Inked Destiny

Seventeen

Fuck! Shock surged through Cathal along with adrenaline, his reality twisting and altering further as the ink along his forearms flared in connection to a seamless, eye-blink-fast sequence of events.

A punk with a gun held sideways gangster-style becoming visible, aiming unmistakably at him.

The flight of a knife on a whispered cry that sounded like the call of a hawk.

The unerring slide of that blade through cloth and skin, flaring blue as it pierced an assassin’s heart, that bright color fading to black in a graduated slide.

“We are safe from the prying eye of camera lens,” Cage said, startling Cathal, suspicion slamming into him, though it didn’t stop him from getting a closer look at the body.

Gangbanger. Hired gun. Hispanic. And it was no stretch to believe this attempt was payback for what his father and uncle had done to the boys who had drugged and raped Brianna and Caitlyn.

Justice. Revenge. Sometimes the two were so close as to be nearly inseparable, nothing more than shades of intention.

Having seen Etaín’s drawings of what his cousin and her friend had endured…He didn’t know whether it was hope or dread that had him asking, “Is he human?”

“Ah, so you know the possibility exists that he might not be.”

Cage knelt next to the corpse, his eyes flaring red as he pulled the blade from the body.

Primal fear urged Cathal to bolt. He stood firm.

White teeth flashed in a darkness made less so by distant street lamps and a bright moon. “Yes, this killer is human. He is no loss to your race. The same could not be said of you. I’ve answered your question. In exchange, I’ll ask. Do you know what Eamon is?”

“Yes.”

“And Etaín?”

“Yes.”

“Name it.”

“Changeling.”

There was a fleeting expression of surprise on Cage’s face. “And seidic.”

“Yes.”

“She recognizes Eamon as her lord?”

Despite the détente of earlier, Cathal felt a twisting in his gut, a tightening at the prospect of being a human living among the supernatural. “Neither of us do.”

“You don’t call him Lord, yet. It surprises me that he hasn’t claimed her for his own.”

Cathal glanced away, images filling his mind, of Eamon between Etaín’s thighs. The sound of her cries of pleasure accompanying the replay of reality, reminding him of why he’d left the club, so he could join them, jealousy submerged under new-found ecstasy.

Cage read him. Or guessed. “So they’re lovers already.”

Cathal forced himself to answer. This was the truth of his life unless something changed. “Yes. They’re lovers.”

Cage understood then the lack of Elven wards or presence, a large piece of the puzzle sliding into place. Among the supernatural, be it territory or jewels or in this case, a mate, you possessed only what you could hold against challengers or thieves or any manner of other predator, though death was not generally a consequence of failure when it came to the long-lived.

He would not have thought Eamon ruthless enough to play such a game with this bound mortal, but to gain full control of a seidic, a truly powerful one…

Cage felt no compunction in pointing out the obvious, in using it to his advantage. Indicating the body he said, “Eamon has apparently chosen not to protect you by assigning a guard. It suggests to me that blame wouldn’t have fallen on him if this human had been successful in taking your life. It’s an easy way to get rid of a rival, wouldn’t you agree? An easy way to free his lover of one choice in order to make a more advantageous one should he wish to share her at all.”

Suspicion returned with a hot burn, though not directed at Eamon. “Yes,” Cathal said, crouching next to Cage and wondering again if this was a setup to gain his confidence. Familiar paranoia gripped him, a side effect of being a mafia don’s son and one only heightened by the presence of a corpse.

“The seidic could be yours alone, unless it’s you who prefers an arrangement that includes another man. I have books in my possession, knowledge to ensure she survives the change. It would require a move to Seattle. I can keep you both safe there from Lord Eamon as well as other Elven threats.”

Cathal rolled his phone in his hand, for the first time becoming aware of having pulled it from his pocket. He’d instinctively meant to call 911 but hesitated because he was in the presence of the supernatural, because it was easy to anticipate Eamon’s reaction. It was easier still to envision Eamon attributing the reason for the attack to the Dunnes and using it as an excuse to remove Etaín from harm’s reach, his power one Cathal couldn’t hope to either challenge or defeat.

Noting the phone, Cage said, “The spell I cast hides us from cameras only, not from prying eyes. If you intend to call your human authorities, I’ll be on my way and leave you to explain what happened here. Or say the word and I will ensure the corpse is not discovered. In exchange, I ask only that you consider what I’ve said and arrange for an introduction to Etaín.”

“No demand for secrecy?”

Cage shrugged. “What do you think will occur if Eamon knows of either my interest in your mate or my offer to help you escape his control?”

Incarceration.

Cathal pocketed his phone in answer, going through the dead killer’s clothing and finding a cellphone, but nothing else of interest. He removed it, asking, “How would I get in touch with you?”

“I believe you were at the marina earlier in the day, or if not, then your mate was, visiting Quinn and possibly his lover. Am I correct?”

“We were there.”

Suspicion and paranoia faded beneath the memory of Eamon’s warning that the magic causing Etaín to seize would draw the supernatural like a beacon. “What are you?”

Cage’s eyes flashed red. “That’s an answer to be gained in a meeting other than this one. Time is running out. Do you wish me to take care of the corpse?”

“Handle it,” Cathal said, standing and walking away, misgiving filling him with each step, bordering on regret.

The dead man’s phone was heavy in his hand. Choice and consequence. Innocence and guilt and the ominous weight of what was right and what was wrong. This was why he’d never wanted to take that first slippery step into his father’s world…and yet doing it had led to Etaín.

He managed to get home before the shakes started and he had to battle a wave of nausea. Christ. Christ. He’d nearly died. He’d watched another man get killed and he’d walked away. But those weren’t the only reasons for the twist in his guts, the uneasiness.

Hard to miss Myk outside the house and Liam inside it. Bodyguards because Etaín was important.

Suspicion gnawed at him as he climbed the steps to his bedroom. He braced himself, and didn’t bother denying the relief he felt when he saw Etaín alone.

I could have her to myself. He liked Seattle. He could open another club, have someone else manage the one in San Francisco. It’d put distance between him and his father and uncle. He could have Brianna come to stay with him, away from the truth she’d eventually piece together.

Temptation rode him, made fiercer when Etaín kicked off the covers as if sensing his arrival. Jesus she was beautiful.

He stripped, gaze roaming her body, dark pink nipples and splayed thighs, woman’s folds and a small triangle of golden hair pointing to her clit and opening, though he didn’t need anything to guide him to heaven.

His cock was already hard and insistent. He could lose himself in her.

Hell, he already had. He’d been out of control from the moment he stood outside Stylin’ Ink and saw her through the window.

“Maybe it’ll be simple,” his father had said after leaving Caitlyn’s gravesite, that day his involvement with her had begun.

Simple? Cathal’s silent laugh was a rough, sharp scrape over raw nerve endings.

He got on the bed next to her, the jostle enough to have thick eyelashes fluttering to reveal eyes so dark they seemed black.

“Eamon?” she murmured, and his lips pulled back, a baring of teeth because her greeting ripped away the barrier that jealousy and possessiveness had been secured behind since her seizure on the boat.

“I don’t know where the fuck he is.” He didn’t care. Eamon was probably getting an update on the events at the club.

Wouldn’t Lord Eamon know Cage was in his territory? Wouldn’t he have had Elves stationed outside the shelter and at the marina to see who showed up, given all the dire warnings about magic drawing others to investigate? Wouldn’t he have had Cage followed?

Fuck it. He didn’t want to think about Eamon, though suspicion crawled deeper into his gut.

“He doesn’t matter. Not right now.” A growl to match the baring of teeth, his mouth slamming down on hers, his body covering hers, vibrating with the need to dominate, to drive any thought of another man out of her with the pounding thrust of his cock.

Her legs went around his waist. He surged into her.

Not deep enough.

Not deep enough.

Everything inside him demanded more.

He pulled out, experiencing a primal satisfaction at her whimpered no.

Wrenching himself upward, breaking the lock of her legs, he slid his arms under them, the position rendering her more vulnerable, allowing him to have what he wanted. Needed.

He pushed into her again. It didn’t matter how many times he had her, she stayed tight and hot, internal muscles clinging even as they resisted, making him work for it, making him feel like a well-hung stallion.

She’d probably call him a bull.

And still she met him thrust for thrust. His equal in this because despite how her body might soften, or the whimpers and cries he could draw from her, she wasn’t submissive at her core.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was this.

She was his.

His.

His.

The word reverberated with each thrust.

Again and again and again. Becoming a primal scream when her channel clamped down on him, release and demand at the same time, her orgasm triggering his own.

He came in a scorching blast only to discover when his head cleared that it wasn’t enough. Might never be enough.

Adrenaline. Elven pheromones. Nearly dying. He’d already hardened again inside her, the sultry expression on her face a claim of female victory, a challenge that had his nostrils flaring.

He pulled from her sheath, the exodus creating a flood of semen and arousal. He followed it to the tight rosette, watched smoldering eyes flash with a hint of erotic fear.

“Have you ever let a man take your ass?”

“No.”

His cock thickened in anticipation, as something primitive and dark took hold of him at being the first. He’d promised her this, though he took the time to prepare her. And then he claimed her, fingers working her clit, making sure she came before he did.