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He drew his mist in tight. He was good at creating the preternatural disguise that kept him invisible to anyone around him, especially here on Mortal Earth. Anyone, of course, except Marguerite. She could see him even though she’d been ignoring him all night. By now she was used to his hovering presence—he’d been dogging her heels from the first night he’d touched down on Mortal Earth.
They’d argued plenty, but this was the worst she’d been, sitting as close as she was to her current prey on a tall stool. It looked as though she’d made up her mind that tonight was the night.
He took up his former station, leaning against the wall, close to the door. He crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps flexed involuntarily. His nostrils flared. His breathing was still pretty uneven, especially since even at this distance he could smell her rose scent, rich red roses. It was the one sure sign that this woman was meant for him.
Yet he had no real claim on Marguerite, even though they’d been lovers for over a century. She’d broken with him, needing to go her own way, because she’d been locked up in a convent for the last hundred years. Her parents had consigned her to the Convent in Prescott Two in hopes of getting her to conform to their fanatical religious beliefs. She’d survived the ordeal by sustaining the hope that one day she’d be free to live however she wanted to live. So as soon as he’d liberated her, she’d hopped down to Mortal Earth and started a new life away from Second, away from the war, away from him.
The problem was that she’d ended their relationship at the exact moment the breh-hedden had kicked in.
What a nightmare the breh-hedden had proved to be. Marguerite was his breh, his bond-mate, the woman meant for him. She even carried a decadent rose scent that only he could detect. The urge to be near her, to protect her, to be joined to her in every way possible had overruled his common sense and even his duty as the leader of the Warriors of the Blood. That she also carried the red variety of obsidian flame power was just one more reason he’d felt compelled to follow her to Mortal Earth. Somehow he had to convince her to return with him to Second. So here he was, his back pinned to a goddamn wall in a stinking bar, and without a single clue as to how to convince her to come back with him.
He stared at the new Marguerite. She was as beautiful as ever, an almost perfectly oval face, strong arched brows, and large brown eyes, eyes he’d looked into ten thousand times while making love to her. She used to have really long straight brown hair that he would hold wrapped around his forearm when he took her from behind. Now she had short platinum-blond hair, white-blond, and blood-red fingernails about an inch long.
She sipped a very crimson cosmo, her current favorite drink, the same color as the lights flashing in his head. She had her elbow on the bar, her long nails flicking the feathered spikes of her hair.
The bastard next to her had his left knee about a millimeter away from hers. His eyelids lazed low.
Shit. Thorne knew exactly what that look meant: that the only thought running through the bastard’s head would be just how soon he could get this woman on her back, or settled on his hips and riding him hard. He shuddered through a few more deep breaths.
He wasn’t entirely to blame. The breh-hedden had him hooked in deep, forcing him to look at Marguerite not just as a woman but as his mate, his f**king mate. His mind swirled with a variety of impulses that kept shouting things like Use your fists and beat the shit out of that ass**le or worse, Use your sword and take the smile off his face permanently.
This particular mortal wasn’t half bad looking if you liked a scruff of a beard, a scar on the right cheek, thick black hair combed back straight, and tats on the neck, shoulders, and forearms. He was big, too. Warrior-big.
This was so not going to end well.
Under-fucking-statement.
Even through the stench of beer, smoke, and male bodies, all he could really process was that light floral scent that kept his dick in an uproar.
The bastard made his move. He reached out and grazed Marguerite’s elbow with the tips of two fingers, then moved away, a smooth, quick testing of the waters.
Marguerite smiled. She leaned in toward him and reached out with her hand to stroke his bicep.
Stroke his bicep.
Stroke his bicep.
The red strobes in his head spun faster. His fists balled. Creator help him. His palm itched for his sword. He spread his fingers wide, ready to catch some steel.
For a split second he almost completed the mental sequence that would have brought his sword into his hand. He saw the carnage as plain as day: one ass**le with his head split wide, one woman caught up under his arm and hauled out of this hellhole kicking and screaming.
He was so close.
His fingers trembled.
He wanted his sword in his hand.
He wanted the bastard dead.
He didn’t so much as have the thought as act because in the next split second he dematerialized out of the smoke and re-formed in the deep night shadows, well beyond the bar, well away from temptation. He bent over. He shook. He came within an inch of puking his guts out.
Shit. He’d almost killed an innocent man. Thorne, Warrior of the Blood, protector of the innocent, preserver of life, keeper of the peace, and he’d almost killed an innocent man. Creator help him.
So here he was, almost losing the Buffalo wings he’d gorged on, tortured because his woman, who was not his woman, was pursuing her favorite hunting-sport: men.
There was only one real question to answer: How the hell was he supposed to keep from killing this man if she succeeded in taking him into her bed?
* * *
Marguerite Dresner’s fingertips tingled as she played over the tatted barbed wire on the stranger’s bare, thick, muscled bicep. Her quarry’s smell rose up around her. He wore a heavy cologne, heavy like his muscles, like the male scent she was getting from him. She flared her nostrils and sucked in more of what he was giving.
Unfortunately, another scent crowded the space.
Dammit, cherry tobacco. Again. For the thousandth time.
Despite the fact that she knew the real source, she asked, “Do you smoke a pipe?”
He shook his head, leaning into her a little. “Nope. I’m a cigar man. You like cigars?”
She liked the shape well enough. Who didn’t? But she didn’t care for the aroma. She did like pipe tobacco, though, which was one reason the cherry aroma bugged the shit out of her.
“Now, why are you frowning?” he asked. “What’s made you unhappy?” He had a slight accent and a deep voice, fitting for all that body he carried around. Her gaze fell in a free fall to his snug jeans. This man knew how to display, and when his knee shifted just a little, the bulge moved.
