Page 2 of Shadow (Marinah and the Apocalypse #1)
Marinah
T he seat belt dug into my stomach as the plane jolted and screeched through its bumpy landing. By the time we came to a stop, my fingers had left indentations in the vinyl. I rubbed my sweaty palms against the ridiculous skirt I’d been forced to wear. Damp stains spreading across the fabric were the least of my concerns. If I had anything else to change into, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
King’s rules had left no room for negotiation: one female liaison, no weapons, no luggage, no men except for the pilot, who was under strict orders to stay on the plane. No explanations, just non-negotiable directives.
Sunlight filtered through the small windows, casting a glare across the ocean I had just survived flying over. On the black tarmac ahead, a group of Shadow Warriors waited, their presence terrifying. The heat didn’t seem to bother them at all. Even in human form, they were colossal. Wide black straps crisscrossed their bare chests, emphasizing every corded muscle and holding enough weapons to bring down this plane if they wanted to. My heels wobbled as I took in their sheer, overwhelming power.
Lovely.
At least they were clothed from the waist down. According to the briefing I had skimmed during the flight, nudity was their preferred state. My father had conveniently left that detail out of his stories, though I couldn’t say I blamed him. He had worked hard to shield me from the harsh realities of the new world order, cocooning me in safety while the rest of humanity suffered.
I should have asked more questions. I should have told him I loved him more often. And I shouldn’t have been here at all.
The weight of this mission crashed down on me, as heavy as the title of Defense Secretary itself. Sitting on the sidelines, existing without purpose, had been easy. Too easy. Never again. I was done coasting on the government’s grace, a job I had only kept because of my father’s name after his death. The alternative, a red stripe, had always been waiting for me, and despite the terror of standing here, the thought of that stripe frightened me even more.
Now it was time to earn my place, though I couldn’t ignore the gnawing certainty that this mission might be my first and last.
A nervous laugh escaped under my breath. Let’s see if I survived the next hour. Rising to my feet, I smoothed down my skirt, cringing at its short length. The gesture was more for reassurance than appearance, and I headed toward the door. The pilot stood and shook my hand, his expression forbidding. Great. Just what I needed to steady my nerves. I nodded silently, unwilling to waste my parched voice on pleasantries. No one had thought to provide water for the trip, and I was saving what little moisture remained for when words might actually matter.
The engines continued their low rumble as the door hissed open. A wave of warm, sticky air slid into the cabin, clinging to my skin like an unwelcome embrace. The mechanical stairs lowered with a groaning rattle that shook the plane and sent my teeth clattering together. Gripping the unstable rail tightly, I took my first step into the oppressive Cuban heat.
Do not fall, do not fall. The mantra looped in my head as I kept my eyes trained on my feet, squinting against the glare. I wished desperately for sunglasses, anything to block the blinding sunlight reflecting off the tarmac. Then, a large shadow moved across my path, and instinctively, I looked up.
Big mistake.
I missed the next step. The flimsy rail wobbled under my grip, and I stumbled down the last four stairs. Pain exploded through my hands and knees as I hit the ground, gravel digging sharply into my skin. A high-pitched cry escaped my dry throat, and humiliation washed over me. If I stacked up all the embarrassing moments in my life, this would be perched firmly at the top.
Glancing up, I was greeted by the scuffed military boots of a man standing in front of me. My gaze traveled upward. Faded camouflage pants, a belted waist, and a chest bare except for those damnable leather straps. He was all bulging muscles and quiet power. He didn’t extend a hand to help. Instead, he stepped back, leaving me to collect myself.
Behind me, the mechanical stairs retracted with a metallic clatter, the whir of hydraulics cutting through the thick air. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the plane begin to taxi away. The pilot was leaving. No lingering goodbyes, no safety net. If there was any consolation, it was that he was likely not looking out the window to see me sprawled on the ground, my skirt riding up in a way that left far too much on display.
Turning my face toward the Shadow Warrior’s boots, now mere inches from my nose, I couldn’t help but cling to my sense of humor. The thought crossed my mind to bend lower and kiss them. It seemed like something the Federation might have envisioned for this little diplomatic mission.
What must I have looked like to the man standing above me? Sprawled on the ground, skirt askew, and about as dignified as a wet cat. I had fallen so many times in my life that I had stopped apologizing for my clumsiness, but maybe this was one of those rare occasions where diplomacy trumped humiliation.
We’d see.
With all the grace of a newborn giraffe, I pushed myself off the ground, forcing a toothy grin onto my face. Dust coated my palms, and I smeared it across the skirt I already despised. My scraped knees protested as I straightened, but I ignored them. When I finally locked eyes with the man towering before me, my breath caught. His eyes were a startling, icy blue, and they pinned me in place as if daring me to falter again.
I took an unsteady step back, needing some distance between us as I assessed him. It was King. I knew it without a doubt. No one else could pull off the name with the kind of commanding presence this man radiated. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional romance-novel sense. His features were rough-edged: a square jaw, a nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and piercingly unfriendly eyes. Yet something about him, a quiet, dangerous confidence, the full curve of his lips, struck a feminine nerve in me, and I wished it hadn’t. It made me want to straighten my posture and add a sway to my hips.
Not happening.
I shoved the thought aside and nervously extended my hand, keeping my grin firmly in place. “I’m Marinah Church,” I said, injecting far more bravado into my voice than I actually felt.
King didn’t even glance at my outstretched hand. He ignored my shaky introduction entirely, elevating scary warrior, half-animal dominance to a whole new level. Instead, he bent slightly at the waist, leaning in close. Too damned close. His face tilted beside mine, and before I could react, he inhaled deeply.
The exhale came next, and warm breath ghosted across my cheek and neck. An undeniable shiver raced down my spine. The faint noise he made, a low, guttural sound, sent my nerves spiraling.
He was fucking sniffing me, for God’s sake.
And now I smelled him, too. The scent was sharp, tangy, and unlike anything I had ever encountered. Not unpleasant, just different.
I had no idea what the proper etiquette was for being sniffed by a Shadow Warrior, and my nerves pulled the grin from my face. As his head dipped lower, it dawned on me. He was looking down my blouse.
“I think you’ve smelled enough,” I snapped, irritation eclipsing any trace of common sense. I took another step back, putting some much-needed space between us.
His nostrils flared, his sharp gaze pinning me in place as he rose to his full, intimidating height. Nothing about him suggested safety. Not his dusty boots, which I had already been intimately acquainted with, nor the sheer, towering presence that forced me to crane my neck to glimpse the top of his head. Everything about King radiated untamed power, a barely leashed death machine in human form.
His granite jaw was clean-shaven, but it did little to hide the animal lurking behind his intelligent, piercing eyes. His long braids, a mix of blonde and brown, were tied neatly at the back of his neck, fanning out over his broad, bare shoulders. At least there was nothing crawling around in them. That was one positive.
My second glance caught a faint, jagged scar trailing down his right cheekbone, a detail I had missed earlier in my panic. It only added to his unyielding, deadly aura. The word immovable flickered through my overtaxed brain, alongside lethal. His chest was massive, each breath making the muscles shift and bulge beneath his skin. The leather harness stretched taut across his torso sat just below his nipples, as if its purpose was to emphasize his already overwhelming presence.
Let’s be clear: King didn’t need help looking badass. If he had a middle name, it was Badass.
The harness was loaded with weapons: two handguns, several knives, and a sword that looked like it could cleave a human in half with a single swing. His belt held even more guns and knives, an overkill arsenal for someone who could probably destroy multiple people with one swing of his fist.
He was a living, breathing killing machine, and I couldn’t help the thought that flitted through my mind. Does he grunt when he speaks?
Bad Marinah, I mentally scolded myself. But the thought lingered.
I awkwardly pulled my outstretched hand back to my side, anxiety prickling my skin. King’s eyes followed the movement, drifting downward to my lower half.
Great. Now he was staring.
I had always been self-conscious about my long torso, narrow hips, and a backside that was decent but not exactly runway-worthy.
Trying to distract myself, I flipped my palm upward and noticed a faint trail of blood from my tumble down the stairs.
Before I could process it, King’s massive hand reached out. Without thinking, I extended my injured hand, a reflex I immediately regretted. His grasp was firm, almost crushing. Not a handshake. Not even close. He lifted my arm, his sharp eyes locked on the raw wound, and then he leaned in and sniffed my hand.
What happened next nearly stopped my heart.
His tongue, thick, rough, and warm, slid across my palm, licking the blood away. The sensation sent a jolt of heat up my body, and I blinked twice, frozen in place. Mortification hit like a freight train, and I jerked back, trying to pull my hand free.
He didn’t let go.
Instead, he tightened his grip and studied my hand with unnerving focus, as if I were some peculiar specimen he was examining under a microscope. Just as I was about to muster something snarky, his tongue darted out again, dragging another slow, deliberate lick across my palm.
A flash of warmth rushed through me, confusing and unwelcome, and I was seconds away from dropping to my knees. Not to kiss his boots, but to rethink every life decision that had led me here.
Then, mercifully, reason slammed back into place.
“Stop that!” I snapped, my voice sharp and high-pitched. “Let me go. Now.”
Apologies? Not happening. I had never dealt directly with Shadow Warriors before, but I was confident this wasn’t some kind of formal greeting. At least, not for humans. Maybe for animals.
That thought earned an immediate mental reprimand. Reducing them to animals was exactly what had landed the U.S. in this mess to begin with.
King released my hand without a word and stepped back, his intense, unreadable gaze doing nothing to quell my simmering frustration. Then, as if dismissing me entirely, he pivoted and stalked away.
“Come,” he barked over his shoulder, the single gruff word echoing in the humid air.
Yep. He grunted.