She banged her head back against the seat and uttered a cute sound of frustration. “Gods, getting some straight info out of you is like pulling teeth. What did you do to piss off your own kind?”
“Must be my stunning good looks. They just can’t take the combined force of my gorgeousness.”
Even without looking, he knew she glared at him. It made him want to laugh.
“Spill it already, Mr. Self-Absorbed!”
“All right, all right,” he whined, “I’m telling! Just please, please don’t witch-slap me.” Putting a hand up as if to shield his head from a blow, he gave a mock sob.
The Marga-glare intensified, and he grinned, slanting a glance at her.
“What I’m doing for you now…Well, I used to do that for a living.”
“Annoying the hell out of people?”
He chuckled at that. &ldqu
Her face, already scorched, became impossibly hotter. “I can’t tell you.” Even though she might have been so forward as to jump his bones, she hadn’t shed all her inhibitions yet. Thinking about it was one thing, doing it another—but saying it? And dammit, he was cocky enough already—she almost snickered at that pun—there was no need to tell him how mouthwatering his—“I can’t.” Grabbing her ankles, he pulled her down toward him, until she lay flat on her back underneath his overpowering frame. “Yes, you can.” His hands, hot, branding, running over her hips, up to her waist, pulling off her sweater. “Tell me.” “No.” “Hmm.” A kiss on her belly. “Later, then.” It sounded like a mix between a promise and a threat. He nuzzled the curve of her waist, one hand sliding under her back, unhooking her bra. A sigh e
Marga awoke to the faint sound of her cell phone ringing. With an effort, she pried her eyes open. The pull of sleep was so strong, it took her a moment to see anything at all, to get her brain working in a logical way. Her bones were molten in her body, every single muscle weighed down by blocks of concrete. She peered at the clock on the nightstand. It was half past four in the afternoon—they’d only slept about three hours. No wonder I feel like something the cat has dragged in. The phone was still ringing, the sound coming through the open door to the hallway where she’d dumped her purse earlier. With a groan of exhaustion, Marga disentangled herself from Atticus, who had wrapped himself around her in his sneaky, monopolizing way. She wriggled free of one of his arms and one leg, but as soon as she pried off the other two limbs, the first two snuck around her again. “Atticus. Phone. Need to answer.” He grunte
At his words, Marga had grown still in his embrace, so quiet she didn’t even breathe. Once again, Atticus cursed his dull daytime senses, which left him guessing at her feelings in a vacuum. He had no idea how his revelation had affected her when she was withdrawn like this, whether he’d inadvertently broken the fragility he held in his arms. She’d seemed so deeply vulnerable after she’d cried, so brittle as to crumble at the slightest misplaced touch, that he’d known, instinctively, he could crush her with one careless word. And that, he’d realized with surprise, would crush him as well. So, in a visceral response to this vulnerability in her that cut right through him, he’d decided to share with her the most painful part of his past, of himself, something he’d never spoken of to anyone else. Not even Benjamin, whom he considered the closest friend he had, knew how Atticus sister had died, let alone that he
Words drifted through the black velvet veiling Marga’s mind. Murmurs, spoken in hushed tones, the voices familiar. Something about them should have alerted her. If only she could remember what… If only her head didn’t feel as if it were about to split from the inside out, as if weighed down by a hundred tons of concrete and still pulsating painfully with every slow beat of her heart. It was always like this after giving back to the Powers That Be. Giving back… Yes, that was what had happened. A sliver of a memory pierced the haze inside her mind. A car. Pain. Magic, bleeding from her body. Strong arms, holding her with such care. Atticus. Marga sat up with a start as it all came crashing back, at the same moment as the identity of the voices registered. The niggling feeling she’d had formed into a certainty that chilled her blood. Her rash movement spiked another throbbing wave of pain in her hea
`Like now, for example, when the blunt force of a seething demon’s aura brushed up against her back like a wall of heat. She turned to see Atticus staring at Alonzo over her head with an expression just short of murderous. “Jerk face,” Alonzo said politely, as if greeting an acquaintance by his name. “Dick wad,” Atticus returned just as politely, inclining his head in mock-respect. His eyes, however, shot daggers at the other male. Marga rubbed her forehead, choosing not to comment on the display of testosterone in front of her. “Let’s go, chop-chop,” Cara said, already opening the door on the passenger side. “You can compare the size of your manly parts later.” “I’m really sorry, man,” Atticus said to Alonzo just as he and Marga were turning to the car. They both stopped and stared at Atticus in surprised confusion
Atticus first clue to Marga being more than royally pissed at him was the fact she made him magically walk into a door. Twice. Except for their first meeting, and that one time in the cemetery, when she’d made him trip—which had been playful teasing—she’d never harmfully used her powers on him, not even when he’d pushed her out of her comfort zone and tried to irritate the hell out of her. Now, however, for some unfathomable reason, she’d lashed out at him with her magic two times in a row. And—fucking hell—his nose hurt like a bitch after clashing twice with the front door of the bar they’d entered in search for someone he could take pain from. The irony of that particular thought wasn’t lost on him as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and set it straight again with a crack, grimacing just a little at the sharp jolt of pain. Wiping the blood off with the back of his hand, he turned around to star
It knocked the breath out of him, almost brought him to his knees. Her power wrapped around him, and his heart stuttered at the unadulterated richness of her emotions, her thoughts, laid bare before him. He saw, felt, tasted, touching her mind with gentle care, humbled by her trust. The depth of her feelings was staggering, such true goodness, such pure hope and faith, and her magic—it was as strong as he’d suspected, stronger even, a power beyond any he’d ever encountered. There was a promise of greatness in her, the potential of her—given more time—growing into a witch of unparalleled force. He voiced his thoughts directly inside her mind. “Gods, but you’re beautiful.” Her response was visceral, swift, a wave of affection, shatteringly open and honest, and he soaked it up, bathed in it. If he spent the rest of eternity in the Shadows, this feeling would last him through it. She held nothing b
After a few minutes and several turns at intersections—the lights leading their way—the tunnel opened up into a room. Roots, as massive as tree trunks, steadied the rounded walls of earth. Here and there, the roots curled into smaller swirls of almost artful delicacy, a natural adornment. In the middle of the room lay a heap of furs and cushions—and on top of it, lounging in languorous predatory ease, loomed a giant black wolf, almost twice the size of a normal canine. Marga stopped dead, her muscles locked in place, her heart pounding with the rush of fear. “Atticus,” she called out mentally, “please tell me Lucas has ordered that wolf not to eat us.”He squeezed her hand. “That wolf is Lucas.” Marga blinked, swallowed, dumbstruck for a moment. “But…he’s not a werewolf.” His aura didn’t have the unique traces of shifters, the kind of otherworldly creatures who wer