Kinked (13 page)

Sentinel or no, a large enough pack of any kind of predator could bring one of them down, but the wolves weren’t really a threat to either her or Quentin. Any wolves would sense that they were the more dangerous predators and normally give them a wide berth. A wild pack would have to have an overriding reason to attack them.

She could also take to the air and leave behind any confrontation, and if Quentin couldn’t outrun them, he could go to high ground, maybe climb a tree, and wait them out. The weather wasn’t bitter enough to turn any wild pack desperate enough to tree him for days until
he
became desperate enough to take them on.

But wolves could become a nuisance, especially when they cooked food, so they would still need to stay wary. She said briskly, “We should set up camp.”

He tilted his head from side to side, stretching his neck muscles. “All right. I did the bulk of the work this morning, so I’m going to take off and see if I can hunt down some fresh game for supper. You can set up camp.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed. Hunting was the fun chore.

He didn’t stay to argue with her. Instead he shapeshifted into a massive black panther and after one expressive glance at her, he glided away. She made a face, looked around at the deepening dusk and set to work.

She was tempted to erect just one tent and claim it, but if he came back with fresh meat, she wanted some, so she set up a proper camp with a tarp strung between two trees in case of rain or snow, and the two dome tents set on more tarps on opposite sides of a ringed campfire. Modern materials made camping a breeze. The dome tents were light, portable, and erected within five minutes.

Not only had Quentin bought sleeping bags, but he also had picked up thin insulating pads that would protect them from the bitter chill of the ground. They weren’t as comfortable as air mattresses, but they weren’t as heavy and bulky either. Everything he had bought was top of the line and lightweight for serious, long-distance hiking.

The most time-intensive thing was gathering wood for a campfire. She worked on that quickly, and after she had gathered deadwood from the immediate area, she jogged around the larger campsite to see if anybody had left wood behind from the previous season.

She was in luck and found a couple of armloads. She hauled them back to camp, started the fire, and opened the bottle of twenty-six-year-old scotch she had found in one of the bags in the car. As she took her first pull from the bottle, the black panther slipped out of the gathering darkness, two winter hares in his mouth.

Reflected light from the new flames flickered in the panther’s strange, brilliant blue eyes and gleamed along his glossy black pelt. He was an oddity in that his Wyr form was so black, yet in his human form, his hair was a dark blond. It was probably a product of his mixed-race heritage. As he padded toward her, his heavy, graceful muscles
flowed underneath his skin, causing the light to ripple along his long, powerful body.

The skin at the back of her nape prickled. This was why she was so convinced he was dangerous. If she dove at him as a harpy, he had the speed, power and size to snatch her out of the air.

She refused to let her reaction show, so she sniffed, took another swig from the bottle and told the panther, “You’re the one who wanted to hunt. You’d better not be bringing those to me to clean. The fire’s going to be ready in a few minutes. Hop to it.” The panther stared at the bottle of scotch then up at her with an unblinking gaze. She shooed him with one hand. “Go on, you stinky cat.”

The panther let the hares fall to the ground, then he shapeshifted into a crouching man who was every bit as dangerous as the animal. He said pointedly, “That is not your scotch.”

Up until that very moment, she’d had every expectation of sharing the bottle with him. After all, sharing resources was what camping mates did, but his attitude spun her in a sharp one-eighty.

“Of course it is. I found it, didn’t I?” She took another long swig, capped the bottle and tucked it securely under one arm. Then she pointed out, “I set up your tent. I didn’t have to.”

He glanced around at the camp she had made. “That was not worth a twenty-six-year-old bottle of scotch,” he said. Still, he scooped up the hares and strode off, returning very soon with the carcasses skinned and cleaned.

By then the flames were burning steadily. She had already constructed a roasting spit from forked branches, with a third branch set across the fire. In no time, they had the hares set on the spit.

The wind had turned bitter as the last of the light fled, but the campfire threw off light and heat, and the liquor was a smooth fire that slid like golden lava down her throat. Aryal knew Wyr urbanites who would shudder at having to spend the night out in weather conditions like this, but they had been tamed so much by civilization, they had grown soft and dependent on modern conveniences.

She didn’t understand those Wyr. They had lost part of their souls, or bartered them away for their flat screens and hot tubs, electricity and refrigeration, and deadbolts that kept out other things but most importantly locked them in.

She
loved
the night.

After their supper had been set to cook, Quentin straightened from his crouch, turned and glowered at her. “Hand it over.”

He looked moody and pissed. But then he always looked moody and pissed around her. It always startled her whenever he smiled at anyone else. First, that he was capable of smiling at all, and second, that he looked so damn good when he did it.

Why did she feel the compulsion to constantly rile him? Honestly, she wasn’t contrary
all
of the time, just usually around people who made her crazy. She shook her head. “Finders keepers. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law. And besides, I don’t want to.”

“I hate you,” said Quentin, “so goddamn passionately.”

She shook her head and tsked. “You young Wyr feel everything too much—”

This time he didn’t launch at her. Instead he advanced on her slowly, his eyes full of intent. She smiled as she uncapped the scotch and held it up to her mouth.

He snatched at it, hooked his fingers around the bottom of the bottle and kept her from drinking. She pulled and he pulled, and amber liquid sloshed out of the top.

“I’m curious,” said Quentin. “Is every harpy like you?”

She braced herself and tugged harder on the bottle. She couldn’t budge it from his grasp. More liquid sloshed out. “We’re pretty rare,” she said cheerfully. “I’m considered one of the more sociable ones. Most harpies don’t tolerate living in society well. They get around too many people, and they get all whacked-out and slashy.”

“Sociable.” He barked out a laugh and advanced more, until the bottle was sandwiched between their torsos. He gripped the bottle neck, his hands sandwiching hers.

She tilted her head and assessed him. Hell if she was going to retreat just because he decided to get all aggressive
and push into her personal space. Heat came off him in waves. It felt more delicious than the heat from the fire.

She said softly, “What are you doing, Quentin?”

“Honestly,” he said, just as softly. “What does Grym see in you anyway?”

She exploded. “How many times are you going to bring that up?
We’re not lovers
! Grym and I are friends. Here’s a newsflash for you. I. Do. Have. Friends. Maybe that concept is a little difficult for you to grasp.”

He put a hand over her mouth.

It brought his scent up close and personal under her nose. His palm felt hard and callused against her lips. She almost licked it to find out if his skin was salty.

She said telepathically,
That’s got to be one of the more stupid gestures I’ve ever seen.

He growled, “But it looks so pretty.”

She remembered the woman who had been with him, soft and feminine, handcuffed and obedient. What would it be like to give control over to him? To feel his powerful body moving over hers, in hers, while he did anything he liked to her? Anything at all.

In her case, he’d probably take the opportunity to throttle her again.

What would it be like if he gave control over to her? Her skin prickled, a hot shivering sensation.

She jerked her mouth away from his hand and heard herself saying, “I was going to kill you.”

Well, she hadn’t exactly planned on admitting that. She watched his lean face warily as he laughed, a low wicked chuckle that vibrated through the bottle between them.

His gaze had turned reckless. “I was going to kill you too.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You might have tried.”

Actually he might have succeeded, just as she might have. There had never been a time when sentinel had fought against sentinel. Each of them had highly individualized talents. Even the gryphons’ talents differed from each other. But they were all comparable in terms of strength, agility and cunning.

He tugged again at the bottle and this time, losing interest in the tug of war, she let go. He took a long pull. She watched the long muscles of his throat work as he drank. When he finished, he said, “I still might try.”

Her smile turned mocking. Was this their version of détente? He wouldn’t be talking about it, if he really meant to try. Neither one of them would. They wouldn’t give away that much of their intentions. She told him, “Now you’re just flirting.”

Fat from the cooking meat dripped onto the fire and it hissed. One corner of his sexy mouth hooked up as, moving at a leisurely pace, he turned away from her.

She nearly grabbed him by the jacket and yanked him around to face her again, but she controlled the predatory impulse and watched as he squatted to turn the hares on the spit. He splashed both hares with the liquor. It caused the flames to flare up, searing the meat.

She liked the sight of him on his knees. She would like it better if his head were tilted back in supplication. The alpha male, subjugated to her.

She didn’t know why the impulse to change into her Wyr form took her over. She just did it, and walked up behind him. Even though she was silent, his back tensed. He was aware of her every move.

She reached out to trace the shell of his ear with a talon. “You like to dominate pretty, soft girls,” she whispered. “The hors d’oeuvres. It feeds something macho inside, doesn’t it? Makes you feel like a big, strong man.” He turned his head to stare up at her, the firelight gilding his hair. She stroked very lightly at the sensitive whorls inside his ear and smiled as she watched the shudder that shook through his body. “You play such pretty games. A strip of leather, toy handcuffs. None of it is real. You would never dare to really give up control yourself, would you? You don’t have it in you.”

He glanced at her wings and down her body. His face blazed with something hotter than the fire. Deliberately he straightened to his feet and looked at her. He said, “You have no idea what I would do, or what I would dare.”

Her wings flared out. With a forefinger, she pressed the
razor-sharp tip of her talon against the curve of his lower lip. Pressed very gently, until a single ruby drop of blood welled.

He never moved or turned away. All his bones stood out, the shadows accentuated with the force of whatever it was he felt.

The harpy leaned forward and licked the drop of blood away. His blood tasted rich and heavy, and his lips tasted like whiskey.

She smiled, barely containing the hectic urge to hurtle into space. “I dare you to give up control to me,” she said.

“That’s twice you’ve drawn my blood,” he said between his teeth. “I owe you something for that.”

She had no way of knowing what he was feeling, only that it was something powerful enough to cause him to breathe heavily, as if he had been running for a very long time. He licked his own lip, touching his tongue where hers had already gone.

And he smelled like sex again, hot and sultry, and more intoxicating than any liquor. She hissed,
“I dare you to give it up.”

His eyes flared as he took her by the chin. His claws had come out. “I’ll take that dare,” he growled. “Just as soon as you give up control to me.”

Her laughter pealed out over the clearing. She yanked her chin out of his hold. Then she gave in to the desire to leap into the night. She winged away from the clearing without looking back.

No one controlled the harpy.

No one.

Q
uentin ate both hares, because, screw it. If Aryal chose not to stick around, she forfeited any supper he had caught and cooked.

Then he sat with his head in his hands. Every now and then he fed logs into the fire and took pulls off the bottle of scotch. A fitful wind gusted through the trees overhead. They didn’t get any rain or snow, but the weather in the
Bohemian Forest at this time of year was unpredictable at best, and that situation could turn in a matter of minutes.

Him, give up control. To Aryal.

It was the most self-destructive, cockamamie idea he’d ever heard.

Yet as he faced the harpy, his reaction to her had been more uncontrolled than ever.

He had never before been so close to her when she was in her Wyr form. The sight of her took his breath away. She was still recognizable as Aryal, but her features had become more upswept and pronounced. Her piercing eyes would be able to pick out prey from miles, and good gods, those wings. They spread out behind her in a huge fan. Short, dark gray feathers covered the tops of the wings, close to the powerful humerus bones that held them aloft. They darkened down the wing to the long primary feathers that were pure black.

Like her face, the racy, slim bone structure and musculature of her nude body was accentuated. Her slight high breasts were tipped with small nipples, and from the waist downward, her hips and long legs were covered in small gray feathers that looked like they might be soft. He wondered what she would do if he ran a hand down her thigh.

If only she wasn’t so goddamn magnificent.

She looked alien and completely wild, and then she had leaped into the air, defying gravity. That was when he got it, when he really understood what Grym had meant, because he didn’t just grasp it with his head. He felt it with his gut.