Open Flame (Dragon's Fate) (15 page)

He bumped into the gentleman who stood before him.

“Mind your step.”

How could she? He continued forward without pause. After five hundred years of frustration and loneliness, he had found his lifemate, and Cupid had poisoned the arrow.

She had married another, and tonight would bed her husband.

Not him.

His feet moved as if he glided, pulled by a rope to her. This was wretched! His vision streaked, danced and swirled in blue and gold ripples, making his stomach flip.

Yet he’d found her!

The room hummed and dropped away. He stepped in front of her, shaking. He stared down at eyes so green they reminded him of a serene, moss-covered pond. A shiver raced from the tip of his toes to the white streak in his hair.

“You survived.” His deep and raspy words barely left his mouth.

Her eyes widened, and her skin paled, accentuating the freckles across her nose. “Pardon? Do I know you, sir?”

She had freckles… His lips turned up into a genuine smile. Freckles. He wanted to know every tiny detail about her.

A weighty force pressed upon his shoulders, buckling his knees.

Hell.

He knelt before her, bent low, and stared up at her like a peasant in awe before a goddess.

The image of her as he had dragged her from the water—blood and seawater trailing over him and staining his clothes—slid through him.

Now this distortion stained his soul.

He had left her…

Left his mate for dead.

How could he not have known? He licked his lips with a tongue that held no moisture. The scent of orange blossoms and cherries filled his flaring nostrils. Her scent. The scent of her blood.

She’d had no wedding ring on her finger that night. He opened his mouth and grasped her hand. She needed to know she was his mate, a love for all time…

Thick-gloved fingers wrapped about his forearm, and his scales prickled in familiar warning. Ilmir.

“Please excuse him, Your Grace. He is truly in his cups.” Ilmir’s calm, deep voice slashed through his beautiful rainbow fog.

The censure of the room came crashing back to Jordan’s senses.

Ilmir’s breath pressed to his ear. “You are making a dangerous spectacle.”

Jordan turned his head toward Ilmir and narrowed his eyes. How dare he? The man had done everything against all mores his entire life.

“Jordan.” Ilmir glanced at the woman before them. “Is this…” His gray eyebrows rose over his pale, ice-blue eyes in question.

Jordan remained silent and continued to glare at his brother. Beyond his grayish-white hair, his well-tailored evening attire made him appear the perfect, elegant young gentleman.
Appear…
Jordan frowned and ground his teeth together. How dare he act noble? Here. Now. He wanted to grab Ilmir by the ear and drag him outside, but nothing was as it should be tonight, and this act too had strings.

Hudson stepped before them, blocking his new duchess from view. A deep frown scarred his face. “I suggest you listen to your brother. Your family is in enough of a public tumble, which I will help you out of, but this…” His brow arched, and dreaminess glazed his eyes. An odd smile flashed across his lips, then disappeared.

Ilmir wrapped his arm under Jordan’s and pulled him to his feet. His breath warmed Jordan’s ear. “Don’t fret. If she is yours, no one can deny the fact. Not even her.” Ilmir slowly turned him from his beauty.

Jordan wobbled and swayed, his shaking legs unable to support him. He floated as if he was a bloody cork in water…water so unfamiliar and deadly. Deadly? He mentally jarred himself. He was water. Water could never kill him. He’d found her, and he would not leave her here for Hudson’s use.

“Act inebriated.” Ilmir gripped him hard and almost dragged him through the crowd.

Like the devil he would! Jordan glanced back. Her eyes, huge emerald pools that spoke of a deep soul, watched him as she talked to an older woman at her side. He pulled against Ilmir’s grasp. “Release me.”

Ilmir’s fingers tightened. “No, brother. This is not how we untangle this.”

“This is not yours to untangle.” He could not leave without saying more to her.

She needed to know. Know what had happened.

She needed to know she was his mate.

Not Hudson’s.

“Release your fingers,” he ground out, and the sacs in his mouth swelled. He jerked his head back—that was not supposed to happen unless he prepared to bite—and clenched his teeth, holding his lips closed on the poisons that swelled in his glands.

He glanced around the room. Bloody hell! His body changed against his will, and he did not know what those changes encompassed. The room watched them. What was happening to him? He firmly planted the soles of his shoes on the marble floor.

“No!” Ilmir’s fingers dug into his flesh. “Not until I have you in a carriage. She will not disappear, Jordan. I assure you.” He laughed a mocking chuckle and yanked him through an open door. “She is a duchess.” He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot.

“To hell, Ilmir.” His angry words smoked out of his mouth and singed the fabric on Ilmir’s coat. Damn smoke. He’d just breathed smoke. He stared at the lightly glowing spot on Ilmir’s sleeve, and his eyes widened. He had never done that before.

“Quite so. Hell has had me and enjoys my flavor.” The sleeve of Ilmir’s coat puffed, smoldering. “Now listen and listen well, brother. That there”—Ilmir pointed back into the ballroom—“is the Duke of Hudson. This is his home. If we slight him, we have no remaining allies in London. Do you understand?” Ilmir brushed at the singed fabric and continued to stare at him as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Of course Jordan knew where they were. But— Bloody hell! She was his! His! “Ilmir.”

“Control yourself. You cannot do this badly.”

Jordan’s fists shook in anger. “As if you should give that guidance. You have never thought of anyone but yourself!”

Ilmir nodded. “Correctly stated. And you have seen the consequences. Be the good whelp you always are. Or go your own path and we all fall.”

“Fall? We can’t fall.” But Ilmir was correct about one thing. Confronting her here in front of a room full of people when he was uncertain of his body’s changes was a poor plan. He sighed and rolled his shoulders. He needed her alone. And now.

Two men will stop at nothing to have her gift, her desire…and her love.

Come Fill Me

© 2013 Tina Donahue

The Prophecy, Book 1

Years ago, with the healing abilities afforded by her blend of Aztec and extraterrestrial blood, Liz was free to do as she wished. Now she is trapped in a blood feud, forced to heal one of her clan’s most dangerous rivals so they can exploit his gift of prophecy.

As she drapes her nude body over his, the rush of his returning strength overwhelms her, and his stunningly sensual caress pushes her to her sexual limit.

Zeke Neekoma never expected to hunger for a woman he’s supposed to hate, but now that he’s tasted her, he has no intention of denying himself the pleasure of her body—or of kidnapping his enemy’s most cherished plaything.

Brought to Zeke’s stronghold to heal his brother, Jacob, Liz surrenders her body’s most traitorous needs to the unrestrained desires of two powerful men. And the brothers fill the lonely void she has too long endured.

But her clan doesn’t intend to let her go without a fight…and the ecstasy that binds Liz to her lovers could be the thing that breaks them.

Warning: Worlds collide when two Alpha males crave a woman they shouldn’t have. Their dominance and desire knows no limits, culminating in sex so torrid this babe’s never gonna be the same…or free of one brother’s touch.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Come Fill Me:

The Escalade reached a particularly rough path. Her shoulder smacked into Carreon’s. He didn’t react. At length, the ride smoothed out, the tires whistling over the stately drive. On either side, fir trees, squat palms, countless shrubs and startling white flowers flanked the cinnamon-colored pavers. The mansion’s enormous brass doors shone beneath a set of amber lights housed in a fixture of southwestern design. Moths and other insects bobbed in the gentle glow.

They exited the vehicle. With his fingers wrapped around her upper arm, Carreon directed Liz past the mansion’s entrance and through the arched sections of the foyer, so dense with feathery vegetation it had the damp smell of the tropics. Wrought-iron chandeliers rained faint light on the gurgling fountain situated beneath a dome of Tiffany glass. Against the reddish walls, heavy Spanish furniture gleamed dully, their bulky forms recorded on the polished Mexican paver floors.

Carreon pulled Liz to the stairway and took the steps two at a time, expecting her to keep up. Breathless, she tripped near the top, striking her ankle against the filigreed rail.

Shit, shit, shit.
White-hot pain shot from the bone to her calf.

Carreon glared at her, then looked past at the first floor, twenty feet below. His expression said he’d push her over the rail, making certain she died if she gave him any trouble.

Liz breathed sharply at the continuing pain. “If you kill me, there won’t be anyone to heal your men. No way will my father help you, especially if I’m dead.”

At her defiance, Carreon’s expression turned ugly. “And how would he know? Do you think I’d tell him?”

Liz’s body went hot then cold with fear. She pushed it back. “You wouldn’t have to. He’d see the truth on your face. You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”

“Then I suppose it’s best I keep you alive.” He yanked Liz upward, ignoring her pained gasp, hurrying her to the landing.

Down the hall they went. Ivory wall sconces provided a gentle glow. Here, as in the foyer, hulking furniture and potted plants abounded, their green tint appearing even more delicate against the contrasting crimson walls.

Door after door marched up each side, all closed. Liz ignored each as they passed, too ashamed to recall the men who’d taken her in those rooms, the salty taste of their cocks sliding over her tongue, the pressure of their organs stretching her cunt and anus, the sting of their belts on her uplifted ass. Decadent games Carreon introduced. Ones Liz discovered she enjoyed, as long as she had Carreon’s love.

He honored it by betraying her. From the beginning, he and his men had lied about her father.

With an equal measure of fury and grief, Liz wondered if she’d get a chance to see her father tonight. Holding her breath, she hoped to hear him calling for her. That he sensed she was here.

Only the slap of her and Carreon’s shoes echoed on the stone floor in the otherwise silent hall. This wing of the mansion appeared deserted, his men somewhere else, perhaps nearer the building’s entrance to protect it from attack. Unless that wasn’t a worry any longer, given that he’d captured Neekoma.

If that were the truth.

With long strides, Carreon turned down a hall to the right, then one on the left. At a noise from behind, Liz glanced over, seeing the young men from the drive here. Wearing determined expressions, they caught up to her and Carreon. Tonight, they’d watch as his other lieutenants had in the past.

The thought should have disturbed but didn’t. Numb with concern over her father, Liz moved without conscious thought.

Abruptly, Carreon halted in front of a set of double doors, lowered the ornate silver handles, then gestured her inside.

Her ankle started throbbing again. Her mouth went dry. She stepped into the spacious room and stopped, staring at the man Carreon claimed was Zeke Neekoma.

Naked, he lay in the center of the king-sized bed. His breaths were quiet, his eyes closed, legs sprawled, one arm draped over his head as though he was sleeping.

The bullet holes in his muscular left pec contradicted that notion.

Forcing down a swallow, Liz pulled her attention from his wounds—three perfect black circles—to his face.

Her lips parted on a quiet sigh. Rarely had she seen a man wear such a look of serenity. So unlike the terror she’d witnessed on Carreon’s features or those of his men when they’d been so close to death.

Zeke Neekoma was different. The words boyish and innocent came to mind, which Liz dismissed quickly.

Looking to be in his early thirties, he was no boy. Nor was he innocent. His size, surely six-three, his sharp, masculine features and powerful form were perfect for battle against men and carnal sin with women.

Heat suffused Liz, making her limbs feel heavy and weak. She recalled what Carreon and his men had told her about Zeke, no doubt a mixture of truth and lies. Not knowing which was which, she regarded his sinewy legs, long cock and weighty balls as she moved deeper into the dimly lit room. Spanish-style lamps created pools of honeyed light, giving the space a sacred feel one might experience in a church. The cherry-wood four-poster dominated the sparsely furnished chamber, while a series of leather wing chairs—reserved for observers—circled the bed.

The man who’d been guarding Zeke left the room. Carreon and his men went to their seats, their weight causing the chairs’ legs to scrape against the polished hardwood floor.