Chapter 2
Marcus sankinto the back seat of the sedan’s plush interior. His temples throbbed, and he reached beneath his cursed hood, massaging his damaged flesh. Meeting with Vivian had proven more challenging than expected. Though the former burlesque dancer was one of his oldest friends, he’d had little patience with small talk since his accident. Even less with nosy females staring at him like he was a circus attraction.
Not long ago, he’d walked into a room and commanded the attention of everyone present. Their stares had been envious, respectful. Now, he couldn’t stand their eyes on him, sensing their pity. His grotesque body subject to their morbid curiosity.
“You forget someone?” His bodyguard peered back at him in the rearview mirror.
Bishop sat in the driver’s seat, hand resting on the steering wheel. Tattoos marked each of his knuckles. Light from the dashboard blazed against the Rolex Marcus had gifted him for his years of service. Thick muscles bulged beneath the lycan’s dark suit. He’d forgone his tie, leaving his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the medallion he wore.
Long ago, the Council mandated all lycan males wear the enchanted pendant, preventing them from fully shifting into their most powerful forms. Bishop, like the rest of his race, didn’t have the option of refusing. Shame, because without the restriction, the male would have been a powerhouse. Not that he wasn’t still a force to be reckoned with.
Marcus slanted a dark look at the back of his bodyguard’s head. “She’ll be along shortly.” May the gods help her if she wasn’t.
“You think she’s got what it takes to be of any use to you?”
“First impression? No,” Marcus said, not masking his disappointment.
When Vivian contacted him about his blood debt, asking him to claim her Chosen, he’d hoped it was a sign his luck was changing. That Dove would be the solution he’d sought, yet feared he’d never find. After speaking with the necromancer, that brief glimmer of hope was circling the shitter. The female didn’t seem capable of handling the everyday machinations of her own life, much less his.
Becoming the Lord of House Othonos at an early age, he’d quickly learned to read people. To determine who would be a help or hindrance to his rule. With Dove, it was blindingly clear the girl skipped through life with her head in the clouds. No goals, no drive, no ambitions.
Useless.
After a stretch of silence, Bishop prodded, “Tell me. What’s she like?” His head of security was the only male Marcus employed who dared tread into his personal business. Sometimes, if he was in the mood, Marcus even answered.
“Annoying, na?ve, unrefined.” Vibrant. Tantalizing. Her blood could easily become addictive. It was a shame he’d already decided to feed from her as little as possible. No sense in deepening the bond between them when he planned to ship her back to Vivian the second his old friend was safe.
“Sounds like the two of you hit it off,” Bishop snorted. “She attractive?”
Beautiful. In an earthy sort of way. Marcus didn’t do earthy. Sure, there was a time he’d seen the colorful artist as a curiosity, a new flavor to sample. That time had passed.
“Does it matter?”
“She’s attractive,” Bishop answered sagely, drawing his own conclusions.
Marcus’s grip tightened on the silver handle of his cane. Most lycans would find Marcus’s Chosen desirable since they preferred their females natural and unpolished. The thought that Bishop may feel the same didn’t sit well. His fingers cramped, and he forced them to uncurl, wincing at his reaction. The damn Chosen bond was already at work, stabbing at his possessive instincts. An instinct Marcus intended to ignore.
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, and he extracted the device, glancing at the screen. “Tiberius. Again,” he grated, flicking the reject button.
“Could be he has news this time,” Bishop offered.
“Could be he’s calling me with another of his worn-out excuses.” As Council magister, Marcus’s uncle had an entire task force at his disposal. And still, his team had yet to turn up anything useful in their hunt for the backstabbing coward who’d planted a bomb in Marcus’s car. When he got his hands on his former CFO, he’d make sure she paid for her deception a hundredfold.
Never again would he put that kind of faith in another.
Helen had known what her betrayal would cost when she’d plotted his death. No one broke Marcus Steele’s trust. Allowing her to live would make the leader of House Othonos appear weak. If his enemies believed him vulnerable, Helen wouldn’t be the last one who attempted to dethrone him. Appearances had to be upheld. To appear vulnerable was to be a target. A lesson he’d learned at a tender age when his father was murdered.
Like father, like son.
Over the years, there were but a handful of people Marcus had allowed into his inner circle. Since the explosion, he was tightening that circle, setting clearer boundaries. Subjects performed better when they knew their place. Maintaining the balance was important. The male he’d hung up on five times today had taught him that, along with many other valuable lessons.
Somewhere, his relationship with Helen had tilted, her believing she was entitled to take. Marcus would be the one to return the balance. To reclaim all she’d stolen.
His left eye blurred, his vision darkening. He rubbed his temples, damaged flesh scraping beneath his leather gloves.
“You alright back there, Boss?” Bishop asked, sensing his deteriorating mood. That innate intuition was part of the reason Marcus paid the lycan so well.
“Fine,” he growled, his voice chilling even to his own ears. “How long does it take to say goodbye? Does she expect me to sit here forever?” He massaged his knee, his once shattered bones aching. His entire body one throbbing toothache.
“When’s the last time you slept?”
Days. Weeks. “Don’t know.” He was vulnerable when he slept. Not in control.
“You’ll need to, eventually. Regardless of the risk.”
“What are you, my mother?” Marcus snarled.
“No, but if you call me daddy, I’ll read you a bedtime story and tuck you in real nice.”
Marcus chuckled, his laughter a brittle sound. “That was pathetic.” He inhaled a deep breath, slowing his heart rate. Bishop’s crude distraction had done the trick, though, breaking through the darkness that threatened to consume him.
“I’ll sleep tonight.” Marcus groaned, slumping in his seat. “Did you prepare her room as I asked?”
“Everything is in order.”
“Good.”
“Here she comes.” Bishop exited the car, moving to intercept Dove. Before admitting her, he performed a quick check of her pockets and bag, then opened the door.
Dwindling sunlight streamed into the interior. Pain sliced through Marcus’s eyes, and he winced, sinking deeper into the comfort of the shadows. Dove flopped into the bench seat, and her gentle jasmine fragrance filled his senses.
“Sorry, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. I’m terrible at goodbyes. I mean, really. Goodbyes are the absolute worst.” She heaved her oversize purse between them, and he winced as something inside slammed into his hip. “With beginnings, everything is fresh and exciting. Uncharted territory to explore. New impressions to be made. Beginnings are the best. Don’t you think?”
Bishop, back in the driver’s seat, steered them away from the curb.
Dove leaned forward, smiling at the lycan. “Hi. I’m Dove.”
“I know,” Bishop answered in a tone that didn’t invite conversation. Unfortunately, that only seemed to encourage the oblivious faerie.
“Right, I wasn’t sure.” She snorted a nervous laugh. “The way you searched my purse, you’d think I was a guy with a chainsaw hitching a ride.”
“Head of security.” Bishop summarized his position in the most mundane terms. “Nothing personal.”
“Gotcha.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I imagine you ran a security check on me?”
“Dove Laurent. Age twenty-three,” Bishop stated in his deep monotone. “Admitted to Havenhouse Academy at eight years old. Mother presumed deceased, surrendered by father whose location is unknown. Considered by her instructors to be a difficult student. Assessed as a level nine necromancer.”
Which was fortunate for Dove. If she’d ranked a ten, the Council would have executed her. Council law stated that all faeries must be registered and their gifts monitored. Ages ago, one of her ancestors had nearly enslaved the world. The underworld had a long memory.
Bishop continued, “However, performs at a level three. Said to work far below her potential.”
Marcus stifled a snort. It was as he suspected. The Chosen was useless. Vivian had clearly spoiled the girl.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Dove laughed robotically, casting an awkward glance at Marcus then back at Bishop. “You know, you really shouldn’t believe everything you read. I prefer to think of myself as a free spirit, not a delinquent. Some people just don’t test well.”
Not until challenged. Marcus found himself wondering what it would take to push the daydreaming chit out of her magical bubble.
“At sixteen, paired with Vivian Laurent.” Bishop plowed ahead. “Arrested by mortal enforcement at the age of eighteen for dancing topless in a water fountain. Arrested again in New Orleans for indecent exposure. Also—”
“Well, that’s enough about me,” Dove interrupted. “Seems you’ve read my entire bio, and I don’t even know your name, Mr.…”
“Bishop.”
“That’s it?” She frowned. “Just Bishop?”
“Just Bishop.”
“One word, huh? Like Prince or Pink or Beyoncé?”
“Who?”
“You know. Beyoncé.” She proceeded to sing about seeing someone’s halo.
Bishop pressed a button on the dashboard, and the glass divider slid up.
Dove settled back, huffing a sigh. “Was it something I said?”
Just his luck. Marcus’s Chosen was one of those fill-the-silence types. “You were distracting him from his duties.”
“He does seem dedicated. Gosh, it’s gloomy in here. This window tint is really dark.” She twisted around, peering out the back. “Oh, hey. There’s a car that looks exactly like this one right behind us.”
“Part of my team.” The team keeping her chatty-ass safe.
“Riiiight. Your entourage. Cool.”
Cool? Her vocabulary was astounding.
She fidgeted, picked at the tassel on her oversized tote, then tapped her hand, scanning the space. Knots formed in Marcus’s shoulders, cinching tighter with every tap. Finally, she dug into the depths of her purse and extracted a metallic packet. “Gum?”
Marcus exhaled a growl in answer.
“Suit yourself.” She unwrapped a stick and popped it into her mouth, chomping like a nag chewing cud. “So where are we headed? I have to confess I don’t know much about you. Do you live nearby?”
Didn’t know him? He’d be insulted if she weren’t a mere faerie of little importance. “Steele Towers.”
“Do you lease a space there?”
He ground his molars, the scrape of his enamel squeaking in his ears. Was she being deliberately obtuse to annoy him? He owned the entire high-rise. How was it possible that Vivian, one of the most worldly and sophisticated females he knew, had claimed this creature as her Chosen?
“Is it far?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Well, we could play a game to pass the time. What would you like? Twenty questions?” Again, she rummaged into her bottomless purse. “I’m pretty sure I have a deck of playing cards in here somewhere.”
“I’d like to play a game,” he said, and her face lit up until he added, “Who can be quiet the longest? You start.”
Her expression fell, and his mood lightened.
“I, um…” She picked a thread on her gods-awful hobo bag. “In case you haven’t noticed, but I think you did notice. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Right now, I’m very nervous. So… sorry. I’ll try to do better.”
He exhaled a sigh. The female was exhausting, but he didn’t hate her honesty. “Forgiven.”
At last, blessed silence stretched between them.
“You’re in pain,” she said softly, eyeing his hand on his knee.
He didn’t even realize he’d been rubbing his leg. “I’m fine.”
Metal clanged as she slid a stack of bangles off her arm, shoved them into her bag, and held out her wrist.
He eyed the golden expanse of skin. Thin blue veins thrummed beneath her sun-kissed flesh. It had been far too long since he’d truly fed, not trusting his control after his “accident.” Dove’s exquisite blood was particularly tempting. Hunger hollowed his gut, his fangs aching. She is oursss. Take what she offersss.
Shadows deepened around him, an icy chill sweeping through his veins.
“Not now.” He retreated into the darkness. Sweat prickled the back of his neck.
Despite his snarled objection, she didn’t withdraw. “While I’m painfully aware that I’ve been stumbling about blindly, uncertain about my role as your Chosen, this part I’m clear about. I’m told I have the nectar of the gods running in my veins. The sooner we get you on the mend, the better.”
It was rare for prey to convince a predator to feed from them. Maybe the girl was touched in the head. He’d heard with necromancers it wasn’t uncommon.
“While you’re stumbling, you should know I don’t like to repeat myself,” he growled, the walls of the sedan slithering closer.
“But why suffer when the solution is right under your nose?”
In Vivian’s sitting room, she’d seemed afraid of him, which rankled. He’d rather be feared based on his reputation, not his appearance. Now, she jabbered as if they were old friends, seeming to grow more comfortable around him by the minute.
He preferred her frightened.
Undeterred, she tipped her head, exposing her throat. “Maybe you’re a neck guy?”
The faerie’s nerve was astounding. She offered her jugular as casually as she did a stick of gum.
He eyed the tempting column of her graceful throat, hunger burning in his gut. Beneath her skin, her vein pulsed in a seductive rhythm. His flesh chilled, darkness welling inside of him. “Take. She is oursss,” insisted the voice in the back of his head.
No. Not now. Not here.
His words emerged in a frigid snarl. His tone sharp, animalistic. “I said. No!” Lights flickered in the sedan’s interior. The bulb overhead sparked and shattered.
Dove squawked a noise of alarm, throwing her arms over her head.
The sedan veered sharply. Brakes screeched, and they jolted to a sudden stop. The door winged open. Bishop reached in and grabbed Dove’s upper arm. Marcus sank his claw-tipped fingers into the seat cushion to keep from reaching for her, dragging her back.
“What’s going on?” Dove gasped, oblivious to the danger.
“Electrical short. Ride up front with me,” Bishop ordered.
“Cool. Shotgun.” She exited without argument.
Bishop met his eyes, nodded, and shut the door.
Through the glass, Marcus’s sensitive ears picked up Dove’s voice. “Oh, thank goodness. I can see out of the windows up here. Now, which game do you want to play first? Never have I ever or I Spy.”
“You owe me, Steele,” came Bishop’s low response.
“What did you say?” Dove asked.
“I’m a fan of the silent game.”