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He cupped her head and lowered his mouth once more, so relieved that he felt weak in the knees. “I love you, Rowan James. And I’d rather spend one mortal life span with you than countless millennia alone. You’ve ruined me for all others.” His lips skated across hers, his voice growled from deep within his chest. “And I’m okay with that.”
Her hands were in his hair, and she opened beneath him, her lips trembling, her voice shaky. “Are you sure? Like absolutely sure? Because I’ll understand . . .”
“I’ve been unsure about a lot of things, but this one . . . this need to be with you will never go away. You complete me like no other. I’m a better man because of you, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.”
The two of them clung to each other, hands running along flesh as clothes disappeared, and they fell onto the bed. They strained into each other, their mouths feverish, their hands rough with the need to touch. To caress. To linger and to grasp.
Azaiel proceeded to make love to his woman and later, much later, as he lay in her pink-and-white bed, with her crimson hair splayed across his chest, he tried not to dwell on the dire news they’d learned the night before.
But it was hard. He gazed out her window, at a starless, moonless sky, and he knew that it was shared by a murderer. A traitor. He just hoped the bastard was found before any more blood was shed.
“Azaiel?” Her voice was raspy.
He kissed the top of her head. “Hmm?”
“The day you walked into my house felt like the first day I was truly alive. I love you.” She shuddered. “I love everything about you, and I’m honored to share my life with you.”
He smiled, wrapped her in his arms, and let the silence envelop them whole. There would be trials ahead. A killer to hunt. An underworld that would seek vengeance for the death of one of their own. A woman to protect and a new family to navigate. The James coven, Kellen, Marie-Noelle, the gargoyle . . . Not to mention, the small orange tabby had finally given birth to seven kittens, there on the other side of the bed in Rowan’s laundry hamper.
It was a complicated mess.
But, right now . . . in that moment . . . his life, such as it was, was pretty damn perfect.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Juliana Stone’s
League of Guardians e-book novella,
WRONG SIDE OF HELL,
available now from Avon Impulse
The door behind Logan Winters opened, bringing with it a gust of wind, the faint scent of pine, and complete silence. Like a ripple effect, conversations stopped, laughter faded, and eyes were averted.
Logan glanced up at the bartender, took notice of the stubby fingers grasped tight to the bottle of Canadian whiskey—the bottle Logan had been waiting for—and scowled.
The Neon Angel was a sad excuse for a drinking hole. It had seen better days, and from what he could tell, so had most of the staff and clientele. The bar was a rickety shack on the edge of a town he had no name for. It was the place he’d ended up—no reason other than timing—and for a brief moment it had been the heaven he’d been seeking.
His eyebrows knit together and his lips tightened. All he’d wanted was a drink. Just one fucking drink.
He exhaled and shifted slightly, giving himself more room as he pushed his bar stool back a few inches. The couple that had been sitting to his left were already on their feet, a wad of cash thrown onto the bar as they slid into the shadows that wrapped around the room.
The redhead who’d been eyeing him but good downed her wine and smiled a crazy “I’m getting the hell out of here” kind of smile before wiping the corner of her mouth and turning away.
Guess he wasn’t getting laid either.
Logan swore—a harsh string of words no one would understand—and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll take that shot now.”
The large man ran his free hand through the thinning gray pallet atop his head and swallowed hard, his watery eyes wide as he glanced toward Logan. Thick bands of wiry gray brows curled crazily above round eyeballs the color of peat moss.
He wore a faded black wifebeater t-shirt and his soft arms were filled with tattoos that jiggled as he rubbed the scruff on his chin. “Dude . . . not sure if that would be a good . . . uh . . . idea.”
Logan’s ice blue eyes narrowed as a snarl caught in the back of his throat. He felt the heat beneath his skin. The burn. The itch.
“Do not,” he bared his teeth, “call me dude.”
A rumble rose from his chest—a menacing warning—and the bartender took heed, his body jerking in small, quick movements as he stepped forward. Logan nodded toward the bottle, his low rasp barely containing the irritation he felt. “Pour me the drink.” He’d have his whiskey and then deal with whoever the hell had decided tonight was a good night to fuck with him.
