Kinked

TWENTY-TWO

When Aryal shapeshifted back into her human form and sat at the edge of the operating table, Quentin was ready with a clean set of folded scrubs. He helped her into them. Then he stroked her hair as she leaned against his chest.

Dragos and Pia had already disappeared, and so had the surgeon. The door opened, and a nurse approached with a wheelchair. “I’m here to take you to your room now.”

Aryal’s head snapped up. She stared at the wheelchair with wide-eyed repugnance.

Quentin told the nurse, “Hospitals are for sick people, and we’re going home.”

The nurse’s face froze. “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Just wait a few minutes while I get some release forms for you to sign. I’ll be right back.”

They didn’t wait. Instead they walked slowly down the hall, arms around each other’s waists. He asked, “Your place or mine?”

“There’s awesome delivery in the Tower,” she said, enunciating each word with the carefulness of the extremely tired. “No need to cook.”

“There’s pretty awesome delivery over the bar too,” he told her.

“Then I don’t care.”

“We’ll go to my place.”

While he had waited for Aryal as she had gotten x-rayed, Quentin called Dragos’s assistant Kris, who had shown up shortly afterward with a new iPhone for each of them, each one already downloaded with all of their contacts, along with two slim wallets with expense cards and cash.

He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. The time on the screen read 8:32 P.M. He thumbed the lock off and dialed Rupert at the bar. “Hey boss,” the half troll rumbled. “Glad you’re back in town. Aren’t you a little early?”

It took a few moments for Quentin to connect. Rupert was referring to their original two-week ban from New York. He said, “Never mind that, things have changed. I’m on my way home now. Stock my fridge with food from the corner grocery, would you?”

“Sure thing,” said Rupert.

“Thanks.”

“Since we’re talking, can you answer some bar questions?”

“No.” He disconnected.

A hospital representative caught them before they could slip out one of the exits, and Aryal had to sign release forms after all.

By the time their taxi pulled up to Elfie’s, it was past ten o’clock. After the summer heat in Numenlaur, the early April evening was pleasantly sharp and chilly. The bar was going strong, which was a good thing because he just remembered he didn’t have his keys. They could slip upstairs through the interior entrance, except …

He looked at Aryal’s pale, angular features as she watched the crowd in the bar. No way was he up for that kind of explanation. Not until tomorrow. Or maybe next week. “Are you all right with waiting on the stoop while I go inside and let us through?”

“Yep,” Aryal said. She looked kind of dreamy, like she was stoned.

“Are you okay?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yep,” she said again. “I feel pretty good, considering.”

He left her and went through the bar. People hailed him, and everybody hitched to a stop, staring at his face and at the scrubs. He waved to them all, ignored the chorus of comments and shocked questions, strode through to the stockroom, let himself into his private stairwell and found Aryal sitting on the stoop outside, leaning against the corner of one wall.

He opened the door and bent over her—and found her sound asleep.

He gathered her up gently, carried her upstairs and put her, and himself, in bed.

His exhausted, overstimulated mind ran compulsively through the survival list.

Food, water, shelter, clothing.

Love.

He pulled Aryal’s sleeping form against him, tucked her head into his shoulder, put his face in her soft, clean hair and slept.

Sometime in the middle of the night, they both woke. Their body clocks were all screwed up. They made love with silent urgency and fell asleep afterward while Quentin was still inside of her.

That dictated the pattern of the next few days.

Waking, making love. Eating, making love. Sleep. There was a disjointed rhythm to all of it, like tacking in a zigzag pattern in a sailboat against a crosswind.

He lost himself in the sensual evidence of her, her scent, her skin, her deadly, sleek muscles, the startling softness of her breasts and the incredibly lush prison of her inner flesh as she gripped his penis. And he moved, and moved, and moved inside of her until they both sobbed for breath and shuddered helplessly from the ecstasy of it. That wild, dangerous part of him that had been running so hard knew that it had found what it was looking for, and had finally come home.

When they talked, there was no beginning or end to the conversation. It was as if it had gone on forever. He began to wonder if that was a little bit like what Aryal had referred to the night of the sentinel party, when she had talked of immortality.

His father had always sworn that while Quentin could change into a Wyr form, his energy felt Elven. He had a feeling he was going to find out with Aryal what immortality was like.

“What could Pia be?” Aryal asked. “Did she bleed when she healed you too?”

“Yes,” he said. They lay with their limbs tangled, and she cradled his head on her breast. He mouthed her nipple without urgency. They had already spent each other. “I can only think of one creature.” He said it slowly, because the idea was so outlandish. “But I thought they were a myth.”

“A myth like dragons, or harpies?” she asked, her mouth tilted, and he had to concede her point. “If she is one, then I understand now why she hasn’t revealed her Wyr form to the public. She’ll be hunted for the rest of her life if she does, and what about the baby? No, that’s not right. We know his Wyr form is a dragon. That’s why they thought her gestation period was going to be so long, until he managed to flip into a human baby before she went into labor.”

“If she is one,” he said grimly, “it doesn’t matter what the baby’s Wyr form is. He’ll be hunted too.”

“I guess I can understand why Pia came with Dragos to Numenlaur,” Aryal said sleepily. “But I don’t know why they brought Liam with them.”

Quentin shook his head. “Actually, you’ve got that backward. This time Dragos came with Pia. She told me when she healed me. Originally he had only intended on sending the rest of the sentinels, but Pia insisted on coming because she was worried we might be hurt. Then Dragos wouldn’t stay behind, of course. Since Dragos wasn’t going to go into battle, Pia felt safe to bring Liam too. She wanted to keep the baby with her, because they were concerned that the time slippage might be significant.”

Aryal coughed out a chuckle. “Did she really insist? Good on her. I wondered when they all showed up. I mean, Galya was a handful, but come on. It only took two of us to take her down.”

Quentin grinned. “That it did.”

After that they fell into a thoughtful silence.

They began to recover their strength and stamina. Not that the mating urgency let up, not by any means—it was far too soon for that—but they began to have room to consider other things.

Quentin checked his voicemail and text messages, and he discovered that Pia had returned the phone call he had made before he left New York, and she had left a message for him too.

“Hi, Quentin,” she said. “I appreciate you calling, and I know that you’re sorry for what happened. We’ve both made some pretty big mistakes, and it’s okay to forget about it. Just don’t do it again, and we can let it fall into the past where it belongs. Okay?”

As he listened, at first he didn’t remember his apology for his fight with Aryal in the hallway. For a moment he thought she referred to what he had done last year, and he felt shocked into newness, washed clean. Then the context of her message came clear, and he had to smile at himself, albeit a bit crookedly.

Still, a touch of that newness remained, and he took her message to heart, setting it all behind him to concentrate on now, and the future.

Ferion had also left a message, one filled with deep, heartfelt thanks to both of them. Quentin told Aryal about it as he texted Ferion in reply. You’re welcome. Ever heard of something called the Phoenix Cauldron?

Ferion replied almost immediately. No. What is it?

What the witch was looking for in Numenlaur.

Then, because the question remained on his mind, he shrugged and texted Dragos. Galya was hunting for an item called the Phoenix Cauldron. Do you know what that is?

The silence lasted just long enough to make him wonder. He had already heard from the older sentinels that Dragos didn’t like to put sensitive information into writing of any kind.

His phone rang. He answered.

Dragos said without preamble, “If Galya was looking for a physical item, it’s no wonder she didn’t find anything. The name is misleading—that’s a resurrection spell, not an item. The results are monstrous. Any records of how to cast it were supposed to have been destroyed a very long time ago. But you know how that goes. What people are supposed to do, and what they really do, are often two different things.” He paused. “How are you two doing?”

“Good,” said Quentin. “We’re good.”

“You did well in Numenlaur,” Dragos told him.

Quentin remembered all too well Dragos’s expression as he had stared at the witch’s body on the beach. He had looked astonished, then approving. Clearly he hadn’t thought that Aryal and Quentin could take down Galya by themselves.

Not that Dragos’s opinion mattered to him, but still.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. Both men disconnected without good-byes.

Aryal recovered too, but she didn’t thrive. Her appetite was fitful, and she lost weight. At odd times he caught her looking out the window, up at the sky. Once he woke in the middle of the night. He rolled over to find her already awake, staring bleakly at nothing. She grew jittery, distracted.

He wasn’t having it.

He started to bark at her like a drill sergeant, driving her through the days and nights. Telling her to eat. Snapping when she didn’t pay attention.

On the fourth day, he nagged her into going with him to the gym at the Tower. People stared in wonder, especially at him. Either they were looking at his scars, or they were wondering at his sanity.

Bless them, they were probably doing both. He ignored them.

“Come on, let’s fight,” he said to Aryal. “What will it be—sword, nunchakus or hand to hand?”

She glanced at the training mats and shook her head. “I’m not interested.”

Inside, his heart pounded. Could she really pine away despite all of her promises to the contrary?

“Oh, no you don’t.” He advanced on her. “You will pick something, or I will pick for you.”

She shrugged and a touch of sullenness entered her expression. “So, pick.”

He snagged his ankle behind her foot and elbowed her hard, knocking her flat.

She took her time rolling over to her hands and knees. When he looked in her eyes, a faint anger had begun to spark.

He slammed her down again, hard as he could.

She came up faster.

Doctor said Aryal couldn’t use her wings. Didn’t say a word about anything else. And he discovered he was mad at her for scaring him when she jumped off that cursed bluff, and for not hitting him back. For not eating or sleeping well. For not trying hard enough.

He lunged forward again.

This time she blocked him.

They stood face-to-face, straining against each other.

She glared. “You suck!”

He smiled. “There you are, sunshine,” he purred. “I missed you.”

They fought each other single-mindedly until they were both on the mat. Then she scooted over to put her arms around his neck and hug him fiercely. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll do better.”

He put his face in her neck and held her tight.

When he finally loosened his hold and they went to stand, Graydon and Grym were there to offer them a hand up. The other sentinels wore sober expressions. Behind them, a wide-eyed crowd had gathered to watch the fight. Now that the fireworks were over, people began to drift away.

Graydon pulled Aryal upright and into a tight bear hug. “Good to see you surface,” Graydon said to her. “I almost came over to bang down Quentin’s door.”

“I almost did too,” said Grym, as he gave Quentin a smile as sharp as if he had pulled a sword. Telepathically he said, I have just one thing to say about you and Aryal.

Hit me with it, said Quentin with an equally sharp smile. He shook out his arm muscles and readied himself in case Grym’s message became physical.

If you betray her in any way, said Grym, I may not be able to kill you, because that would kill her. But I will hurt you very, very badly. And repeatedly. That’s a promise.

Quentin relaxed, and his smile turned real. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” he said aloud.

Grym ran his fingers through his black hair, blew out a breath then gradually relaxed.

Whatever Aryal and Graydon said to each other was private too. Afterward, Graydon turned to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you. I’m glad you guys are home.”

Quentin studied the First’s craggy, good-humored face. Graydon had said it in all sincerity. “It’s good to be home.”

The days continued to trickle by. Alex gave them each a hug and a gift of the top fifty Oscar-winning movies on DVD. Bayne and Constantine brought stacks of pizza and beer one night, and stayed overlong.

Aryal showed Quentin her apartment in the Tower. He took one long look around at the chaotic mess. Then he said, “I think it’s a good thing if we each have our own place for a while, yes?”

She grinned. “Yes.”

After their fight in the gym, she ate better but still had trouble sleeping. When her face started to grow tight and stressed, he made love to her with single-minded passion until they both fell into oblivion.

To work off nerves, they went running, sometimes for hours on end until their bodies poured with sweat, setting two treadmills in the gym on their highest setting. They burned out the motors in two pairs of treadmills. Nobody complained.

One evening, wearing a pair of her jeans and one of his old sweatshirts, she disappeared for a short time. He said nothing when she left his apartment. He’d had a key cut for her, and really, he couldn’t watch her 24/7. He was with the surgeon on that one. She was a big girl. In the end, it was up to her to decide to do the right thing.

He regretted that thought almost immediately and paced furiously, because he had developed all the obsession in the world needed to watch her 24/7, if only she would show up again so that he could get to it.

A key turned in the lock forty minutes later. He spun away from the living room window where he had been staring out blankly.

Aryal walked in. She carried a longish bag and looked settled on some kind of decision.

“Hey, sunshine,” he said. His tone was mild. He was such a goddamn liar.

“Hi.” She shut and bolted the door behind her.

He picked up a novel he was trying to read and thumbed through the pages. “Where’d you go?”

“To a store I know.” She took a deep breath that shuddered a bit, and then it was her turn to pace through the wide-open area. The jitters were back. Her gaze bounced to him and away again. “I haven’t said it yet, and it’s past time. I love you. And I am really grateful for what you’ve been doing over the last several days.” She craned her neck from side to side. He saw, grimly, that her hands were shaking. “I have one more favor to ask.”

“For God’s sake, just spit it out.”

She reached into the bag, drew out a crop and threw it at him. He stared without catching it. It struck his chest and fell with a clatter to the floor. Whatever he had braced himself for, he hadn’t expected this.

He said, “Aryal.”

She had never asked such a thing of him before. This was a game changer.

This was not what they were together. They played at games of dominance and bargained for time with each other, and that was one of the very best things they did together, the strain of the give and the sweetness of the take, all leavened with the spice of uncertainty.

She tore off the sweatshirt. She didn’t wear anything underneath, her racy, streamlined torso bare. “I need you to do this. I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t do something. I’m like an addict. It’ s—” She looked outside at the sky, her face stark. “It’s my food, water and air. It’s all of that, and we aren’t even paragliding.”

They had talked about trying to paraglide, and had decided against it for the two-week wait. She didn’t trust herself not to shapeshift if she got into the air.

“I get it,” he said, and he did. Her pain crawled in his marrow. The waiting and the uncertainty were a cruel combination. If they only knew one thing or the other, they could take steps to deal with it.

Her face clenched. She kicked off her shoes, tore off her jeans and came to stand in front of him.

“I have to get this feeling out,” she said through her teeth. “Help me get it outside of my body.”

Slowly he picked up the crop and he turned away as he looked down at it. That whip she had inside of her that was so like his—it wouldn’t stop driving at her until she got some relief.

“I love you too,” he said. He turned back around and struck at her, a fast, controlled blow across one thigh.

She jerked and bit back a strangled sound. She said, “Again.”

He walked around her, struck at her buttocks and watched as a reddened welt raised against her pale skin. While he was no stranger to whipping scenes, his experiences had always before had a sense of playfulness to the game.

This wasn’t playful. This was raw. He felt so strange, heavy and aching and his chest started to burn again, and all he wanted was her inner pain to ease so that she could get some peace for a little while.

“Come on,” she said. Her nose sounded clogged. “Do it.”

The crop rose and fell across her back, that beautiful back with the etched muscles that was so strong and feminine at once. He said from the back of his throat, “Please tell me if this is helping.”

Her head nodded jerkily. “ I—I think so.”

His arm rose and fell.

Rose and fell.

Every time he watched her jerk under a blow, he seemed to step outside his own body. He struck her again, and the crop almost fell out of his nerveless fingers. He honestly didn’t know how much more he could take.

Then he walked around to face her. Her eyes were closed and her face had turned peaceful. All strain had eased from her features. As soon as he saw that, his own crisis of strain eased until he felt light-headed.

He asked her softly, “Do you need more?”

She fingered the welt on her thigh. “No,” she whispered. “The pain’s all on the outside now.” She looked up quickly and searched his gaze. “Did we go too far?”

He shook his head. “There isn’t anywhere I wouldn’t go with you.”

The truth, laid out between them.

Wrapped in a double negative.

Perfect. Kinked.

Her mouth pulled into a wry smile. She walked over to him and kissed him gently, her lips caressing his. “There isn’t anywhere I wouldn’t go with you either.”

“You owe me now,” he said. As he licked her lips and caressed her breasts, his cock hardened.

She didn’t even try to quibble. “I do, don’t I? What do I owe you?”

“A collar around your neck, and your wrists handcuffed,” he whispered.

She drew back her head and looked at him askance. “We’ve had that conversation already.”

“Yes, and we’re not finished with it. Remember—I said, what would it take? You said my soul for all eternity.” His sense of humor surfaced. Brimming with sensual mischief, he cocked his head and held out both hands. “I’ve lived up to my side of the bargain. I thought that might mean something to someone like you, since you revel in legalistic thinking.”

She started to laugh, her face creased with genuine humor. “You got me. You rotten son of a—”

He put a hand over her mouth. “Stop talking. There are much, much better uses for your mouth than that.”

I agree, she told him telepathically.

She ran her hands down his body as she knelt and unzipped his jeans. He stroked her hair, staring without blinking as she pulled out his penis and kissed the tip. Then she took him in her mouth and suckled at him until his breath sawed in his throat and he pumped into her.

She reached up with one hand. He laced his fingers through hers and held on until his own climax ripped through him. A harsh, shaken groan broke out of him as he spurted into her mouth.

Afterward, he whispered, “My turn.” And he nudged her onto the couch so that he could spread her legs wide. Her fluted sex was so beautiful, so drenched, he bent his head and feasted on her until her body jerked underneath his hold. She gave her own climax to him, crying out sharply as she shuddered.

He pushed her to climax again, and again, until finally she lay lax, eyes half-closed and drifting. Then he couldn’t stay outside of her a moment longer. He eased his cock inside of her, rocking gently into the warm, tight home she made for him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, nuzzling at him as he moved.

He thought their joining this time was about tenderness, but then something happened, some switch flipped between them. She growled or he did. His rhythm picked up urgency. Gods, he could not get deep enough inside of her. When they both climaxed that time, it felt wrung out of them, all wildness, all passion turned inside out in the blaze that consumed them both.

Afterward, as she stroked the back of his neck and he looked down the length of their entwined bodies, he knew one of the deepest reasons why they fit together was that they drove each other until they finally achieved peace.

Quentin wasn’t about to leave anything to chance. He talked with her late into the night and made plans for when the fourteen days were up. He knew that having something concrete in her mind would help, and it did.

She would try a short flight at dawn. If she couldn’t manage it, they would head out immediately for the nearest regional airport and he would give her the first paragliding lesson. One way or another, she would be in the air that day. All day, if she needed.

And that did help. Her volatile emotional spinning stopped, and she was able to calm down and focus.

They asked Dragos and Pia to join them on the rooftop of the Tower.

“I don’t think I can stand a lot of spectators,” Aryal said. “But I want them there. Dragos can be my spotter in case—well, in case. And I wouldn’t even be trying without Pia.”

“I agree,” Quentin said. “It’s a perfect plan.”

Both Dragos and Pia responded readily and said they would be happy to be present.

Quentin and Aryal spent a sleepless night on the rooftop, wrapped in blankets and watching a fabulously clear swathe of stars. As a bright dawn broke over the water, the rooftop door opened and Dragos and Pia walked out. Dragos wore black camouflage pants and a T-shirt, and Pia wore something fleecy that looked soft and comfortable. They had left Liam with a nurse.

“There you are,” Aryal blurted out. She shot to her feet, a hectic flush staining her cheekbones.

Quentin rose almost as quickly. By the time he had straightened to his full height, she had already shapeshifted into the harpy. She held her wings closed and tight along her back, her feral face miserable and fists clenched.

“Good morning,” Pia said. She smiled at Aryal.

Quentin couldn’t stand it. Waiting the last two weeks had been such an agony for Aryal, and pleasantries were like rubbing salt into the wound. He nodded to Dragos and said to Aryal, “Let’s go. Do it.”

She jerked her head in a nod. They walked together to the edge of the building, and she hopped up on the ledge. Then she turned back to face him. The tension came off her in palpable waves, and she still had not unclenched her wings.

The harpy looked at Dragos, who walked over to stand by the ledge as well. He regarded her calmly. “If you need it, I will catch you,” Dragos said. His gold eyes were as steady as the earth.

Quentin might never like the dragon much, but in that moment, because of Dragos’s steady promise to his unnerved mate, Quentin loved him.

Aryal glanced at Quentin. She appeared to be frozen.

So she preferred the element of surprise, did she?

He shook his head as a fitful wind blasted his face, and he struck her in the middle of her breastbone with the flat of his hand. The blow was so strong it knocked her off the ledge.

As she went backward, he said, “Time to rip off the Band-Aid.”

Something about that wind must have irritated his recently healed eye, because his vision blurred with wetness as he watched her tumble in the air.

Then her wings snapped out.

She reached for the sky with both hands.

The harpy surged into the air with a joyous scream so primal it raised the hairs on the back of his neck and damn near pulled his heart out of his chest. She soared, wings hammering down, and he roared back at his mate as he soared with her in spirit.

Distantly, he heard shouts and cheers. Word must have gotten around, because a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. A quick glance down revealed that all the other sentinels were present, their faces tilted up to watch the harpy’s flight.

Dragos’s expression was alight. Pia wiped her eyes with one sleeve.

Aryal rose, dove and looped up again. Eventually she drifted down to land on one knee in front of Pia, where she stayed, and Quentin realized she was offering full obeisance.

Pia’s face worked. She looked profoundly moved and immensely uncomfortable, and she started to shake her head.

“I finally figured you out,” said the harpy. She angled her head to look up at Pia with a sly sidelong smile. “You really do poop sparkly rainbows.”

Pia’s eyebrows shot up. She blinked.

Dragos folded his arms. He looked exasperated, as he did so often with Aryal. “What the hell does that mean?”

Aryal stretched out her wings that were all the more beautiful for the scars they bore. She met Quentin’s smiling gaze.

She asked him in an innocent tone, “Was it something I said?”