Page 45 of The Phoenix

Their dinner arrived. While they ate, they shared small details about their lives, the experiences which made them unique. Once they finished, he paid the bill, helped Celene from her chair, and asked, “Do you want to ride first or shall I?”

She rode first. And yes, his breath hitched when she mounted the questing beast, snorts shooting from its nose, its dangerous silver horns tossing from side to side, and its hooves pounding the ground. And yes, under the short skirt, her barely clad ass was on view to the entire bar. But when she smiled at him, his world was good. Hell. It was great.

Then the attending male, a giant berserker, let the beast loose. It bucked. It spun. It twisted. Her legs jounced up and down. She bounced in the saddle. Her breasts almost flopped out of her top. All the while, his Celene hung on. Until she didn’t. When the animal arched its back and reared, she snapped to the ground.

Nace bounded over the fence. He lowered a shoulder to body-check the wilding before it could stomp on her. While the beast was still dazed from the contact, he scooped her off the straw-littered ground and jumped out of the corral. Once she was safe, he set her feet on the floor.

Her hair was tousled, her clothes disheveled, but her eyes bright. “What a ride!” She patted her body. “No broken bones. All’s good. When can we come back? I think I can hold on longer next time.” With her lips curved, her eyes bright, she wiggled her skirt into place and slipped into her heels while she smoothed her too-snug top. She finger-combed her hair, removing debris.

That’s when Nace knew for certain, his big cat feeling the bond slip into place. Celene was his mate. The male and the beast were in love with a daredevil trust-fund baby who was a Blood Coven descendant with a target on her back and way too much spirit. Damn. His protective jaguar was in hell and looking forward to every moment there.

Chapter Ten

Indigo kicked back in a chair beside Roark. She lobbed a boot onto the table. Her braided hair trailed over the seatback, nearly brushing the floor. Lynretta had called them to her office in the bowels of the Ministry of Well Being.

The petite and curvy succubus historian staggered into the room, laboring under an enormous stack of books. She added them to the tons already covering the table. Unable to mask the excitement in her eyes, she snagged a seat. “I’ve found something.” She had the nerve to wink at Roark.

“We’re listening.” The kinda-shifter flashed the succubus a sexy grin.

Shuddering, she was all atwitter. The historian stared at the kinda-shifter, her chin angled to the side, her eyes dreamy.

Indigo snapped her fingers. It was that or the succubus’s neck. She was proud of herself for choosing the less violent option, personal growth being a marvelous trait. Jealousy wasn’t Indigo’s thing. When it came to Roark, though, her violet eyes blazed green. Not pretty. The past several days had been filled with research and sexual innuendo while she and her client, the shifty shifter, waited for a message from Lynretta.

During the long interval, Indigo remained steadfast. She avoided dancing the tango with a seductive Roark. He was sneaky, corrupt, evil, dangerous, untrustworthy. On the other hand, he was a handsome, sexy, flirtatious, hot-bodied, uber male.

Indigo claimed a frequent need to visit her office to catch up on work. He claimed a frequent need to shift into a raven and take to the skies. The sexual tension in her apartment had both of them about to snap like overstretched rubber bands.

Lynretta shook her head, sending blonde curls falling around her face. “Yes, well, I asked myself why the weapon might be called Blood’s Kiss, focusing on various meanings for blood. Maybe it once belonged to a vampire. They drink the stuff. Maybe a kinsman of the owner forged it. Maybe a family passed it down from generation to generation. You know, the bloodline angle. Maybe initiates into an exclusive club, as in blooded, used it to join. Stretches, I admit.”

Indigo settled deeper into the chair, popping her gum.

This is going to take a long time. Historians love rattling on.

Lynretta gasped, picking up a nearby trashcan, holding it out. “Spit,” she ordered. “There’s no gum chewing down here. Can you imagine the damage it could do to our artifacts?”

“What was I thinking?” Indigo shot it into the receptacle. “Two points. Swish.”

“Back to the sword, sweetheart,” said Roark.

Sweetheart? To the suck-u-slut? Ugh.

Lynretta flashed a smile at him, baring dimples. Indigo was about to shorten the session by telling the succubus to email the relevant info. That is, if she could tap on a keyboard after being skewered with a nasty spell. Maybe a yeast infection.

Unaware of trouble brewing, the historian continued. “Latching onto the color of blood, I asked myself what makes a sword red. Paint? Not likely on metal. Enamel? Possible. Garnets? Yes. Rubies? Big yes. Have you heard of the Mughal Dagger in the British Museum? Of course you haven’t. The hilt is inlaid with rubies. Not only is ruby derived from the Latin for red, but legend claims the crimson gems are the hardened drops of blood from dragons. I doubt it’s true. Still, the image is nice.”

“I bet you got to the bottom of the problem fast,” interrupted Indigo.

Roark grinned, folding his thick arms over his chest, flexing his muscles in front of both females. Showing off.

What is a slutty male called? Gigolo? Player? Not bad enough. Himbo? Too cute. Dick will do.

Lynretta’s eyes flipped to the shifter’s display of bulky goodness. She sucked her forefinger into her mouth, twirling her tongue around it while Roark seemed too ready to use his body for the sake of the mission. Popping her finger out, she said, “I did get to the bottom of the problem quickly, but the journey is as important as the destination.”

Indigo realized they were in for a long, long story from the slutty weapons expert. “How about some tea?”

The historian’s eyes widened, clear evidence Indigo had lost her mind. “Amongst these books? I think not.”

Shot down again by the suck-u-slut.

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