Inked Destiny

Twelve

Etaín woke to the sound of pages being flipped, her reality sharpening as slowly Cathal’s words came into focus. She opened her eyes and everything stopped. Then a rush of horror came as she remembered. “Is Quinn okay?”

“No harm, no foul,” Cathal said.

She sat, the movement and the surroundings making her feel a little dizzy and disoriented. “You’re sure?”

Cathal took her hands in his, turning them upward to reveal the eyes on her palms. “You held on to him for a long time, Etaín. A long, long time. There wasn’t anything obvious, but I only met him the one time, in Derrick’s apartment the other morning. He seemed normal.” A glance at Eamon, unity instead of its opposite. “Eamon thought the damage would be very obvious.”

Eamon moved from his chair to join them on the couch. He slid his hand beneath her hair to cup her neck. “What do you remember?”

The question alone was enough to have phantom coils tighten around her throat as if ready to choke off a revealing answer. “I went into the cabin. Quinn was there. I pitched forward. He reached out to catch me. I grabbed him. Then nothing.”

She could count on one hand the number of times she willingly tried to breach the barrier between her reality and the alternate realities created by stolen memories. “I need to remember,” she whispered. “I need to be sure. If I hurt him…”

She’d hate herself for not going back to Eamon’s estate, maybe for ever having left it in the first place. Maybe she’d come to hate Cathal and Eamon too.

Eamon stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Access the memories if you can, but be warned, Etaín, you will sleep again if I perceive there is a problem.”

A smile came and went. “Lord Eamon speaks.” Gentle tease this time instead of a battle’s opening salvo. “Any suggestions?”

“How well do you know Quinn?”

“Not well. I—”

Her throat closed, preventing her from saying she’d done cover-up work on him only days earlier. At the narrowing of Eamon’s eyes in suspicion, she felt a flutter of panic and substituted a different truth. “I set him up with Derrick.”

“So if you took nothing from him at the boat, there is no reason you would have Quinn’s memories?”

She felt the prickle of sweat on her skin, remembered too well the visceral feel of a knife pushed through flesh and the image of a face in close proximity when she’d asked Quinn about the three red lightning bolts on his neck. “Only casual transfer,” she answered, as close as she felt she could get to mentioning Quinn wore her ink, though Cathal knew it.

Eamon’s expression became thoughtful. “I believe your best approach in trying to determine if you caused him harm would be to use your will as you do your gift, with razor sharp intention. Only instead of piercing flesh, imagine yourself slicing through the mental barrier you’ve erected against what you’ve taken, a precision cut with Quinn your sole focus.”

“Makes sense.” Though that didn’t keep her heartbeat from fluttering and skipping wildly at the prospect of pushing through the barrier protecting her from the horror-filled realities she’d made her own.

She closed her eyes, breathed in and out slowly, as if somehow that added to her control. The memories were like waves behind a storm wall, some lined-up, some overlapping, some stronger than others, capable of pushing more recent ones underneath in a surge of horror.

Focus on Quinn. Focus on Quinn. It became a mantra.

She concentrated on his face, but like ripples in a pond, that image slowly expanded until she saw the work she’d done on him, a sinuous water Dragon covering a vast amount of skin, its wings stretched and curved in flight, enfolding him as though man and beast were one.

She saw it then, the green snaking through the reds and blues and black that had been necessary to hide the AB tats. Yesss. Your gift. My gift.

From a seemingly long distance, she heard herself whimper and felt Eamon’s fingers on the back of her neck in response to it, there to make good on his promise to trace the sigils of a sleep spell.

The voice whispered through her mind again. Peordh. And the barriers parted like a funnel, reality becoming warm, emerald green waters with none of Quinn’s memories to be found there.

Peordh. The word lingered, resonating like a promise given.

She opened her eyes. “Nothing. I think it’s all good.” Though the fear that she’d harmed him still clung to her, and probably would until she saw for herself that he was okay.

“You seized, Etaín,” Cathal said, his fear slamming into her. “It’s not all good.”

Eamon leaned in, touching his lips to her ear, beading her nipples and banishing the fear. “A great deal of magic poured into you.”

“Changing me somehow?”

He hesitated. “Possibly.”

“I don’t remember any of it.” She very carefully kept her gaze from going to the tablet, with its picture of an emerald green Dragon. She was more than willing to let the heat that came from Eamon’s mouth and the apparent truce between the two men divert all conversation, at least for a little while.

She turned her head, lips seeking Eamon’s, finding them. Her tongue greeting his, desire a molten fire pouring into her with his taste, with the feel of Cathal’s gaze on them, his need untainted by jealousy.

He released her hands and she made good use of their freedom. Tangling one of them in the long strands of Eamon’s hair while the other went to the front of Cathal’s jeans.

Satisfaction purred through her at the feel of his hardened cock pushing aggressively against the zipper, that satisfaction deepening when his hands joined hers, making quick work of button and zipper, granting her access accompanied by a husky moan.

She loved the feel of him. Silk over hot steel. Loved finding the tip of his cock already wet in anticipation of being inside her. But more than anything, she loved the lack of tension and resistance, the sense of rightness at being together like this.

One of his hands covered hers, controlling the up and down slide of it while the other went to the front of her shirt.

Desire was a liquid heat in her belly, an ache centered in taut nipples. The promise of longing fulfilled.

Her back arched and it was Eamon who swallowed the soft moan that was agonized anticipation and a demand for Cathal to hurry with buttons and bra clasp, so she could feel his hands and lips on her bared breast.

Her cunt clenched at the imagined feel of hard tugs and sweet suction. Her stomach quivered, retreating from the waistband of her jeans, as if providing a gap between material and skin would summon touch, the slide and cup of a masculine hand. The torment and ecstasy of fingers on her clit, taking possession and returning pleasure, playing a game of dominance and submission as she grew wetter and wetter, her hips lifting and thighs splaying in a pleading for penetration and release.

She closed her eyes, taken over by the sensations bombarding her. The smooth satin of hair, and lips, and cock. The wet heat of an endless kiss. The rub and twine of tongues accompanied by the hot pulsing of a thick, fisted shaft.

Air caressed her breasts. And then Cathal did.

She cried out, pressing her nipple against his palm. Circled her thumb over the tip of his cock and was rewarded with the jerk of his hips, the slick flow of arousal—his, hers. She tore her mouth from Eamon’s just long enough to say, “Touch me.”

And he did, in the place that needed it most. His hand lingering only a moment on her belly, burning hot there then sliding lower to discover for himself just how ready she was to be loved.

This was magic enough for her. Having them both. Being able to enjoy them together like this. Deep relief and solidarity.

She lifted her pelvis in welcome. Her folds plump and swollen like well-kissed lips, her channel clenching with the proximity of Eamon’s fingers to it, begging to be filled by them, stretched and plundered. Her clit was erect, a knotted bundle of nerves sending fiery streaks of ecstasy all the way down to her toes with each of his strokes to it.

More. Harder. She wanted—

Her channel clenched violently, repeatedly, as orgasm came shockingly fast, her cry making the cock she stroked pulse and swell and strain. But rather than being sated and content, release only left her needy for more, for a deeper connection, a physical joining, to give as well as to receive.

She chose Eamon because they’d been separated, because he’d saved their lives today, because he’d made further inroads into her heart, and because he’d issued a sexual taunt about having her on her knees, with Cathal serving as witness.

Her lips curved in feminine anticipation of answering that taunt now, in this moment of bliss, when there was harmony instead of dissention.

Her hand slid from beneath Cathal’s, leaving his to continue the up and down stroke to his cock. She sent him a sultry glance, a challenge. “Your turn to watch.”

His nostrils flared but he didn’t deny her, didn’t snarl or bare his teeth when she moved, one knee settling on the cushion between Eamon’s open thighs, her hands going to the front of his shirt, freeing buttons as he placed his arms on the back of the couch, a lord waiting for his due, and she laughed against his mouth because even those who ruled could be made to beg.

She kissed him long and slow, captured and sucked his tongue in prelude to going to his ear, tongue exploring the new earrings he’d added along the shell, mouth settling on the tip, lingering there.

Victory was the catch of his breath. The arch of his back and the drop of his hand to his lap to free himself, to curl around his thick erection.

Elven pheromones. The scent of arousal. The feel of Cathal watching, all of it turned desire into a burning need, an inescapable destiny.

She captured tiny masculine nipples, tormented them with her fingers and then with her mouth, kissing downward until she was finally on her knees in front of him.

His expression was fierce demand. But she didn’t answer in the way he wanted.

She nuzzled the head of his cock, tongue darting out to lick, to explore the slit in it, to lash the part of his shaft above his hand. Only when his hips jerked upward with each of her touches did she relent, replacing his grip with hers, a tight fist that allowed her to take only what she wanted in her mouth.

“Etaín.” Growled, masculine command. Lord still.

Until she began sucking. Then the sound of her name became a pleading for pleasure and finally a shout of it as he came.

She swallowed him down, the taste of his release like molten magic. And even when liquid essence ceased pulsing into her mouth, she kept him there, worshipping him with tongue and lips as he hardened because of it, her movements allowing Cathal to see what it meant for the both of them, to be part of this world Eamon had revealed.

Jesus, he was beyond denial now. He couldn’t look away as Etaín continued to go down on Eamon. Couldn’t stop the up and down sweep of his hand on his shaft.

All he could think about was how much he wanted her mouth on him. Fuck, want was too tame a word. He was desperate for it.

A moan escaped. A pant followed.

He was burning up despite having shed his shirt. He was seconds away from coming on his chest and abdomen. His buttocks clenched as he remembered the way she’d ground her cunt against him the day before, ready to let him mark her with semen on her belly.

She finally stopped treating Eamon like a lollipop and came to him, eyes hot as she straddled him, sultry gaze promising ecstasy if he could survive long enough to experience it. Her lips were swollen, making him want to drag them downward.

“You could have made a fortune as a porn star,” he said, hand fisting in her hair.

She laughed. “Objectifying me now? Or offering to pass me on to one of your partners for representation?”

His lips pulled back. Instinctual baring. Possessiveness fully present even if jealousy had been submerged beneath an onslaught of lust the moment she’d put her hand on his dick. “Never.”

She bent down, mouth going unerringly to his nipple. Tongue a hot caress, a lightning strike straight downward.

His hips jerked upward. He didn’t even pretend control of them. “Put your mouth on me. Suck me off like you did Eamon.”

Points for him for acknowledging they weren’t just a couple. Instead of making him beg, she slid downward, taking him in hand, taking him between her lips.

“More.”

Deeper. Harder.

And she gave him what he wanted.

Took him until there was only white noise and searing, addictive release. Ecstasy that ebbed into a sensual lethargy invading every cell until it was dissipated by the swirl of her tongue and pull of lips.

He began to harden again as Eamon had. Desire returning in a thick fog. “I want inside you.”

Etaín wanted it too, but the screeching, trumpeted, fingernails-over-chalkboard rendition of Here Comes the Bride coming in through the window was a distraction she couldn’t ignore. “We’re about to have company.”

“Derrick?” Cathal guessed.

“Derrick,” she confirmed, a glance at the sketched Dragon and a splinter of fear for Quinn making her hurry to refasten bra and shirt then hustle to the front door.

She half expected Liam to step out of a shadow and prevent her from opening it. Let him try, she thought, stepping outside, the strike of sunshine and hit of fresh air a promise of intoxicating freedom.

Derrick was in the process of turning to make another pass in front of the house. He punched the horn and gave the bike a shot of gas at the sight of her.

Apparently she was allowed to be more than a leash-distance away from Eamon. He didn’t join her or trail after her as two and three at a time she took the steps leading down to the wrought iron gate.

Temptation came when she stepped onto the sidewalk and Derrick pulled up next to her. It gripped her in a wild euphoric rush.

If she swung onto the seat behind him, he’d take off. Run and keep running.

Her mother’s life. Not hers. But a flash of aggravation came when she realized Myk had moved in close enough to grab her if she attempted escape.

Derrick cut the engine and removed his helmet.

“Quinn?” she asked, his confusion over the question answer enough.

“I am not his keeper yet.”

“Your timing sucks then.”

“And hello to you too.”

He got off the bike, enfolding her in a hug, rocking them slightly as she hugged him back with the same intensity, inhaling his familiar scent and feeling a deep sense of peace.

She needed Cathal and Eamon. But she needed this too, this normal in her life.

“I’ve never been so scared,” Derrick whispered, hot tears wetting the side of her face as he alluded to her being taken by the Harlequin Rapist.

“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual.” She rocked them harder, a ward against guilt. She should have done this first thing this morning, made a point of seeing her friends in person. In truth, she should have done it yesterday rather than settling for a call to let them know she was safe and that Cathal and Eamon had reached her in time.

She’d been injured and taken to a healer. And then there’d been time with her men, the enforced sleep, the captain and Parker, the hospital…

Excuses. Her arms tightened on him and she felt the burn of her own tears as fear spiked into her, at how easy it could be to lose touch with the people who mattered to her. “You know I love you.”

He took a loud, shuddering breath, rubbing his wet cheek against hers. “Enough of this B-movie melodrama.”

She laughed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“We all have our skills, Etaín.” He touched his forehead to hers. “I love you too. You’re my best friend. Do you think maybe you could just stay out of trouble for a little while?”

“That’s what I was trying to do but someone’s obnoxious horn interrupted.”

He leaned away from her and grinned. “Oops. Sorry.” Though he absolutely didn’t sound it.

His hands went to the front of her shirt, undoing the buttons all the way down to her navel and redoing them so they actually lined up properly with their correct slots. Her body hummed with an awareness of the ink she’d put on him.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but did you come by just to act as the fashion police?”

“Your name is all in the news again because of the drive-by at the shelter. They’re also saying you were seen at the hospital last night—with your father and another policeman—visiting a victim in that shooting over in Oakland.” He touched his forehead to hers again. “Someone’s been keeping secrets.”

His voice was light, but it didn’t mask the pain. Even with the leather of his jacket between her palms and his skin, the hurt he felt ran up her arms to fist and squeeze her heart.

“That part of my life is so strange and fucked. It’s always just been easier to keep it separate.” And maybe some of her mother’s teachings had been too deeply ingrained to escape.

“If that’s an apology Etaín, it’s terrible.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“We’ll just have to work on that aspect of sharing in our relationship.”

“Says the man with a whole library of self-help books. How’d you know I was here?”

“I have my sources.”

She considered just what Derrick had interrupted. And what the seizure had interrupted before it. The point of visiting Sean personally was because he was a private investigator and good at what he did. Letting Sean direct the conversation might pry loose additional names and faces and facts, adding to the list of possible killers wearing her ink. But she already had enough for him to start with, and though she could give him the names over the phone, it made better sense to do some sketches then have Derrick deliver them.

“Come on,” she said, noting that Myk had retreated, his attention on their surroundings rather than on Derrick and her. “Let’s go inside.”

She stepped away from him, breaking the physical contact to reach for the gate and open it.

“Aren’t you going to invite that delicious example of a bodyguard to come with?”

“Stick to one boyfriend, Derrick. Two is twice the work and twice the headache.”

He laughed, following her into the TV room. Seeing both Cathal and Eamon, one with no shirt and the other with the buttons undone, Derrick stopped her with hands on her shoulders. “Oh you naughty, naughty girl, you.”

Heat crept up her neck and into her face. “You’re on the crotch rocket and wearing leather, usually that means you’re channeling your inner man.”

He lifted his hands, fingers clawing the air. “Meow, meow. Just how many secrets are you keeping?”

But at least this time Derrick emoted pure relish rather than hurt.

She made the official introductions then took a seat, grateful for an excuse to flip the sketch pad to a clean page and away from the picture of the Dragon waiting there like a storm warning now that the fun and games had been interrupted.

As she drew faces and the tattoos associated with them, she skirted the issue of magic and Elves and changes to her gift, though she shared some of the truth with Derrick. What she’d done in the past at the captain and Parker’s request. Why she’d been at the hospital and how she’d come to owe Anton the favor that had her standing with him in front of the shelter. She hoped as she did it, and then later, when she handed Derrick the finished sketches, that she wouldn’t come to regret involving him in this.

“Walk me back to my bike?”

“Definitely.”

When they got to it he said falsetto-voiced, “I am sooo jealous.”

“They are both gorgeous, aren’t they? Lucky me.”

He hugged her and his pain vibrated through her, sharp enough she felt the Dragon’s awareness in the heat racing through her tattoos, and that made her nearly jerk from his embrace. “I’m sorry,” she said.

His arms tightened. “We’ve been best friends for years, a lot longer than you’ve known them, but you trusted them—”

“Let’s not do this, Derrick. Please. I’ve got problems enough waiting for me inside. There’s more to all this than it’s safe to tell you right now, okay?”

“But you will tell me?”

“I’ll tell you what I can. When I can.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

He circled back. “What problems?”

“Two boyfriends. Twice the work when it comes to relationships.”

He buried his face in her hair, whispered, “Mr. Edible isn’t close enough to grab you this time. You could leave with me.”

“I’ve got a better plan.”

“Does it involve sex?”

“Yes.”

“Yummy. I think I’ll go see what Quinn is up to.”

Giving her a final hug, he left.

Etaín turned, pausing to take in Myk with his ass-length brown hair and beautiful features. Oh yeah.

One side of his mouth kicked up, turning stunning into mesmerizing. “If it pleases the Lady, I’d appreciate it if she didn’t mention the nickname.”

“I’ll think about it.” Though steps later, as she passed him, she couldn’t resist adding, “Mr. Edible.”

She entered the house, kicking off her shoes, unbuttoning and ridding herself of her shirt as she traveled down the hallway. The bra she discarded just as she reached the TV room. The best defense was a good offense.