King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (17 page)

She rubbed sleep from her eyes, stretched her arms above her chest, and Azaiel actually held his breath, wondering if the woman was clothed beneath her T-shirt, only dragging his gaze from the tops of her thighs when Rowan cursed. The woman tossed a headful of long dark hair over her shoulder—one of which was bare, showing a lot of creamy skin.

Rowan exhaled and stepped away. “Vicki, I’m not in the mood for the two of you to tag team the whole blame thing on me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Vicki shot a dark look at Terre. “I’m sure my sister has more than enough guilt and blame to throw around for all of us. It’s what she does.” The woman turned his way and made no effort to hide the interest that widened her eyes to large ice blue jewels. She held out her hand and, after a pause Azaiel offered his own.

“A name would be good,” she purred.

“Oh for God’s sake, Vicki. His name is Azaiel, and for the duration of his stay in Salem, he’s off-limits.”

Azaiel glanced down at Rowan. Her hands were bunched, her face fierce. She nodded toward the
RV
. “And keep Leroy away from the rest of them or . . .”

“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

H
e 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.”

“Plus five?”

“Her standards have never been, shall we say
. . . high.” Rowan smiled. “When we were teens, we’d rate guys, with
everyone starting out as a one and we added points. You know, body, smile, hair,
personality . . . of course.” She raised an eyebrow. “We could always
take away points, too.”

“So a plus five is in the middle?”

“You got it. Plus ten is the highest you can
score.” She shrugged. “There weren’t a lot of plus tens in Salem, that’s for
sure.” She paused and nodded toward the house. “Abigail is as crazy as
Hannah.”

Great. As if one crazy witch wasn’t enough to deal
with. “I hope she’s not packing a bagful of extraextra specials.”

Rowan laughed at that. “No. That’s not Abigail’s
thing. She’s more of a healer. I think she would have just about died if she’d
shot you the other day.”

Good to know. He decided he liked Abigail, sight
unseen.

“And Kellen?” He asked the question that had been
at the back of his mind all night and watched her closely.

Her expression changed—she glanced away, lips
tightened. Gone was any lightness that had been there. His jaw clenched as he
waited for her answer. The man meant a lot to her.

“I don’t want to talk about Kellen,” she said
carefully.

Small puffs of mist shot from her nostrils, and as
his eyes adjusted to the changing shadows her features sharpened. Their eyes met
and held, and the silence became a heavy, living thing that wrapped them both in
a cocoon of their own making. It was intimate. Secretive.

He was aware when her breathing changed. When her
pupils dilated and her heart rate sped up.

“Rowan—”

“Have you ever felt like doing something you know
you shouldn’t?” A long wisp of hair blew across her face. His gaze lingered
there as she tucked it behind her ear.

He knew where she was going. Hell he wanted to
follow her, but it was a dangerous path—for both of them. Azaiel paused for a
few seconds. Gathered his thoughts. “If you have to question whether something
is right or wrong Rowan, always go with wrong.”

She licked her lips, slowly, with care, and still
their eyes never left each other’s. “Why does wrong feel so . . .
right sometimes?”

They were approaching a line that shouldn’t be
crossed. He felt it. Rowan knew it, and she didn’t give a damn. It was in the
way her body moved as she took the remaining steps that separated the two of
them, a graceful, seductive glide over the cold, wet leaves at her feet. Her
scent reached his nostrils, and his body tightened even more, the blood rushing
through his veins like a drug from a needle.

“Wrong always feels right,” he answered woodenly.
“It’s why hell is full of lost souls who weren’t strong enough.”

Her mouth opened slightly, in a provocative,
feminine way that drew his attention like a heat-seeking missile about to
launch. He caught sight of her even, white teeth and the small, delicate, moist
tongue that teased him with a peek. Her mouth was meant for sliding, for
licking, nibbling, and moaning sounds of pleasure into a lover’s ear.

Such need arose in Azaiel that the heat of it, the
very rush of it through his body, was painful. He clenched his hands into fists
as muscles tightened and strained even more. He grimaced—wanting her to
leave—wanting her to slide against him and prolong the torture. It had been so
long since he’d felt this kind of pain.

This kind of need.

He took a step back, suddenly thinking his chances
were a hell of a lot better with the damn donkey. An arrogant ass he could
handle, but Rowan? She was a different animal entirely, and this was a very,
very bad idea. He’d hurt her. It’s the one thing he managed to do without fail.
Hurt and disappoint.

“I won’t do this Rowan.”

She reached for him, and he watched the leaf she’d
held dance in the air, twirling slowly as it fell to the ground between
them.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Not yet.” Her hand was
warm on his forearm, and a muscle worked its way along his jaw as he struggled
to remain calm and in control.

“You don’t know what you ask.”

Her eyes changed. “I know exactly what I’m asking.
I know exactly what I want.”

“I’m not a nice man, Rowan. In fact I’m the most
flawed creature you’ll ever meet.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t scare
easy.”

She had no clue what he was. What he was capable
of.
What he’d done in the past.

Her eyes were luminous, huge jewels hung in a face
so exquisite he knew he would never forget her. How could he? She was perfect.
Just as she was. Right now. At this moment.

She stared up into his eyes, then slowly dropped
her gaze to his mouth. Azaiel’s groin tightened even more, and he inhaled
sharply as she moved closer. He needed to stop whatever the hell this was before
it was too late.

“Move back,” he bit out.

“No.”

Anger boiled inside him. She was just a little girl
playing a game she couldn’t win. He was Azaiel, one of the original Seraphim.
There was no middle ground with him, and his passions ran hotter than she could
handle.

“What game are you playing, Rowan?”

“I’m not playing a game.”

“This can’t happen,” he said through clenched
teeth.

“I think it can.” Her eyes focused on his lips once
more, and he thought he was going to go crazy.

“Your family is right inside—”

“I don’t want to talk about my mother or my crazy
cousins.” She licked her lips, and they glistened, plump and ripe and inviting.
“I don’t want to discuss the curse or Mallick or . . .”

“Kellen?” The man’s name on his tongue was bitter,
and he scowled down at her.

Rowan’s hand crept up, and, when she touched his
cheek, energy rolled over his tall frame in a wave of hot need. She stood on her
tiptoes, and if Azaiel were smart, he would have disengaged himself from Rowan’s
touch and stepped back. He would have put some distance and perspective between
the two of them.

But Azaiel wasn’t smart. Or even in control. He was
under a spell. Rowan’s spell.

And at the moment she was all that mattered.

“I especially don’t want to talk about Kellen.”

Her mouth was open, ready and wet. “I want to feel
something other than the cloud of doom that’s been hovering above me my entire
life. I want to feel alive.” Her hand slipped along his jaw and crept into his
hair. “I want to feel something other than dread and fear and anger. I want
passion, Azaiel.” She paused, the tip of her pink tongue edging out from between
her teeth. “Can you do that for me?” She shuddered.

Move away.
The thought
roared through his mind.

Her body slid up along his hardness, and he knew
she felt his arousal. In fact the little jezebel worked it, her softness rubbing
against him provocatively. “Please?” she whispered, her breath hot against his
skin. “Just for this moment?”

Maybe he should give her a taste of just how much
of a bastard he really was. That should put an end to her feminine games. Azaiel
had always run hot. Where Askelon had been cautious, he’d jumped in without
thought. It’s what had gotten him into trouble all those centuries ago. Mad
passion combined with absolute power was not something he’d handled well.

He’d paid the price. He just wasn’t sure he’d
learned the lesson.

“I think you could make me lose my mind,” she
whispered.

Her lips were near his mouth, and her scent was
driving him crazy. If Azaiel were a stronger man, he’d pull away. He’d tell the
woman to leave him the fuck alone and concentrate on her problem.

His fingers slid up her face until he cradled her
head between his hands. For several long moments he stared down at her, willing
his body to relax. To obey him, not the witch.

When he had a handle on his emotions his thumb
gently swept toward her mouth, and he sank into her warm wetness. It was time to
teach Rowan a lesson better learned now than later.

Azaiel was no gentleman. He was not her knight in
shining armor. He would kiss her until her knees buckled, and she was putty in
his hands. He would make her want and rage with need.

And then he would leave her. And if she were smart,
she’d never come to him looking for comfort again.

“I think,” he said finally, his voice rough, “that
it’s time for you to stop talking.”

W
hat the hell am I doing?

Rowan paused, for one breathless moment, and let
the situation roll over her. She was throwing herself at someone she barely
knew. Sure he was a “hot as hell” someone, but still. Rowan didn’t do shit like
that. Not anymore.

Rowan had perfected the masquerade that had become
her life over the last six years. She’d grown into the skin of someone who bore
no resemblance at all to what she’d been. In California Rowan James was average.
Ordinary. Less than ordinary. She’d morphed form a hell-raising teenager into
the kind of woman who dated someone like Mason and had a pet gerbil named
Tiger.