“Well, sweetness, that’s the last one, and
I don’t see mention of banshees anywhere.” Jakuta closed the tome and rested
his hand on the leather cover, watching the play of emotions crossing Gràinne’s
face. “I guess your kind isn’t heavy into body art. I’m going to have to buy
you dinner instead.”
Despite the blush immediately staining her
cheeks, she sent him a look that would quell a lesser man, and Jakuta sighed to
himself, even as it made him want to laugh. They’d spent an hour going through
Hervé’s books, with no luck. Every moment they spent together was subtle
torment, and his temper was beginning to fray. Though she’d tried to keep her
distance, occasionally Gràinne would come to lean over his shoulder, and her
proximity spiked the need gnawing at his belly. There was only so much even a
god could take. The restraint he’d displayed by not dragging her into his lap,
kissing and touching her the way his body demanded, deserved a medal.
Jakuta was inclined to give up, use the
time to explore the wicked lust building between them, but he knew she wouldn’t
agree. Something was driving her, forcing her to prowl with impatience, and he
already knew she wouldn’t give up until she got it.
“There must be some information.” She paced
from the cushion-covered daybed on one side of the room to the opposite wall
where bookshelves lined Hervé’s office so as to run her finger over the titles.
“Banshees have been around for a very long time.”
Watching the small digit skimming the
spines of the books made a hot shiver of longing wash over his chest. He was
drawn to her in so many ways it was almost frightening. Physically his need was
almost painful, yet it wasn’t strong enough to negate his intense curiosity,
the strange and overpowering urge to keep her safe, although she didn’t seem to
be in danger.
Unable to resist, he got up and moved to
stand behind her, taking in a deep draught of her fresh, sea-spray scent. The
urge to surround her with his arms, pull her into his embrace, made his voice
rough as he replied, “Your kind may be old, but tattooing of the higher beings
isn’t. Up until a couple hundred years ago only arcane wizards had the ability
to bespell markings onto their skins, so the art is still growing.”
She shivered, and he knew their proximity
was affecting her, just as it affected him. His cock was harder than he could
remember it ever being, desire pulsing through every vein, and knowing just
standing close caused her body to react made the yearning that much more acute.
“So I’ll be the first.” Gràinne’s voice was
breathy, but determined. “You can figure it out, right?”
His heart dropped into his belly. This was
one responsibility he didn’t want. “Every new being who decides to get body art
adds to the knowledge, but it’s risky being the first, sweetness.”
She turned to look at him, her
sea-foam-green eyes reflecting equal parts fear and resolve. “I’ve heard that,
but I don’t care, Jakuta. I have to have this tattoo.”
What
the hell is she after?
“Why?”
But she only shook her head, lowering her
gaze so he couldn’t read anything in her eyes. “What else can we do?” Spinning
back toward the shelves, she continued perusing the titles. “There must be
something in one of these damn books.”
Suddenly the knowledge came to him, as
though the Orixás whispered the information into his ear—whatever she was
planning was dangerous, and it was up to him to…
The intuition faded, leaving him
floundering. What was he supposed to do? Help her? Stop her?
Protect
her.
How?
No answer came for the question, and he
swore silently. What he really wanted was to strip her down, discover if the
skin hidden by her clothes was as soft and pale as her face, if her body really
reacted to his closeness the way his did to hers. He wasn’t given to altruistic
impulses, had spectacularly failed in the role of protector in the past. The
thought of having this one small banshee dependent on his ability to keep her
safe filled him with something akin to fear, and a healthy dose of rage.
“All right, sweetness.” His voice was harsh
and he didn’t try to temper it. By Obatala, if he had to do this, he’d do it on
his terms, ensure he got even a little satisfaction out of it. “I have an idea,
but it’ll cost you to find out.”
“What is it?” She spun to face him, and the
eager trust in her eyes almost made him back down. “I don’t care what it costs,
I’ll pay.”
He stepped near, smiled when her instinctive
retreat brought her back up hard against the bookcase. Reaching out, he whisked
the hat from her head, watched as a mass of fine, pale hair tumbled down to her
shoulders and her lips rounded into a silent oh of surprise. Resting his hands on the shelf on either side of
her head, he leaned in, reveling in the hot wash of color rising from her
collar, the way her eyes darkened and became storm-tossed.
“A kiss, and I’ll tell you.”
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