Under His Wings(4)

Lukas dipped his obsidian head in acknowledgement.

Drawing his lips back from his teeth in a snarl, Nicolai whipped his attention back to Evander. Or the space Evander had occupied. The rogue had disappeared. The coward had used his telekinetic gift as a diversion while he escaped.

Son of a bitch.

“Do we follow?” Lukas asked, his hippogryph form hovering nearby.

Nicolai shook his head. “No,” he said, disgusted. Damn. He’d had him. Victory had been so close…revenge had been so close. Failure burned in his gut, seared a path to his chest. “I hurt him. Bad. He’ll use tonight to heal, not hunt.”

Again, Lukas nodded. The male was not a Chatty Cathy but Nicolai didn’t need words to decipher the disapproval and worry that skated down their telepathic link. Nicolai had broken—scratch that—blown to hell and back the number one rule he hammered into the elite unit that served under him. Never enter into battle with your emotions—they’ll get you killed.

Lukas had cause to be concerned and angry. Nicolai had jeopardized his own safety as well as Lukas’. He’d allowed rage to blind him and had abandoned all thought and consideration except revenge.

And Nicolai couldn’t promise tomorrow wouldn’t bring a repeat of tonight.

Shifting back into his beast, he climbed into the night sky.

Hours later, Nicolai lay against hotel pillows that smelled strongly of detergent and the flower-scented air freshener the staff sprayed with a liberal hand. He released a tired sigh and dropped his head back on the white cotton. Ignoring the drumbeat of pain in his shoulder, he lifted a tumbler of whiskey the hotel so graciously provided in their well-stocked bar. The small sip blazed a trail of fire over his tongue, down his throat and bloomed in his stomach. The potent liquid heated his body but didn’t pierce the cold, hard ball of shame that had settled in his gut, a heavy reminder of the vigilante Batman routine he’d pulled tonight. All he’d needed was a cape, a mask with pointy ears and tights.

He’d failed. And not just in allowing Evander to slip though his fingers again. No. Tonight he’d failed Lukas and the other two men he led—Adon and Dorian. As their Dimios. As their leader.

As their friend.

Fuck. He frowned down into the amber depths of the glass. The whiskey was making him grow a pussy.

He downed another gulp and closed his eyes. It was these moments, after the heat of battle had cooled in his veins and the adrenaline had run its course, he hated most. When the weight of what he was and what he did stared him in the face and like a double-edged sword which cut both ways. He saved lives…but he was a murderer. He was the protector of his people…but was a pariah among them. He was revered…and feared.

He hunted and executed so his race could enjoy a safe existence filled with love, tradition and family. And he could have none of those blessings for himself.

The one time he’d tried to grab a slice of happiness, he’d suffered the consequences—and his bondmate had paid with her life.

That picture of Pria Evander had projected had messed with Nicolai’s head. Hell, he’d almost been shish-kabobbed by a fucking steeple because of it. Evander had been cryptic as always. A treasure hunt. What the fuck? Pria was dead—had been for five hundred years. There was no coming back from that.

His arm snaked out and Nicolai snagged the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the bedside table. Pouring more of the liquor into the glass, he slammed the door shut on that particular line of thought. Even after five hundred years guilt stalked him, relentless in its pursuit. If he hadn’t been selfish, wanting what others had, Pria would be alive.

The Dimios didn’t marry, didn’t have children because his role painted huge, neon, hey-over-here targets on their backs. It was law. And when he’d stepped down from the role to marry, Nicolai in his hubris had arrogantly believed he could still hunt and shit in the face of two-thousand-plus years of tradition.

Well the Fates had shown him. As the saying went, you don’t fuck around with tradition…or those bad-ass eternally PMSing bitches, the Fates.

The alcohol hit the back of his throat in a blast of heat. Loneliness washed over him. Its tide drew him under and he didn’t fight it.

Maybe he should have gone with Lukas, Adon and Dorian to one of the pleasure dens. A hard bout of sex would have been preferable to this fun skip down memory lane. And with a city this size there would most likely be several dens to provide all kinds of erotic services to the mythical creatures who resided here.

Since sex with humans was strictly forbidden, unmated males and females kept the dens busy. A couple of hot, wild hours with a loup-garou may not have been a bad idea. He’d have been scratched to hell and back but his cock would have been drained along with his overactive brain. Or even time with a lovely, ethereal sidhe who would fuck his mind even as he buried his dick in her pussy would have granted him a night of forgetfulness.