Page 43 of Paris and the Reaper

KRAA!

“Run!” Robin shoved a shoulder under Pati’s armpit, Adam under her other, and they sprinted out of the cold storage unit,out of the building, and toward the road, Mac sailing above them with a flock of corvids, their group reaching stable ground not a moment too soon.

Nature gave a final, powerful jolt and the land on the other side of the road sank, the tunnel walls collapsing into a massive sinkhole and, with any luck, swallowing the giant for good.

TWENTY-FOUR

Twenty-four agonizing hours later,Mac sailed toward the Sunset Hill condo building that earlier that month had been impenetrable to their team. Only Icarus had been able to get through then, and only after baiting Atlas into letting him in. But thanks to Paris’s list of potential allies in Vincent’s ranks, thanks to his intelligence and courage, Mac was able to slice through the shimmer of blue magic that shielded the building, wielded by a warlock who had previously used that very magic against Mac and his team. Paris had been right; Vincent had had his knee to more necks than just his own son’s.

As soon as he was inside the shield, he felt it—Paris’s soul woven with his. Whatever magic was in the shield had temporarily masked it, but it was still there, stronger than ever. He circled the building inside the shield, surveying with his own eyes what communications from inside had told him. Paris was safe; he’d declared himself the heir and taken control of his father’s empire.

For now.

He’d no doubt be contested, but not from the inside by the look of it. From the outside, yes, that was already happening, butit appeared he’d made more friends inside than he’d let on given how quickly Vincent’s remaining operatives had fallen in line. The detective part of Mac had a long list of questions, but the raven, the soul that had improbably found a second mate, just wanted Paris back in his arms.

On his second lap around the building, he spied Kai waiting in a halo of light on the rooftop, a folded stack of clothes under one arm. Mac coasted to a landing at his feet, shifting in the space between one breath and the next. “Where’s Paris?”

“Waiting for you,” Kai said. He held out the clothes and a pair of athletic flops. “Did everyone get back okay last night?”

“All in one piece.” Mac donned the charcoal pants and lavender dress shirt, leftovers from Atlas judging by the lingering warlock stench and the too-short inseam and sleeves, Atlas a good half foot shorter than him. Whatever, he only needed clothes long enough to reach Paris’s condo a floor below. He slid his feet into the flops, then glanced back up at Kai. “Take me to him.”

He opened the rooftop door and led them into the stairwell. “Did they find anyone else at the cold storage facilities?”

“One was empty,” Mac told him as they descended. “The missing vampire and shifter were in the other.”

“It’s a good thing Paris is here, then.”

“How do you mean?”

“Who knows how many more victims Vincent has squirreled away. Now we have an inside line.”

Mac opened his mouth to argue—there were less dangerous ways to gather intel—but then Kai opened the door to the penthouse floor and all of Mac’s arguments vanished, his gaze landing on the man waiting at the end of the hall.

Paris had traded his sweats for an impeccably tailored suit, the dark fabric tucked in all the right places, the black dress shirt open at the collar, accentuating the long column of his throat.The whole ensemble showed off the tall, toned figure that would be walking runways in a different era, in a different place, if Paris hadn’t been born into YB’s ongoing war between Nature and Chaos. And to a cruel man who’d overshadowed him, abused him, and held him down his entire life. With the weight of Vincent gone, Paris was a different man than earlier surveillance photos had let on, pictures in which he was always in a suit and tie, his smile tight, his hair slicked back, his brown eyes dull.A pretty face, Icarus had once said.

The Paris in front of Mac now was more than just a pretty face. He was vibrant, his smile wide, his dark hair in waves around his face, his brown eyes swirling with warmth and affection—desire—that pulsed along the bond between them. He was everything Mac wanted.

A different door opened, and Mac smelled shifter, felt heat, and was a blink away from shifting himself when Paris’s “Mac, no!” collided with the “Jason, no!” from behind him.

“It’s just me!” Jason let go of the door and lifted his hands, palms out. “Sorry, man, I heard voices.”

Kai slid between them, shoving Jason back into the condo that would’ve been Atlas’s, if Mac recalled Icarus’s hand-drawn blueprints correctly. “For a smuggler, you have the absolute worst timing.” He glanced over his shoulder at Mac, then Paris. “Let us know if you need anything.” Then slipped into the condo, closing the door behind him and Jason.

Swinging his gaze back to Paris, Mac opened his mouth again, only to be cut off by Paris’s raised hand. “I know you’re mad, and I’ll explain and apologize, but I’d rather we not argue and do all that in the hall where folks can hear us.”

Mac nodded; he didn’t want to stay in the hallway either, but not for the reasons Paris thought. As soon as they were inside Paris’s condo, as soon as Paris turned the lock on the door, Mac spun and shoved him against it, claiming the mouth he’dgone too long without. Paris groaned, tipping back his head as he rocked his hips, and Mac’s lips slipped lower, to his jaw, then his throat, tasting skin and sucking on the pulse point that hammered in his neck, a sign of the blood that still flowed through his veins, the life that for a time yesterday Mac had feared taken.

Life he needed to be connected to again. “We’ll argue about it later,” he panted, tearing Paris’s gaping shirt wider and splaying his hands over his chest, over warm skin reddening more as a blush climbed toward his neck. Mac nuzzled into all that heat, kissing and licking to the melody of Paris’s groans, to the insistent rock of his hips, his cock hard against Mac’s thigh, Mac’s own straining inside his pants. “Right now, I just need to be inside you. To be...”

Paris grasped his chin and lifted Mac’s gaze to his burning brown one. “To be what, Mac?”

“Where I belong, with you.”

He had his work, his friends, his family, but he’d only truly belonged once before. He didn’t think he’d ever find that feeling again, had actively avoided it, afraid the loss that came after would well and truly destroy him a second time, and then this beautiful, surprising man had demanded a chance, first grabbing onto his soul in desperation, then nursing it back to health in his soft and patient ways. He was a comfort, and Mac hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that, how dark his life had become until color had stumbled into it. Had given him a place to belong again.

Paris lifted his lips the rest of the way to his, the kiss he offered achingly soft and gentle, even as he yanked open the borrowed shirt, buttons flying, then shoved his hands into the back of Mac’s pants, fingers clutching at his cheeks, forcing Mac to rut harder against him.

And fuck if inexperience wasn’t about to bite him in the ass again, the build too good, too fast. He wasn’t practiced at this, didn’t know how not to go off in four seconds flat when Paris was grinding all of his hard body against him.

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