Jory Strong - Inked Destiny

How Eamon had come into her life didn’t matter. Peordh. Predestination. She wouldn’t change it if she could. She’d change only this, the misunderstanding, the hurt.

“What happened with the captain’s wife, my mother set that in motion. She foresaw the encounter and what would happen because of it. There was a clue for me in Laura’s mind. The Dragon is real, Eamon. It’s real.”

His leaned in, eyes stormy. “The changeling you asked about threw himself into the ocean, the magic a siren song promising him gills and tail if he surrendered to it rather than allow me to catch him and help him gain control of it. He’d be dead now if I hadn’t been close enough, strong enough to reach out with a spell, with my own command of the elements.”

She tugged at her wrist to free her hand and retrieve the picture showing Dragon and woman and sigil. He tightened his grip, reading denial. She stopped, seeing the flash of pain in his expression and it hurt her.

Leaning forward she brushed her mouth against his. “I see the man and the lord, Eamon. I’ll work harder at meeting you halfway. Halfway. I won’t lose the part of myself that’s human. I don’t think I’m meant to, otherwise why would the magic have chosen Cathal?”

His free hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair. He caressed her cheek, cupping it, the soft touch a blossom of pleasure and hope, an acknowledgement of her point.

“You’ve told me not much is known about the seidic ,” she said. “You’ve told me that my magic feels old to you. When I look at the bands my mother tattooed on my wrists, I see the Dragon’s green. When I face it, that green travels up my arm as though the sigils making up its name are written there like inked destiny.”

“Etaín.” Her name held his doubt, his worry, the wealth of his desire as the estate gate slid back as it had the first night she’d come here, revealing Cathal waiting there instead of Eamon.

Eamon released her so she could get to Cathal, but sudden imperative held her. “Trust me to do the right thing,” she said, before taking the freedom he offered. Her arms were around Cathal an instant later, her mouth fused to his.

Cathal couldn’t get enough of her. He was as desperate for her as he’d been after the encounter with the gangbanger, except this was honest, with no agenda other than to celebrate life and love.

His mouth ate hungrily at hers, his cock about to tear through the front of his jeans to get to the place it considered home. His arms tightened on her at Eamon’s approach.

Not jealously. Not possessiveness. But a grab for sanity to keep from stripping her out of her clothing.

Talk would have to wait. Confessions. Neither of them was as important as the touch of skin to skin, the urgent need to be inside her, to share her.

Pulling his mouth from hers, he said, “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” thoughts flashing to his fire and smoke and water-damaged house. Not Eamon’s bedroom but their bedroom. For a while. Maybe permanently. And he found that the thought of living here, where she’d be safer—hell, where he’d be safer—didn’t bother him.

His lips returned to hers, hands settling on her hips, though the will to stop the grind of her cunt against his cock deserted him.

In his mind he said, we need to stop now , but his body refused to yield, relishing the rub and press, the heat and scent of Etaín and the joy of being alive.

Quinn pulled to a stop near the chain-link fence, cutting the engine steps away from an opening in the fence to the right of a No Trespassing sign. Again he contemplated calling Sean. Again he dismissed it.

He pulled his gun from its holster and got out of the car. He’d just take a quick look around, enough to either confirm he was nuts or…

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

The refrain pounded through him with each heartbeat. Racing until there was no break between utterances.

The twist in his gut got tighter with each step, until caution was a struggle.

He heard voices speaking Spanish. Harsh-edged, ugly laughter followed by the sound of someone being hit. A cry of pain, a piteous whimper.

Derrick’s cry. Derrick’s whimper.

Rage poured into Quinn. The red of furious fire burning away years of training, eradicating any thought of stealth.

He raced forward, driven by fierce possessiveness past abandoned buildings covered in graffiti, the sound of violence and agony, the scent of blood reaching him, feeding his urgency and providing a trail. He led with his gun, finger steady on the trigger despite the adrenaline rushing through him and the pounding beat of his heart.

“Please, no!” Derrick screamed, terror peaking, and Quinn promised himself Derrick would never beg again, unless it was in bed with him, and the words would be “Please. Yes!”

“Do it, Drooler,” someone said as Quinn rounded the corner and saw Derrick held between two teens, struggling as a third raised a gun.

Pop. Pop. Pop The rounds left Quinn’s gun in staccato beats, taking the immediate threat to Derrick down, before eliminating the others.

Shoot to kill.

Instinct. Training.

He was rushing forward when something slammed into him.

He took two additional steps before his brain interpreted what his body knew. He’d been shot. Realization came with the delayed impression of a man ducking behind a stripped, abandoned car.

Quinn hit the ground. His hand went to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop the escape of blood, his consciousness wavering. His vision was wet and blurry as Derrick dragged himself toward him on his belly, using one arm while the other trailed.

“No, no, no,” Derrick sobbed, his face was bloody and swollen.

Quinn wanted to scream Run! Get out of here! But a bubble of blood gurgled up his throat and prevented it.

The shooter stepped out from behind the car.

A roar of denial blasted from Quinn’s core. A determination to protect Derrick that held him to life and lent him enough strength to angle the gun upward and get off two shots.

Hits, both of them.

The man went down and didn’t get back up.

Satisfaction tempered the pain of having lost a future with Derrick. He’ll use my cellphone. He’ll make it out of here. Comforting thoughts as Quinn slid into the oblivion that was death.

Etaín seized without warning, the violence of it tearing her out of Cathal’s arms and throwing her to the driveway to flail and thrash, limbs wild and back bowing as though it would snap. He dropped immediately, grabbing an arm, pinning it to the cool concrete as his other hand pressed against her chest in an effort to hold her down.

Eamon was instantly there, kneeling opposite her. Etaín’s hand flashed out, grabbing Eamon’s wrist, her palm pressed to his flesh. Concern for her went to fear of her, a glimmer of expression quickly smoothed to hide its turbulence, but not quickly enough.

“Sire?” Liam said, stepping forward, Heath and Myk immediately flanking him.

“What’s going on?” Cathal managed, and yet he could feel it in the tattoos along his forearms. Magic.

Eamon stiffened, head snapping back, the muscles of his throat taut, his face reflecting struggle, as if he tried to break away from Etaín’s grip but couldn’t.

Terror crawled into Cathal’s throat. Survival instinct screaming for him to break contact with Etaín now, while he still could, demanding he flee because he was only human.

He held tight, denying everything, willing to sacrifice everything, believing in that instant that she needed him now more than ever, that magic, something intrinsically a part of her, had chosen him for more than a save from the Harlequin Rapist.