Obsidian Flame (2 page)

He stared at the new Marguerite. She was as beautiful as ever, an almost perfectly oval face, strong arched brows, and large brown eyes, eyes he’d looked into ten thousand times while making love to her. She used to have really long straight brown hair that he would hold wrapped around his forearm when he took her from behind. Now she had short platinum-blond hair, white-blond, and blood-red fingernails about an inch long.

She sipped a very crimson cosmo, her current favorite drink, the same color as the lights flashing in his head. She had her elbow on the bar, her long nails flicking the feathered spikes of her hair.

The bastard next to her had his left knee about a millimeter away from hers. His eyelids lazed low.

Shit. Thorne knew exactly what that look meant: that the only thought running through the bastard’s head would be just how soon he could get this woman on her back, or settled on his hips and riding him hard. He shuddered through a few more deep breaths.

He wasn’t entirely to blame. The
breh-hedden
had him hooked in deep, forcing him to look at Marguerite not just as a woman but as his mate, his fucking mate. His mind swirled with a variety of impulses that kept shouting things like
Use your fists and beat the shit out of that asshole
or worse,
Use your sword and take the smile off his face permanently.

This particular mortal wasn’t half bad looking if you liked a scruff of a beard, a scar on the right cheek, thick black hair combed back straight, and tats on the neck, shoulders, and forearms. He was big, too. Warrior-big.

This was so not going to end well.

Under-fucking-statement.

Even through the stench of beer, smoke, and male bodies, all he could really process was that light floral scent that kept his dick in an uproar.

The bastard made his move. He reached out and grazed Marguerite’s elbow with the tips of two fingers, then moved away, a smooth, quick testing of the waters.

Marguerite smiled. She leaned in toward him and reached out with her hand to stroke his bicep.

Stroke his bicep.

Stroke his bicep.

The red strobes in his head spun faster. His fists balled. Creator help him. His palm itched for his sword. He spread his fingers wide, ready to catch some steel.

For a split second he almost completed the mental sequence that would have brought his sword into his hand. He saw the carnage as plain as day: one asshole with his head split wide, one woman caught up under his arm and hauled out of this hellhole kicking and screaming.

He was so close.

His fingers trembled.

He wanted his sword in his hand.

He wanted the bastard dead.

He didn’t so much as
have
the thought as
act
because in the next split second he dematerialized out of the smoke and re-formed in the deep night shadows, well beyond the bar, well away from temptation. He bent over. He shook. He came within an inch of puking his guts out.

Shit. He’d almost killed an innocent man. Thorne, Warrior of the Blood, protector of the innocent, preserver of life, keeper of the peace, and he’d almost killed an innocent man. Creator help him.

So here he was, almost losing the Buffalo wings he’d gorged on, tortured because his woman, who was not his woman, was pursuing her favorite hunting-sport:
men.

There was only one real question to answer: How the hell was he supposed to keep from killing this man if she succeeded in taking him into her bed?

*   *   *

Marguerite Dresner’s fingertips tingled as she played over the tatted barbed wire on the stranger’s bare, thick, muscled bicep. Her quarry’s smell rose up around her. He wore a heavy cologne, heavy like his muscles, like the male scent she was getting from him. She flared her nostrils and sucked in more of what he was giving.

Unfortunately, another scent crowded the space.

Dammit, cherry tobacco. Again. For the thousandth time.

Despite the fact that she knew the real source, she asked, “Do you smoke a pipe?”

He shook his head, leaning into her a little. “Nope. I’m a cigar man. You like cigars?”

She liked the shape well enough. Who didn’t? But she didn’t care for the aroma. She did like pipe tobacco, though, which was one reason the cherry aroma bugged the shit out of her.

“Now, why are you frowning?” he asked. “What’s made you unhappy?” He had a slight accent and a deep voice, fitting for all that body he carried around. Her gaze fell in a free fall to his snug jeans. This man knew how to display, and when his knee shifted just a little, the bulge moved.

She felt light-headed. She had waited so long for this, to explore the world again, to cruise the Mortal Earth bars and know a lot of men.

Men different from the only one she’d known for the past century.

Aw, shit, why did she have to think of Thorne right now. He hadn’t wanted her to leave Second Earth, but she’d left anyway. She’d had to leave. She had a life to live and men to devour. One hundred years in that godforsaken Convent, the one with canings, and strappings, and beatings, had left her needing so much more of life than what Second Earth could offer right now.

Why couldn’t Thorne get that? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

She saw from her peripheral vision that he was done with holding up the wall. Huh, so maybe he’d finally taken the hint. He’d glowered and looked so hot in jeans and a wife-beater shirt that it was all she could do to keep from going over there and attacking him.

But she needed him to get the message. She couldn’t go back to him and she sure as hell couldn’t go back to Second Earth. As much as she knew this would kill him, she’d been putting off the inevitable for three weeks now. She’d spent some time getting her bearings, learning to drive, then driving through state after state and back again. It was late March and most of the lower states were a piece of heaven.

But tonight she was crossing over, ending her connection to the past. She was beginning the real adventure, the fantasy that had kept her sane during her hundred years in that Convent.

She forced memories of Thorne down deep.

She lifted her gaze to the dark brown eyes in front of her, the man flirting with her, casting out signals. His gaze was slung low on her chest, as it should be. She’d hardly covered her girls up at all, and even though the bar was a little steamy her nipples were firm and probably nicely puckered, pushing against the dark blue silk.

He leaned in close, his hand sliding up her leg and squeezing her bare thigh. The man had a nice firm, possessive touch. He whispered against her ear, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a place close by.”

Shivers chased down her shoulders and sides from all that breath over her neck. Her heart set up a racket in her chest.

She didn’t answer him. She just slid off the stool, took his big hand, and headed for the door. This is what she remembered it being like, the excitement, meeting some stranger, getting worked up after a couple of drinks, wondering how good he’d be in bed.

She had a knack for picking men who knew how to work it. This man had
good lay
written all over him. God, what a body, almost as big as Thorne.

Thorne again! Dammit!

She reached the cool clean desert air and drank in a big gulp, hoping to clear her head. But there it was again, cherry tobacco, stronger now that she was outside. She looked to her left and could see him in the shadows but lifted her chin and moved on. She needed him to get a clue: He could glower all he wanted, but this was the life she wanted, the life she’d chosen. Hell, this was the life she’d earned after so many decades locked up.

But when she got a few feet down the sidewalk, suddenly he was just there, all misted up so her new man couldn’t see him. He didn’t try to touch her but she couldn’t help looking straight at him. Oh … God.

Don’t do this,
his mind sent straight into hers.
Please.

His hands had dropped to his sides and were balled into fists. She could tell he was holding on by a thread.

She dropped her gaze to his chest. She couldn’t bear looking into his eyes. How could she explain the why of all this? But then explaining wasn’t necessary. This was what killed her about Thorne: He got her, he understood her, he knew she had to do this, had to leave, had to move on. In his way, he was letting her go. He sure as hell could have just thrown her over his shoulder, and maybe that’s what she wished he would do so that she didn’t have to choose.

But she had chosen.

Thanks for not making a scene,
she sent.

Fuck,
he responded, probably not meaning to.

Let me go, Thorne. Please.

Another quiet
Fuck
left his mouth, but he dematerialized.

Her new man leaned down. “We good?”

She looked back up at him. “We’re good.” She still had hold of his hand so she gave it a squeeze.

But something deep inside her trembled. She felt an overwhelming need to get back to Thorne.

Would this torture never end?

Would she ever truly be free of Second Earth?

She forced the trembling to stop.

Forget all that.

She had a life to live.

She ran a hand through her short blond locks.

He put his hands on her waist. “What’s your name?” He dipped his head low and kissed her cheek.

“Marguerite.”

“That’s a beautiful name.
Marguerite.
” He said it slow, like he was practicing, like he intended to say it a lot and at exactly the right time.

“What’s yours?” she asked. He shifted her beside him and set them both moving slowly in the direction of a big Chevy Silverado, the kind with four wheels on the back. A big man needed a big truck.

She needed a big man.

“José. My name’s José.”

“Mexican?”

“Sí.”
The word popped out like a whip. “Mexican okay with you?”

“You mean, do I discriminate?”

“Sí.”
Again, like a whip.

She put her hand on his hip and moved lower, sliding her fingers so that she rested over the entire beautiful length of his erect cock, the jeans rough against her fingers. “Oh, I discriminate. Right here, José. Is that okay with you?”

She pushed.

He hissed. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

She smiled. “Let’s go, José, before I change my mind.”

This time he smiled. He had a wonderful smile full of big teeth. She wanted those teeth on her.

Thorne had big teeth, too. He’d use them nipping, pulling, biting, plucking. He’d done it for a hundred years and knew exactly how to work her up.

Dammit, Thorne again.

*   *   *

Thorne stood in the shadows of the building. He didn’t know what to do. Her scent was heavy in the air.

He watched them get into the truck.

He created more mist. He lost his shirt and mounted his wings. He shot into the air high overhead and followed the truck.

The red strobes still flashed through his brain but at least some part of his mind was functioning because his rational side had begun to calculate, to figure this damn thing out. The man, José, would die tonight unless Thorne got his shit together and connected some dots.

He could engage in fist-to-fist, a battle he would win. So at the very least, yeah, he was doing that. He’d leave the bastard unconscious so that he’d live, but Marguerite would be pissed. She didn’t have the gentlest temperament, an understatement that made him smile. She was his wildcat, game for anything, and he loved that about her.

But in this situation, her fighting spirit limited his options.

So what the hell was he supposed to do now?

He could call the cops, create a little diversion, cause some chaos. But again … woman … pissed. The one thing he’d learned from being Endelle’s second-in-command was a little diplomacy, a sense of timing, a sense of when not to go all shock-and-awe, when something less splashy was called for. Not that he’d learned strategic thinking from her; rather, he’d learned because of her scorpion temperament and her recklessness. Thorne wasn’t reckless, which was one reason his current predicament was a total shitfest.

He’d like to let loose. God knew he would. He’d like to let loose, use every power in his arsenal, and fix this thing right now. But that was warrior thinking:
Shoot now … don’t even think about asking questions later.

No, this fucking conundrum required finesse.

The truck pulled in front of a house that was much nicer than expected given the man’s tats and the overall sleazy nature of the bar. The rock landscaping out front didn’t even have weeds. Huh. The bastard might actually be a fairly decent bastard. Thorne even liked the truck. He knew the score. A big man needed something that fit the size of his shoulders.