.
He smiles and moves closer. He smells like chalk and oil paint. A scent I’ve grown to love—almost crave.
“No, you don’t understand.” He rests his container on the table and runs his hand down my arm. “I’m going to paint you. Your body will be my canvas.”
This ignites a small fire in my belly. I’ve never been naked in front of Bunny before, even though he has a variety of paintings depicting me nude. Interestingly, they’re all incredibly accurate. The tiniest moles and birthmarks specifically detailed. I’m afraid to ask how he knows.
“We don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.” His eyes flash with worry.
“No,” I assure him. “I want to. I really do.”
The next moment is charged as Bunny turns to give me some privacy. I stop him and say, “You can watch,” because the barriers between us need to be broken and this is just one of them.
Bunny freezes in his spot, Adam’s apple bobbing as I reach for the button on my shorts. I shimmy them over my hips and push them aside with my foot. Reaching for the hem of my shirt, I quickly pull it over my head. Bunny’s right hand clenches into a fist at the sight of me in nothing but my pink lace bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes roaming over every inch of my body. He starts at my red painted toes and travels up my legs. He licks his lips, eyes skimming over my belly button. I reach for the clasp at the back of my bra when he blinks. “Wait.”
I frown. “What?”
“Can I do it?”
I nod, wanting nothing more than to feel his touch as he undresses me. The spark of energy flares between us. Like the others, Bunny is an extraordinarily handsome and unique man. He’s much smaller than Clinton and Dylan. They’re ridiculously large, tall and broad-shouldered. Bunny is thin but solid. A wisp of air but he carries the same intensity and power as the others. I wouldn’t want to see him angry.
In my adolescent memories Bunny holds a special place. Not just because of the injury but from before when he would hop around the ground, following me everywhere. That’s how he got the name Bunny. I gave it to him.
His artist’s fingers are long and agile. His movements are precise. He doesn’t need brawn, he has skill, and even one-handed he removes my bra with a quick flick of the wrist.
The strip of fabric drops to the floor. I feel his breath on my belly when he hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties. They fall in the pile and in less than two minutes I’m bare in front of him. I wrap an arm around my waist nervously.
“Can you take off your necklace?” he gestures to his arm.
“I thought I was supposed to wear it and the ring all the time.” Damien forged the ring from precious metals to provide protection.
“Just for a bit—it will be fine.”
I remove the necklace. Then the ring comes off, placing them in a small dish on his worktable.
With a dry paintbrush he presses the tip in the hollow of my throat and drags it down between my breasts, stopping only when it tickles the sensitive spot below my navel.
My nipples harden from the sensation and Bunny’s pupils constrict in reaction.
“I think you should get on the table,” he says quietly. I nod, keeping my eyes away from the bulge in his pants. As gracefully as I can, I hoist myself up on the surface, and following Bunny’s instructions I lay flat on my back. I’m thankful there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces, but at the same time, ever since I committed myself to this endeavor—searching for a mate—I’ve lost a fair amount of modesty. Mostly it comes from the constant hunger. The intense desire that courses through my body all the time. I know it’s the Darkness calling and the only salve is to dull the ache with the guardians.
No, there’s no time for embarrassment.
I stare at the ceiling as Bunny preps his supplies wondering what he thinks about me like this. He’s so quiet and shy. With the others, they let me take the lead, although I get the feeling I’m pushing their self-control to the edge. Choosing a mate must be my decision and they’re all willing to let me take charge, although they are active and engaged participants. But Bunny? I’ve never felt his hand or fingers on me like I have with the others. I haven’t tasted his skin other than a few lingering kisses. Because of this, I think of him all the time. Curiosity may get the best of me.
He suddenly appears, blocking the high ceiling. He smiles and says, “This may feel a little cold at first but as it reacts to your body it will warm up.”
“Is it paint?”
“Sort of,” he pushes his glasses up his nose. “I mixed a base acrylic paint with a compound that Damien created.” Damien works with precious metals and jewels. “I thought maybe we could bring about a heightened experience.”
I tilt my head. “How so?”
“I’m hoping we can ground you to earth and strengthen the gate between you and the Darkness. Maybe open a conduit to your decision-making process, so you know,” he swallows, “you can make a choice between us sooner.”
“It’s worth a shot.” I lay my palms flat on the table. “Let’s do this.”
Bunny starts in the center of my belly, above my navel and below my breasts. The first touch jolts through me like a shard of ice and I jump on the table. “Holy shit.”
“I told you.”
But like he also said, the cold dissipates and turns into a blanket of warmth. I relax back on the table and with a focused look, he begins working diligently.
The tip of the brush sears like a piece of ice traveling across my skin, but I anticipate the slow, burning heat. It’s a strange mixture of pain and pleasure that only grows when he extends the paint away from my belly and toward the other, more sensitive areas.
He works with three different brushes—two held between his teeth. Since I can’t see anything but his face I watch his expression as he reacts to my every movement. His pupils constrict at the same time as my nipples. His mouth twitches when the bristles tickle across my hips. A line of concentration slashes between his brows. We both bite down on our lip when he decorates my left breast and then my right with the most excruciating patience.
The desire is not just from his touch, but from the properties in the paint. I feel the magic seeping into my flesh and my stomach tenses at the rush of raw energy.
Bunny moves down my body with long strokes against the dip of my sides and the arch of my hips. His brush travels downward, swirling across my legs. He spreads my thighs and I clutch the table. I know I’ve left a wet spot down there.
“Why are your cheeks red?” he asks, pulling the extra brushes from his teeth. He’s fully attuned to my reactions. “Are you uncomfortable? Just tell me.”
“No,” I reply, staring at the ceiling. He’s standing above my hips and thighs. “It just feels really good and even though I’m trying to keep my mind out of the gutter, my body has a mind of its own.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You’re exquisite. The most glorious canvas I’ve ever had the pleasure of working on. Do you want to see?”
My first thought is no. I don’t even like to look at myself in the wide mirror outside my shower. But Bunny is an incredible artist. I feel an intense urge to see it myself. “Can I?”
“Of course.”
He walks away and I instantly miss the heat of his body near mine. The magic, I think, must not only react to my skin but his proximity as well. It makes me wonder what would happen if he were even closer.
Bunny returns with an oval mirror and holds it over my body. My eyes widen when I see what he’s done. Nearly every inch of my skin is covered in, what I now understand to be from my research and studying, runes. I lift my hand to a symbol above my breastbone.
“You can touch it. They dry quickly.”
I’m careful at first, worried anyway. But the paint is dry, feeling more like it’s part of my skin than just applied on top. The designs shimmer when I touch them, as if activating their magic. The warmth hasn’t left my body. It’s only grown stronger and as Bunny watches me looking at myself, the spark burns.
“I feel the magic,” I tell him. “Do you feel it?”
“I do,” he whispers, lowering the mirror. “I need to complete the runes before the mixture spoils.”
He starts to move back between my thighs but I grab his shirt and drag him back.
“Morgan?”
“No,” I tell him, pulling his mouth to mine. “No more painting. No more magic. I need you to fuck me. Now.”