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“The rest of them?” Vicki moved to her right and licked her lips as she gazed behind them, a seductive smile breaking wide. “Oh my God, Rowan, did you hijack an America’s Got Hot Men bus or what?”
The donkey brayed, and Azaiel couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the damn thing had said, suckers!
Rowan made a weird noise, muttered, “stay away from her” in his general direction, and disappeared into the darkness that still lingered around the edges of the house.
It was, Azaiel thought, one of the most bizarre evenings he’d ever known. He eyed the donkey, whose large, moist eyes had settled on him with an intensity that was unnerving, and decided that Rowan was right. He aimed to stay the hell out of its way.
“She’s always been a bit overly dramatic. You need a coffee or something?” Vicki’s seductive drawl was impressive. “I just put a pot on and don’t mind sharing.”
The invitation wasn’t subtle, amplified by Terre’s disgusted huff before she disappeared inside her RV.
And yet it did nothing for him.
“Thanks but I’m good.” Azaiel nodded and before he’d even thought about it turned to follow in Rowan’s footsteps.
Chapter 17
He found her among the large oak trees that bordered the back of the property. The smell of damp, rotting leaves hung in the air, while the crisp morning left a blanket of powdery white frost over everything.
She stood a few feet away, shoulders hunched forward, arms wrapped around her body as if trying to find what warmth she could. There was something forlorn about Rowan that tore another chunk of the hard part inside him away. He felt it crack like a physical snap of bones, and he clenched his hands, trying to calm whatever the hell it was stirring inside him.
He didn’t much care for feelings of any kind, so he quickly clamped down on the ball inside his chest and cleared his mind.
The old trees stood like silent men at arms, their generous span of branches cloaked in shadow but illuminated from behind by the ever-lightening sky. Along the ground fog snaked across the earth, seeking shelter from the coming sun, which would dissipate the smokelike tendrils as soon as they met.
Rowan turned slightly, aware of his presence, and he was struck once more by her delicate bone structure, the high cheekbones, small nose, and graceful curve to her chin. She was wholly feminine and a study in contrast.
A beautiful princess in need of rescue. A powerful witch who could kick ass along with the best of them. It’s what made her so interesting. Rowan James was made up of many, many layers, and lucky was the man who’d one day have the time to delve through them.
The mysterious Kellen entered his thoughts, and Azaiel frowned, wondering once more as to the nature of their relationship. The thought of intimacy between the two left a taste in his mouth he didn’t like, which was ridiculous. He had no claim on Rowan.
“I’m going to apologize now for my family, then you’ll never hear me speak to their craziness again, because trust me . . . it’s never-ending.”
Azaiel paused, a few feet behind her. He cleared his throat. “They seem . . .” He thought of the donkey and an unbidden smile crossed his face. “A little eccentric.”
Rowan shook her head. “You have no idea.” She took a step forward and bent down—he couldn’t help it, his gaze followed the line of her body and rested on the feminine curve of her butt. The jeans she wore fit her like a glove—he envisioned his hands there, him behind her, and his groin tightened uncomfortably.
Azaiel grimaced but was unable to tear his gaze away.
She righted herself, a yellowed, waxy oak leaf in her hand, and twirled it absently between her fingers, studying it closely as if it held the many secrets she sought.
She turned toward him suddenly. “We hardly agree on anything from politics to music to”—she held the leaf aloft-“what color this leaf is.” Rowan stared at it closely, still twirling it between her fingers. “I’d call this butter cream, but Vicki would call it gold and Terre?” She shook her head. “She’d have some fancy name for it . . . sun-ripened ash . . . blah blah blah.”
Her brows furled, and Azaiel thought he saw a hint of tears in their recesses.
“Abigail would call it yellow because at the end of the day that’s what it is. And Hannah wouldn’t give a flying . . . duck”—she snorted and muttered—“because she doesn’t swear anymore.”
She looked up suddenly. “Do you have family? Brothers? Sisters?”
The question took him unaware, and, for a moment, Azaiel was silent. He thought of Askelon and the others from the original seven. They were family. Blood of his blood and yet, he’d not felt a connection to them in eons, save for Askelon. But even that connection was tenuous. Untested. Askelon believed in Azaiel, it’s just that Azaiel wasn’t sure he deserved such devotion.
“I have . . . brothers but my situation is complicated.”
She nodded. “Oh I get that, trust me. Families are messy. Just when I think I’m fine on my own, something like this happens, and I realize when all is said and done, family . . . blood is the only thing that matters.” Her eyes dropped to the ground. “I haven’t seen much of my cousins over the last five years, and yet our bond is as strong as ever.” She paused, chewed her lip, and frowned. “I didn’t know that until now.”
She glanced up, and he was struck by the sharpness in her glittery eyes. Her hair hung past her shoulders, a riot of crimson tangles that set off her creamy skin to perfection. She was earth and sun and moon all wrapped into one hell of a sexy package.
“I’ve missed them so much. I know it doesn’t seem like it because all we seem to do is bicker but . . . Terre and Vicki are twins, which I’m sure is hard for you to believe. They shared the same womb, the same DNA, but not much else. Terre studied botany at Stanford while Vicki danced on Broadway in New York. She has a weakness for musicians.” Rowan’s eyes darkened. “Or any male who’s a plus five.”
