Under His Wings(24)

“Wait,” he called behind her.

“Just give me a minute, Buckbeak,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You break into my house to tell me I’m on the hit list of a deranged lunatic-slash-mythical creature and I have to abandon the life I’ve worked so hard to get back. Just give me one damn minute.”

She didn’t wait for his response or grant him an opportunity to stop her.

Not that a slammed and locked bathroom door would keep him out if he did decide to come after her.

But logic didn’t factor into her thinking at the moment. She flipped the lid of the toilet seat down and slowly lowered to perch on top. Her thoughts churned as she gripped her thigh and methodically dug her fingers into the throbbing, tight muscles.

I can’t do this again.

A wail pressed against the walls of her mind, a wild cry she couldn’t—refused to—loose. The last time she’d cried had been after Kyle had left a year and a half ago. She’d vowed never to be a helpless victim again.

Yet here she was, once more at the mercy of another.

Nicolai wanted to protect her from this Evander—she got that. But he also demanded she blindly place her trust in him, uproot herself and allow him to carry her off to an unknown place. In her fantasies where he was her winged warrior, maybe she would have said, “Sure thing, let’s go.” But this was real life.

And in real life, even people considered trustworthy and loyal were capable of betrayal.

Tamar had dated Kyle for a year, had intended to spend the rest of her life with him, and he’d abused her when she’d been at her weakest, unable to defend herself from the physical and emotional slaps.

Now she was expected to pack her bags, leave the security of her home and become completely dependent on another man—a man who shifted into a mythological creature capable of tearing a human limb from limb.

One of the same mythological creatures who wanted her dead.





Chapter Four



Well, that had gone well.

Nicolai thrust his fingers through his hair and fisted the strands at the back of his head. He glared at the door, frustrated.

He’d fucked up. Royally.

Because his role as Dimios required that he hunt, judge and execute his own people, he chose not to live with them, realizing one day he may be called to track and kill them. Case in point—Gregor. So aside from Bastien, his closest friends were the three males he led, limiting his communal circle to three men as taciturn and antisocial as he.

Still, this didn’t excuse the tactless way he’d delivered the news that Tamar was in danger. If he could, he’d reach back and kick his own ass.

Damn. He grunted, threw one last frown at the closed bathroom door and paced across the room. Yes, his communication skills were rusty as hell, but he couldn’t blame his blunder on them.

Well, not entirely.

He placed the fault squarely on his dick.

As soon as he’d entered the moonlit room, her scent had beckoned him. The sweet citrus perfume of hyacinth emanated from her skin. It had been the same in his—their—dreams, the hospital and even stronger in her bedroom where she slept. His gaze had lingered on the turned-down sheets and the beast in him had yearned to roll around on that wide bed, to loll in the covers until their scents tangled, mated.

His cock had hardened, throbbed behind the zipper of his pants. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the metal had been imprinted on his flesh like a damn tattoo. But if smelling her had sent his hippogryph into high alert, seeing her had it snapping and clawing to be set free. To cover, fuck and protect.

All really bad signs.

The dark could not hide her from him—his eagle’s sight noted every detail about her face and body as if daylight had streamed through the window instead of the moon’s milky-white glow. Though her caramel skin had retained its hospital pallor and fear had lurked in her amber eyes, she’d been vibrant, alive. And so fucking hot, man and beast had fought not to take her down to the floor, tear the clothes from her curvy little body and pound into what he knew was a tight, sweet pussy that would melt like lava around his cock.

Lying in the hospital bed, still and fragile, she’d tugged at his heart and stirred the need to shield her from any further threat. But tonight she’d huddled in the corner of the bedroom—so afraid he could smell fear pouring from her skin—wielding an iron poker as if it was a Louisville Slugger and his head was a fastball. Tamar had called to the warrior in him. Brave in the face of her fear.

It was then, with her crouched in a battle stance, he’d detected the minute differences between Tamar and Pria.

While they shared the same tawny eye color, the shape of Tamar’s eyes was more slanted than his bondmate’s. Both women were petite, but Pria’s small frame had been softer, more rounded, while Tamar’s compact curves hinted at a woman used to hard work and play. Lean, sinewy muscle corded her slim shoulders and arms, visible under the sleeveless top she wore. Though the two women bore the same cleft chin, Tamar’s appeared firmer, more stubborn than the delicate line of Pria’s.