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Chapter Twenty-Two

ISADORA

Lucien kissed me like a man possessed. He didn’t merely tease—he devoured.

And oh boy, he was good at it. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held me tight.

So tight, I wasn’t sure I could escape. Not that I wanted to.

The feel of his hard body pressed against mine awoke parts of me I’d long since thought had gone dormant.

At some point—I think after his hand slid under the hem of my blouse and settled possessively against my side—I tugged him toward the bed. I truly never thought I’d feel this way again. His touch lit me up and I was desperate for more.

Touching Trystan had felt more like an obligation.

I’d done it to make him happy. But it’d been a long time since touching him had made me happy.

Not that he’d noticed my disinterest. Neither had I, for that matter.

It’d become the norm. I only realized it now, when for the first time in decades, my blood spiked with passion and need.

I pulled Lucien down onto the ruined mattress and our limbs tangled together as we fell.

I pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders and kicked off my boots.

I wasn’t entirely sure who had unfastened the top few buttons of my blouse, but they were open now, and Lucien traced his fingers over the swell of my upper breasts, like he was committing my curves to memory.

“Izzy,” he murmured.

It was the first time he’d called me that, and damn it, I melted. There was something about his voice whispering my nickname that undid me. When Thorne first told me about Lucien, I’d been prepared to hate him. Who knew the opposite would happen?

“Hey, Izzy— whoa !”

Thorne’s voice shot through the loft. I jerked my head toward her so fast, my vision spun. Lucien froze, his lips pressed against my collarbone.

Thorne stood halfway in the loft, one hand thrown dramatically over her eyes. “Oh gods. I am blind . My retinas are scarred . What did I do to deserve this?”

“You walked into a room uninvited,” Lucien mumbled, apparently unwilling to move off me.

I pushed until he gave a belabored sigh and sat up.

“You could have warned me!” she whined. “Put a sock on the stairs or something! Last I heard, you were threatening the toilet! How does that lead to this ?”

“We’re all adults here—” I said while buttoning up my shirt.

“Some more than others,” Lucien added.

I rolled my eyes. “My point is, let’s all be adults, and just move on.”

“Not possible,” Thorne bemoaned. “The damage is done. I’m going to need therapy. And possibly a gallon of brain bleach. But feel free to carry on with your unholy groping—I’m leaving.”

She vanished back down the stairs.

“Unholy groping?” Lucien repeated.

“You’d think we were naked, the way she reacted. And she didn’t even tell us why she interrupted us.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you later,” he replied. “But until then…” He pushed me back down onto the bed, his gaze raking over my length. “Where were we?” Then he popped open my top two buttons. “Ah, yes. Right. Here.”

Lucien didn’t give me a chance to object before his mouth reclaimed mine.

He kissed me slower this time. Less devouring and more savoring, like he had all the time in the world.

And I didn’t mind one bit. I couldn’t recall ever enjoying someone’s kiss like this before.

Trystan’s had always been sloppy and rushed. But Lucien? He kissed like an artist.

He touched like one too—like a sculptor appreciating a masterpiece.

His fingers glided in slow strokes over my stomach, my waist, my sides.

Every brush had me arching into him. I pressed my hips against his and slipped my hands beneath his shirt to explore his muscled back.

Gods, he was so warm and solid. And all mine.

The thought made my breath stutter. Which Lucien noticed. Because he noticed everything.

He pulled back from the kiss and gazed down at me. “Something wrong?”

“Not in the least,” I assured him.

Smiling, he lowered his head and brushed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth before dipping lower to my throat.

When his fangs touched the hollow point right above my pulse, I gasped and gripped his arms hard enough to bruise.

Not from fear, but instant desire. It flooded my body until I could barely think straight.

The only coherent thought left in my brain was: Please bite me .

I was overcome by so many different wants and needs that I didn’t even know where to begin.

I wanted him to sink his fangs into me. I wanted him to mark me.

But I needed him to erase Trystan’s touch from my body and my memory.

The need was so overpowering, I nearly begged Lucien to bite me.

Hell, I was so desperate for it, I practically squirmed in his arms.

I’d never felt anything so powerful before.

Lucien’s fangs brushed across my throat but never broke the surface. He teased me with the idea of it, until a sound slipped out of me—soft and breathless—and he chuckled, low and deep.

Smug bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he enjoyed it. I couldn’t fault him. I had some plans of my own, to make him squirm beneath me .

“Hey! Lovebirds!” Thorne’s shout echoed up the stairs, shattering the moment. “Wrap it up, towel off, stop whatever you’re doing up there—because your witch is here.”

Lucien exhaled heavily against my throat.

“And I swear on every cursed garden gnome in our yard, if I have to climb those stairs and see even one nipple, I will sue.”

I let out a strangled laugh and covered my burning face with one hand. “We’re coming!”

“No, we aren’t,” Lucien deadpanned.

I snorted, half-laughing as I gave his chest a light smack. Before I could pull my hand back, he caught it and pressed a light kiss against my fingertips, his gaze never leaving mine.

His eyes had that look again—dark and full of desire—but instead of acting on it, he climbed off me, then helped me up. We took a moment to fix ourselves. He smoothed my hair. I straightened his collar and handed him his jacket. There was a quiet intimacy to it, like we’d done this before.

We headed toward the stairs and Lucien placed his hand low on my back. Not pushy or possessive. Just there.

Together, we descended the stairs, and a strange scent rose to my nose.

Guess Thorne’s satchels were starting to lose potency, not that I minded.

It smelled like…patchouli? Something rich and earthy.

Whatever it was, it grew stronger with every step.

As did the sense of magic. I didn’t need Lucien to tell me we’d just stepped into the orbit of someone immensely powerful—I felt it in my bones.

We reached the bottom of the stairs, and there she was.

Selene Ravenspell.

She stood barefoot in the center of the bar, covered in thick gold bangles and rings, and a gauzy dress that looked like moonlight.

The second she spotted me, she stepped forward with a bundle of what looked like smoldering herbs—oh goody, more sage—and began circling me. Me, not Lucien. She lifted the bundle and wafted the smoke toward my face. Then my chest. Then lower. I blinked. Was this how a Ravenspell said hello?

“Uh,” I said, voice caught between confusion and concern. “Is this…necessary?”

Selene didn’t answer. She just shook the herbs harder, casting more smoke at my sternum like she was trying to banish a demon from my cleavage.

“This is really nice of you,” I said, “but the demon we want you to exorcise is actually upstairs. In the toilet, if you remember?”

Selene stopped in front of me, her eyes slightly narrowed, and took one last, slow pass over my heart. After, she exhaled a satisfied sigh.

“There,” she announced in a high-pitched voice. “That should clear out any residual toxins.”

My brows crept upward. “Of what?”

She cut Lucien a scathing look. “You’ve been touching a St. Germain. That kind of energy leaves a soul-deep stain.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing.

“We were kissing,” I told her in what I hoped was a serious voice. “Not summoning Cthulhu.”

Selene didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Same difference, sweetheart.”

Thorne coughed into her fist to hide a laugh.

“Nice to see you too, Selene,” Lucien stated dryly.

Selene finally tucked the herbs into a pouch at her hip and faced me.

“I can sense you have a good head on your shoulders, girl. And you come from a strong vampire lineage too. Try not to pollute yourself and any future lines you may produce by cavorting with this one.” She jerked her head toward Lucien. “He’s toxic.”

I didn’t point out that, currently, she was the one stinking up my bar. Instead, I gave her what I hoped amounted to a polite smile, then gestured toward the stairs. “Would you care to see the actual demon now?”

She nodded, then snapped her fingers and a leather satchel appeared. One she slung over her shoulder. Another snap of her fingers and a slender brass candleholder materialized in her other hand, her fingers quickly closing around it before it could fall.

Then she climbed the stairs toward my loft.

I slowly followed, with Lucien close on my heels.

“I brought quartz, black salt blessed by priests, and water purified in the holiest of founts,” Selene said, listing the ingredients like she was making soup. “I only hope it’ll be enough.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you have your checkbook?”

Lucien grunted. I assumed that was a yes . Already, I was tallying how much this would cost. I needed to start keeping a spreadsheet. I didn’t like owing people.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, glancing around the loft with narrowed eyes. Her nose twitched, no doubt still offended by the lingering pheromones Lucien and I had likely left behind.

“You really must air out this space,” she commented, reaching for a sprig of lavender from her pouch and waving it around the room.