Four

Quinn sipped her hot apple cider and tried not to stare. Hard to do with a man of midnight fantasies and potential childhood dreams sitting across the table inhaling his fifth plate of eggs and toast. Luckily, Isaac was picking her up this afternoon. Any longer, and they’d run out of food.

She wasn’t sure whether she preferred Zaire naked and handcuffed to her bed or fully dressed. Isaac’s navy-blue Fisherman sweater fit him perfectly, and it had never looked that good on her brother. His eyes had lost that familiar, eternal darkness from their first meeting, the telltale sign that fired her instincts, but if there was any chance he was who she hoped he was, she had so many questions for him. The first step was to figure out a way to determine the truth without coming across as completely batty.

Absently, she rotated the warm mug in her hands, anticipation a thrilling dance along her nerves. Being alone with him for the next few hours didn’t worry her. He’d keep his promise. When she used that particular voice, people didn’t break their word. She couldn’t trust him, not yet, but she could trust that. Besides, he was hurt, and she had a gun.

His gaze met hers, and he paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

Busted. She took a long drink. With any luck, he’d assume the heat in her cheeks was from the steaming cider.

The fork clinked on his plate as he set it down. “Why are you alone in the wilderness during a blizzard?”

Even his voice was seductive, all bass saxophone. Deep, smooth, and symphonic. “The blizzard only lasted one night.” She set her hand on the cool metal of the gun in her lap, taking comfort in its weight. “Funny question coming from a guy who tramps alone about Montana, in winter, without even a hat.”

“You believe I’m a simpleton.” Zaire leaned back in the chair and folded his substantial arms over his equally substantial chest. “Or careless. Perhaps overconfident.”

“Possibly.” She softened the word with a teasing tone.

“I’m not usually so imprudent.” His raven eyes gleamed. “I was caught unaware. It sometimes happens, even to the best.”

“I’ll go with overconfident.” Quinn grinned full out.

“Astute assessment. However, the confidence is earned and, therefore, not exaggerated.” One side of his mouth ticked up.

The world shrank to Zaire and his mouth. Her pulse spiked, and the hot cider in her belly spread to every appendage. The man was like gasoline to her sparked libido.

Wait a second. Gorgeous man. Libido. She strangled the innocent mug in her hand. Stephanie.

While he could be the boy who’d invaded her childhood nightmares now all grown up, she’d also shared some of those dreams with Steph. The note Steph had stuck in the career pamphlets was probably a precursor to a plan already in motion. Steph knew all about the one guy who had a chance of getting under Quinn’s skin and had most likely chosen her weapon carefully. It made total sense. How else would Zaire wind up on Carmichael property so unprepared? Classic Steph. Knowing Quinn would be trapped with him in a blizzard undoubtedly had her best friend doing cartwheels.

She released the mug and all her concerns melted away into disappointment. No matter how much she longed for it, a person couldn’t step out of a dream into real life. “Steph sent you here, didn’t she?”

“Steph?” His eyebrows rose.

A hollow curlicue twisted inside her. Disheartening as it was, Steph had hired the perfect man. This…whatever-he-was affected her, but he wasn’t the person who might have answers to who and what she was. He wasn’t whom she’d hoped to find all her life, even when she suspected that he didn’t exist. “Don’t forget to bill Doc Steph for your medical expenses, too. She can afford it.” She scraped her chair back and stood. “I have no idea what’s wrong with your leg. Might be spendy.”

He tensed as if he wanted to spring up and stop her from leaving. Of course, he couldn’t, not that she had any room left for fear. The disappointment was too vast, too consuming. She’d been so hopeful that she’d found him, so sure that she’d finally come to that elusive turning point where everything in life made sense.

“It’s not you, Zaire. It’s me.” She wanted to laugh, but was afraid it might come out more like a sob. She fiddled with her necklace, a habitual act. Touching the obsidian cross hanging there always made her feel grounded. “I appreciate Steph’s efforts, and I know she’s only trying to help, but I’m hopeless. A man can’t fix my issues, no matter how sexy he is. Sorry she wasted your time.”

“Time with you cannot possibly be wasted.” He studied her intently as if he could peek inside her screwed-up brain. “And I’ve witnessed hopeless on countless occasions. You are not it.”

Heat unfurled in her belly, slow and teasing. “Let me guess. You’re in Steph’s psych class, too.” She kept her tone steady, a victory, and peeled her attention away from Zaire and his blackheart eyes. She needed this alone time to stitch her patches back on and figure out a life plan, not have another emotional breakdown. “You’ll have to find a different test subject for your thesis.”

Zaire planted his palms on the kitchen table and stood on his one good leg. Even slouched, he towered a good foot over her. At five-feet even, she was used to it. “This…Steph has caused you distress,” he murmured with shocking menace. A cold, flat gleam entered his gaze, and his dark eyebrows slashed down. His bunched jaw screamed serious. “Return my knives, and I shall punish her for you.”

If he were joking, she couldn’t tell. He’d make a great movie villain. He was probably in the drama club, too. “You haven’t earned your weapons back yet.” She managed a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. Revenge is my middle name. Lots of practice. I’ve got an older brother.”

“Becca Revenge?” he asked in a deadpan voice.

A surprised laugh burbled up her throat, erasing the tension. Hot, dangerous, and funny. Male perfection. She stuck out a hand. “No superheroes here. Rebecca Quinn Carmichael. Most people call me Quinn.”

“Quinn.” He said her name like a caress. His big hand enfolded hers in a cool, callused grip. “I’m just…Zaire.”

Yearning exploded in her heart. How easy it would be to step close, rise on tiptoes, and find out if his mouth felt as silky as it looked. She shook off the urge. “One name, like Prince?”

He stiffened, and all emotion fled from his features. Shadows billowed across his eyes. “Yes. Like that.”

Quinn shivered. The delusions hadn’t ever done that before. She pulled her hand away. His fingers slid free in a reluctant farewell, and the lingering touch fired a network of quivers. This was new. A mental collapse/lust explosion combo.

“Finish your breakfast. I’ll be back in a few.” She rocketed down the hall, away from Zaire and his mojo, and didn’t stop until the bathroom door was locked behind her.

She set her Walther down and leaned on the cold marble counter, taking several deep breaths. This was reminding her too much of a paranormal thriller movie. Storm, seductive stranger, lonely girl dumb enough to surrender to his sexual allure, and hell to pay afterward. Zaire was the perfect agent. Dangerously, deliciously dark. All sorts of sin on a stick.

After turning on the shower, she propped the vanity chair beneath the doorknob, just in case. The pelt of water on tile soothed her nerves, and steam soon curled from the shower stall. Good, the hot water tank hadn’t frozen. At least one thing in her life went right.

Quinn undressed and saved her necklace for last. It was an obsidian cross, a powerless symbol gifted by her aunt over a decade ago, but she always felt vulnerable without it. She laid it on the counter and hopped into the shower. Maybe water pounding on her head would drill some logic into her brain, push the nightmares and crushed dreams back inside where they belonged.

***

The toast in Zaire’s mouth lost its glorious flavor the moment Quinn fled. He washed it down with a gulp of cooling apple cider and leaned back in the chair. Snow whirled outside the window, a taunting dance of purity.

Like Prince? The question had gut-punched him back to reality. Purgatory’s Missing Prince, a nickname the other V’alkara whispered behind his back. He hated that moniker almost as much as he loathed Demon Master. Overlord of Shadows was the one title he tolerated without violence.

Quinn. Her true name loosened the snarl of dark emotions in his chest. For a few sublime minutes, he’d forgotten everything beyond the one woman he’d wanted forever. Quinn. She’d looked at him as a man, not a soulless monster.

Not a demon in the making.

Water pattered from down the hall, and an image of Quinn in the shower assaulted his mind. Sweet curves. Porcelain skin. Everything wet. Blood surged hot to his groin. He clenched his jaw at the unbearable ache and stood, using the table for balance. Snow or not, he had to leave now. They’d made no agreement involving his departure, so he wasn’t breaking his promise to her. It wasn’t his fault she squandered her chance to ask questions.

As he grabbed the crutches, awareness washed over him in a prickling tide of gentle rain on a warm autumn evening. His heart stopped and started again, pumping hard. Her adder stone. She must have removed it. When he first met her and sensed nothing beyond physical recognition, he’d suspected that she wore an adder stone, the one charm capable of shielding a dreamcaster from enemy perception. He closed his eyes and soaked in the uninhibited sensation of her. Potent, exotic, and exhilarating, a rhapsody created solely for him.

A song he could track to the ends of the earth if not for the interference of her adder stone.

Years after the last dream with her, V’alkara trials and pain excavated his unique skills, and he discovered that people, animals, and objects emitted a particular noise, vibrations he could taste, hear, and sense if he focused hard enough. Even blades of grass carried their own voices. For objects, he could track them through visual alone, a picture or image, given enough detail. For people, he had to physically see a face, decipher their song from the surrounding chaos, but once extracted, he could pinpoint any vibration with intense focus.

His former master had found that skill particularly helpful in keeping his V’alkara in line. As the Crows did now.

A chill knifed through his euphoria. If he could sense Quinn, so could any other V’alkara within range, including the one he’d been sent here to locate and coerce into joining the Red Crows.

Zaire clomped down the hall toward the steam coiling beneath one door. Two days ago, the highest another random V’alkara would register in his mind was as an irritation. Today, being unable to walk or Change could pose serious problems if he needed to protect his dreamcaster.

He pounded on the bathroom door.

The rush of running water continued. If the other V’alkara sensed her, snow wouldn’t slow him down. Every second mattered.

“Quinn!” He pounded again. He couldn’t know the full extent of the side effects caused by the Faction’s injection. What if, along with the loss of his powers and the use of his leg, he lost the ability to detect another V’alkara’s presence? His throat tightened in a stranglehold. What if she’d been taken? He drew his fist back for a wood-crushing blow.

The door cracked open. Warm steam puffed in his face, carrying the scent of apple shampoo. Wrapped in an overlarge towel and wisps of mist and dew, Quinn blinked up at him. Her dark curls dripped on bare, creamy shoulders. Water still splattered against the shower glass.

His entire body went rigid. By all things dark and unholy, her in only a towel did witchy things to his blood and knocked his intentions off their foundation.

“If you want more eggs, you’ll have to wait.” She clutched the cloth tightly, as if second-guessing her decision to open the door.

Wise of her. He swiped a drop of moisture from her collarbone with one finger and licked it off. Not what he’d meant to do, but with the way her pupils dilated, he couldn’t regret it.

“For your sake, there’d better be a fire, a collapsed roof, or a Russian SWAT team outside,” she said in a low, dangerous tone.

A thrill zipped up his spine. Her spell, already thrumming in his blood, shot to every corner. He swore even his numb leg tingled. He cleared his throat and safely occupied both hands with the crutches. “Whatever jewelry you happened to remove, you must replace immediately.”

She stared at him for a prolonged moment, her brow wrinkled. “I think you should go lay down.”

A delicious image of lying down before the fire with Quinn minus the towel hit his brain. His pulse bounced, and his state of arousal verged on painful.

“You need more rest. You’re looking a little glassy-eyed.” She handed him a dry towel. “Sweating isn’t a good sign. Find the couch, and I’ll be out in a sec to check your leg.”

The door shut in his face. The patter of water cut out.

Zaire clutched the towel and blew out a long breath, willing his body to cool. He liked his version of lying down better. “Humor an impaired man, Quinn. I will do as you ask if you promise to put your jewelry back on immediately.”

“Steph always did attract the weirdos.” Her words were so quiet he was unsure if she’d meant for him to hear.

He put his mouth closer to the door. “I prefer exclusive edition.”

The door clicked open and Quinn peered out with one eye. “Go lie down.”

The door shut again. A few seconds later, the tickling awareness of his dreamcaster vanished, and the tightness in his shoulders relaxed.

“Ugh.” Her groan sounded muffled by a faceful of towel. “I’m in big trouble.”

Those words were definitely not meant for his ears, yet he agreed heartily. No matter the circumstances, he had to get far away from her. He couldn’t stay. Freeing Braden and getting him to safety were his only goals before he lost the final battle with his demons and plunged into eternal darkness. Each dangerous second with Quinn tempted him more strongly to discard those truths.

But he couldn’t go, not yet. Not with the threat of another V’alkara near.

He hobbled down the hall, an icy vice choking his soul.