Page 12 of Charmed

In the east wing, he made a hard right and strode down the long hallway toward his suite. His sword collection hung on the dark wood paneling and glinted off the overhead lights as he passed. It was a hobby he'd taken up as a boy after reading The Hobbit, and one he'd built upon since then. With money not a problem, he'd fed the indulgence and was running out of room.

Over the threshold, he kicked off his shoes and switched on a lamp. Navy wallpaper with an embossed square pattern matched the drapes and made the room seem like a cavern. It was how he'd designed it a few years back when he'd wanted a change. This room had been his only true sanctuary growing up, but memories of hiding from his uncle had been stitched into every detail. Wiping out the elements and replacing them had been the equivalent of a bandaid for an amputation.

At least it looked different, and he did like the black walnut Tudor-style furniture, especially the king size four-poster canopy bed. He'd selected a photo of him and his brothers for the wall, along with his two favorite swords—a thirteenth-century Irish Galloglas from a Highland Gaelic-Norse clan and a Celtic Thorn Sword with a Damascus blade.

Fiona had never been in his quarters, had never even set foot on the second floor of the mansion, but lately he'd pictured her in here. A lot. Sometimes she'd be swinging one of his swords around like a warrior—naked, of course—and other times she'd be reclined in his bed, cocoa strands spilling onto the sheets and...naked, of course.

The images frightened him as hard core as they turned him on. Her magick wasn't the alarming aspect, and contrary to what he had people believe, neither was her fierce personality. Nope. It was a different kind of power she held over him that put the trip in his heart and thump to his pulse. It went beyond lust to something he dare not name or explore. Because the truth was, he respected the shit out of her, was attracted to every cell in her body, and—this was the worst part—he liked her.

Genuinely, achingly liked her.

No female before or since had taken up this much residence in his head. She'd cornered the retail market and erected housing developments in his brain. It was becoming so worrisome, he thought of little else but her. Awake. Asleep. In between. The more time they spent together, the more detailed his fantasies became.

And for the next lunar cycle, there would be no opportunity to distance himself and get a grip. He was stuck with the one woman who'd managed to make him do what no other had. Feel. The whole spectrum of emotions, actually. Frustration being at the top of the heap.

Lord, all this, and he'd never even kissed her.

Pissed off, he snatched a pair of pajama bottoms from a dresser, tossed his clothes in the hamper, and took a shower. Once done, he threw open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony.

Breathing deep, he grasped the stone railing, leaning into it. Starlight reflected off the inky, vast ocean in every direction. With the new moon, he couldn't tell where the water ended and the sky began. Humidity clung to a soft breeze tinted with brine and the roar of the waves against the rocks thirty stories below was a lullaby. A semblance of peace settled in his chest.

He wondered what she was doing right now.

Dropping his chin, he sighed. His gaze landed on the trinity knot, and he turned his wrist for a better look. The symbol was a strong part of both their Irish bloodlines, but it also held importance to her craft. Tracing the design with his forefinger, he remembered the abject expression of misery on her face after it had appeared.

He knew his reasons, but what terrified her so much about being paired with him? Nothing intimidated her, and if all the odds were stacked against her, he'd still place his bet on her for the win. Didn't matter the scenario. He'd never met anyone with more strength, wit, or gumption. He had to figure she was worried he'd cause her failure. Nothing else made sense.

A knock sounded, and he turned.

Brady stood in the doorway, wearing PJs and his glasses. "Can I come in?"

"Be my guest." Facing the view, Riley crossed his arms as his brother stepped beside him. "You have a hot blonde in your bed. What are you doing out here with me?"

"Kaida's worried about you. So am I."

He nodded. "Get in line. Fate has a perverse sense of humor. She must be British."

Little Brother laughed. "Or spot on." At Riley's questioning glare, Brady adjusted his glasses and elaborated. "There's no chemistry between you and Ceara. A fondness, but no real meeting of the minds. Like it or not, Fiona's the right match for you in your task."

"She hates me." That was the crux of the issue, his biggest hurdle. No matter how Riley felt about her, she despised him. She had every right, too. Her ancestor may have kicked off the curse, but it was his who'd done the unspeakable. Riley had never lifted a finger to mend fences between their families, either, making him just as culpable. "She hates me," he repeated quietly, rubbing the ache in his chest.

"Change her mind."

"Damn, Brady." He swiped a hand down his face. "Have you met the woman?"

"Yes, which is why I'm positive she doesn't hate you." Brady held up a hand, stopping Riley's retort. "Remember back in kindergarten when Melissa Foster used to put bubble gum on your seat?"

He was getting whiplash. "She also chased me at recess and targeted me in gym class. What's your point?"

"Ten years later, she asked you to the Freshman dance." Brady smirked. "She had a crush on you."

Riley rolled his eyes so hard his retinas detached. "If you're implying Fiona Galloway tortures me on a thirty-minute cycle because she secretly likes me, you're two beers short of a six pack."

"She doesn't come at the rest of us." Brady's brows shot up in a think-about-it rejoinder. "Not the way she does with you. If you didn't get under her skin, she wouldn't try to ruffle your feathers. Your defense mechanism is being a smartass. Hers is being a badass. What happens when the two are mixed?"

Unsure how to respond, Riley stared at the ocean. On a scale of one to imbecile, precisely how dense did it make him that he got a sordid sense of glee Brady might be correct? Riley had been going off the assumption she couldn't stand him and had been retaliating every chance she got. Due to the curse, she'd been forced to work with him and his brothers. It never occurred to him she may not mind the merger.

"You stand up to her." Brady's amused expression sobered. "She's an incredibly self-empowered, able woman. When she's on a tear, I tend to keep silent. Her sisters let her have her way. Tristan proceeds with caution and waits until she calms down. Not you. Doesn't matter the circumstance, you challenge her. From what I've seen, no one else does that." He turned and headed inside. "Like I said, you are the perfect match for her in this quest."

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