Page 51

Half an hour later, George pulled into the underground garage.

They exited the bullet-ridden limo without a backward glance and took the elevator into the brownstone.

Graves grabbed two protein bars from the empty kitchen—Isolde had long since gone home and wouldn’t be back for another hour or so—and passed her one.

“Gross,” she said with a laugh as she tore into it on the way up the stairs.

“If you’ve lost half as much magic as I have, you’re probably starving.”

“Yeah. The cultists offered me cake, and damn did I want cake,” she told him around a yawn. “You can win a girl over with some quality cake.”

“Noted,” he said with a smirk.

Kierse felt surprisingly better after having even the smallest amount of food. Her magic wasn’t empty, but the events of the evening had been straining. She could feel it guttering with the need for recovery. Physically, mentally, and magically.

They reached the landing for the second floor only to find Gen passed out in a chair. Kierse shook her gently awake. “Hey, sleepyhead. We made it home.”

Gen jolted awake. “Kierse, what time is it?”

“Morning.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What happened?”

“Plan went to hell. We didn’t get the cauldron. I can explain more after we’ve all had some sleep, all right?”

Gen barely contained her yawn. “Yeah. Sleep. Good idea.” She waved halfheartedly to Graves. “Sorry about the cauldron.”

“Thank you, Genesis.”

Gen crawled up the stairs and disappeared into her room.

Leaving Kierse on the landing between the library and Graves’s quarters.

Her bedroom was a floor above them. She disliked the thought of being a floor away from him, wondering if he was sleeping soundly while he recovered.

But there was still distance there. A bridge they’d teased around but hadn’t crossed.

Graves grasped her hand. “Come with me.”

She laughed as he tugged her forward. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Exhausted.”

Then they were through the door of his inner sanctum.

A large bedroom with a four-poster bed, wooden dressers, and a million little details that were completely Graves.

A collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry with “The Raven” featured prominently sat on his nightstand.

His carved wooden bird collection had grown since she’d last been in here.

She recognized that the coins she’d previously thought were European had one or two Nying Market coins in them.

As if they were trinkets and not priceless.

She loved the portrait of Anne Boleyn—the queen, not the cat—on one wall, and on another, a landscape of a field of wildflowers in an Irish countryside with two figures lying on the hill reading a little green book. It was all familiar and all new.

“Do I belong in here?” she asked, a touch teasing, a touch of true hesitance.

“You belong everywhere I am,” he said.

She flushed, running a hand over the cornflower-blue comforter. “Everywhere?”

He bent to press a kiss to her neck. “Everywhere.”

She turned in his arms as he threaded his fingers up into her hair.

He met resistance and then slowly, with controlled care, began to remove each little pin.

One tendril loose and then another. A wave of hair falling down her back like a cascading waterfall as he released all the tension on her scalp.

He dipped his head down to taste her lips, and she sighed into him, pressing their bodies together. His lips were hot and pliant, his magic a gentle warmth and not his regular inferno. Not a good sign, but she knew they were safe and he would be back to normal after scouring his library.

“This way,” he said.

He guided her away from the bed and into the bathroom. It had a large sunken tub with a turquoise mosaic on the bottom and a white stone walk-in shower the length of the room, stone seats on opposite sides.

Graves turned the handles in the shower to reveal multiple hidden spray jets and a waterfall feature. The water heated almost instantly until the shower was fogged and steam billowed out into the room.

His hands were gentle as he stripped her out of the cult clothing. First the robe, which she thought he might burn in protest. Then the shirt.

His fingers fluttered gently over her bandage. Worry crinkled his brow. “You’re injured?”

“Just a graze. They gave me stitches.”

“A graze,” he said darkly. “From a bullet.”

“You were busy. I was holding down the fort.”

“Busy,” he said. “Not quite the word I’d go for. Absolutely fucking furious and fighting Imani’s magic tooth and nail.”

“What are you going to do about her?”

“That’s a later problem,” he said as he dropped to a knee and removed her sweats and underwear. “Shower first.”

She stepped inside, letting the spray run down her body. She dragged a hand across the glass to get a good look at Graves. He removed the faerie king top first. It had hidden seams and seemed to simply unravel before dropping to the floor in one long piece.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of him. The tattoo that started at his wrist. A circle of holly vines with their piercing thorns digging into his skin like a living mural of his tortured pain.

They snaked up his forearm, across the curve of his bicep, around the bulge of his shoulder, and swept out across his chest. He was broad and muscled and utterly delectable.

She wanted to run her tongue along the dips and valleys of his pecs and across every ridge of his abs to the Adonis lines that led down into those inscrutable pants.

She watched her devil release his trousers and drop them to the ground. Her eyes widened. All muscled quads and narrow waist and thick, long cock, hanging heavy between his legs.

“You’re joining me?” she asked, a little breathless.

Her eyes darted down and back up again. Heat was already pooling in her core. She hadn’t thought she had an ounce of adrenaline left in her body, but here she was, ready to drop to her knees again for this man. Monster. God.

Water cascaded down his muscled form as he entered the shower. All sleek skin and utterly inviting torment. She wanted to run her hands down him and feel his smoothness. Take his cock in her hand and slide it home into her where it belonged.

“Soap first,” he said, his voice husky as if he could see the desire in her eyes.

He reached for a bar, lathering a washcloth and then running it carefully across her skin.

Every sense was heightened at the feel of his hands on her, cleaning away the night’s excursions.

He was cautious of her bullet wound, treating it with tender care, before continuing on.

When he was finished, he began to scrub at his own body as she washed off the soap under the spray.

She held out her hand. “Can I?”

He offered the washcloth to her without comment, and then she was running soap down Graves’s chest. Her heart beat a furious tempo as she moved along his legs and up across his arms. He turned for her, letting her marvel at the planes of his back and the tight clench of his ass. God, it was fucking magnificent.

His cock lengthened further at the sweep of her fingers and brush of her palm and the soft notes of pleasure she made at the simple act of getting to touch him.

Finally, she had soaped every inch of him, and he stepped into the showerhead, washing away the evidence of her fingers.

She eyed the water with barely suppressed jealousy.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he said, low like a warning.

“Then what?”

“We have to wash your hair.” As if he was physically restraining himself so that he could take care of her.

She didn’t argue. Just turned her back to him and let him lather the dark strands. His hands massaging her scalp were sweet heaven and pure torture.

She moaned. She couldn’t even help it. It felt fucking incredible to have those hands working her over. Fingers that knew the world’s secrets, releasing all of her tensions.

His cock pressed into her ass at the sound. As if he, too, couldn’t help himself. She shivered at the need they both clearly felt crawling up and out of their chests. Like a bird trapped in a cage, beating its wings to be set free.

“Wren,” he ground out.

She hummed at the sound of her name on his tongue as he washed the shampoo out of her hair and went back for conditioner. It smelled like honeysuckle, sweet and pungent, and she couldn’t imagine him using it, but she loved it. Like he’d had it waiting here for her all along.

When the conditioner was finally washed out, she kept her eyes closed, letting the water rain down on her and whisk away the events of the evening.

Graves sucked her nipple into his mouth. She gasped but kept her eyes closed. Let him lead, if he wanted. She’d let him do anything right now. Anything at all.

His fingers replaced his mouth and then his tongue swirled around the other nipple until it peaked.

They’d built up and up and up, the need a physical pain hovering between them, as if at any moment they might both explode and lose their minds without the other.

She’d held out because of her anger, but it had cooled. And in its place she’d found…a partner.

One who had trusted her in the market and with the plan and with his heart.

She wanted this. She wanted him.

His hands ran down across her stomach and over her hips. Gone was the methodical cleaning, and here was worship. It was slow and intent and made her ache in all the right places.

His fingers slipped between her legs, finding the apex of her thighs and sliding over the wet folds of her body. He dragged his palm hard against her clit, grinding it there until she was shaking at the pleasure. Then, and only then, did he push two fingers inside of her, spreading her wide.

“Oh,” she gasped softly.

She opened her eyes to find him on one knee before her. His glittering dark eyes met hers as he stroked deep into her core. “I should towel you off and put you to bed.”

“Uh huh,” she whispered.