Phoenix Broken (5 page)

He couldn't help but curse at the loss when she pulled her mouth from him. Looking down, her dusky cheeks were flushed, those pink lips swollen and wet. He stroked the curve of her cheek with his fingertip.

Damn, she was such a gorgeous little thing. She nearly
glowed
in the dim light of the hallway. Scott shook himself, blinking hard. The incandescence faded, but her beauty didn't. It was intoxicating …but also fresh and sweet. She hardly seemed the type to blow some stranger in the back of a bar.

His heartbeat started to slow. Things came back into focus.

Painfully sharp focus.
What had he done?

Scott opened his mouth, but couldn't form a coherent thought for a solid half a minute. His brain apparently on stand by, but finally he was able to form one word,
"Why?"

Her slim shoulders shrugged, but those grey eyes grew shadowed as she took in his expression.

"I had an urge?" she said lightly. "That was some damn fine dancing, Johnny. You made me feel good. I simply returned the favor."

"I didn't make you feel
this
fucking good." Scott's laugh was shaky, but her answering one was full and loud. She really had one hell of a laugh.

"You'd be surprised."

The amusement in her words failed to register. His muscles were still jumping from the intense orgasm, but Scott's brain started to shift gears, grinding as his body protested, wanting to enjoy the temporary relief, to wallow in it. But another question rang in his head, refusing to be ignored, bringing with it the sharp sour taste of guilt.

What the fuck had he done?

Something must have shown in his face, because she frowned and stood up, ignoring the hand he automatically put out to help her.

"Listen, you're not attached, right? Or fucking
married?
Because that is about the only thing that'd piss me off. I hate cheaters." She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

He shook his head, resisting the urge to glance at the hand where his ring should be, his mood starting to plummet.

No, according to everyone else he wasn't married. Not anymore. So why did it feel as if he'd just broken a vow?

Fannie, baby, I'm sorry.

Things were swirling, going dark. Dimly, he saw her give a short nod. He was acting weird and she was obviously anxious to get shut of him now.

"See ya around, Johnny. Or not."

He didn't reply, his eyes closing wearily.

Scott didn't see her glance back, chewing her lip again before giving her head a quick toss and turning into the hallway. She didn't head back to the bar but left out the back.

He started when he heard the sound of the heavy fire door clanging shut, his eyes flying open. That had been the first time he'd come with anyone since Fannie.

Oh, he'd
tried
having sex a few times since her death—well,
twice
, to be honest—half-hearted attempts that had fizzled before they'd even gotten started. Now some strange wild girl he'd never seen before goes to her knees and everything goes off without a goddamn hitch.

Scott pressed the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes hard, leaning back against the wall, his mind a tangled mess. Fannie's face winking in and out, laughing at him. Laughing, but her eyes bright with tears.

God, he couldn't deal with this shit
.

Scott sorted his clothes and ran his fingers over his hair. He got out of the noisy bar as fast as he could, but nothing could ease the pounding in his head, or the ache in his heart.

Desdemona Baptiste walked two blocks in a haze. She'd just hit town hours ago, stopping by the club hoping to see an old friend from the islands.

Centaries was Guido's club—after a fashion—and he invited her to stop by anytime. After being told he wasn't in tonight, Des had decided to linger, looking for a pick me up. Foolish as it was, she drew comfort just being in a place Guido frequented.

She knew damn well such naivety could get her killed, but then Des had caught a whiff of something enticing; something irresistible that made her forget all fear.

The dancer she'd christened Johnny. He'd gotten to her. Pulled her straight to him like a goddamned magnet.

O
h yeah.

So sexy. Those killer eyes, that goddamn body.

The sheer
need
that radiated from him. Des hadn't meant to do more than appease her demon tonight. But he'd proved far too tempting to pass up.

So much pain.
The depth and breadth of it had been stunning. Des was sure she'd barely touched what he had buried inside him. His release had been a direct counterpart to that pain. Wild, beautiful and joyous, it hinted at a very different person under all the blackness.

What the hell had happened to him?

She leaned back against the brick wall, not feeling the cold as the light sweat on her body dried in the icy breeze. Her eyes scanned the alley continually. Desdemona thought she'd be safe in Chicago, at least for a few more hours. Still, there was no need to get careless.

Her mind refused to focus on her own troubles, hopping back to that knee-weakening dancer. At least she'd helped him a little in return for the blast of power he given her.

Des shook her head. Now, that was a lie.

She'd made him feel good, yes. Very good. For a few short moments, she thought he'd even escaped his darkness. But Des had felt the confusion and pain flood back into him the second she'd gotten to her feet. Accompanied by
guilt.
Waves and waves of it.

She'd believed him when he'd said he wasn't married. Something though, something
big
had crushed him. Des had a sneaking suspicion she might've left him worse off than she'd found him.

Omno.

Well, she wasn't going to feel guilt over one damn blowjob. 'Johnny' had been in desperate need of some joy. That was her function,
her very purpose
. Give and take. She gave them pleasure, then she took it back into herself. Fair was fair.

There wasn't a sexual act invented that could shame Desdemona. She’d never be your average twenty-something. Nope, she was the offspring of a human and a demon. A half-breed succubus who fed off sexual release. The stronger and more powerful the better.

For someone like her, Johnny was a feast waiting to happen. He'd been holding back so much, for so long, that what she'd teased out of him tonight was only the tip of the iceberg. She shuddered at the thought of the energy a man like that could give her.

Closing her eyes, she tried to get a grip. Since she'd come of age, Desdemona refused to hunt the way most of her kind did. Draining humans until they were worse than dead. Oh, she used them,
sure.
It was necessary for her survival, after all, and it felt fucking awesome.

She always tried to give back more pleasure, more energy than she took, though.
Always.

With that guy, it wouldn't be like that. It couldn't.

He was too broken, too messed up inside to hold back once she'd opened him up. The feelings that had rushed from him had been like
nothing
she'd ever experienced. By
omno,
it had taken everything she'd had not to light up like a neon sign. As it was she thought he might've noticed something.

With her lack of experience in such matters, she could easily fuck him up worse than he already was. Des was pretty stellar at the sex part of her nature, but the emotional side…

She was still learning the ropes there. Mostly because she'd never met another succubae who gave a shit about the men they fed from, particularly not the human ones. Nor would they'd deign to talk to a half-breed about such things. So, it wasn't as if she had anyone to learn from.

Tempting as it was, she'd best stay away from the dancer with the broken soul.

It wasn't likely she'd run into him again. Des wasn't sure how long she'd be in Chicago. It would be best to keep moving if things didn’t pan out. Maybe even if they
did.
The thought of her meeting tomorrow made her shiver, finally feeling the cold she wasn't at all accustomed to.

Des pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled until the text glowed in front of her once again. The text she'd looked at probably a hundred times in the last few days. The man she'd reached out to; the one she'd asked for help had responded. Tersely, maybe. But he'd responded, just as she'd been told he would. She wasn't sure whether to feel grateful…

Or fucking terrified.

Be at Phoenix Inc. on the 11th of October. Come alone. I'll see you at 11pm. Whether I choose to help or not depends entirely on you.

~Miles

Scott was in a foul mood.

After leaving Centaries, he'd driven straight home. Thankfully, Merry had been tired and not in the mood to chat when he’d gotten there.

After she left, he’d gone into the backyard, sitting under the willow for hours. His back against its smooth bark. His mind alternating between total blankness and a clawing guilt as he listened to the branches swishing restlessly above him without a breath of wind.

He hadn’t put his ring back on until he’d taken a shower. Scot had stood in the kitchen, wrapped in a towel, holding it in the palm of his hand for the longest time. The golden circle seemed to wink at him.

Finally he’d twisted it back onto his finger with a curse. It'd felt hot and tight there ever since. As if the metal was punishing him for his sins. It was stupid, he knew that. Scott knew damn well he hadn’t betrayed Fannie. At least, in his head, he did.

His heart wasn't nearly so forgiving.

He'd been blindsided by what'd happened in that club. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in front of him again. The woman whose name he didn't even fucking know. So he hadn't closed his eyes. All night.

Thinking of her now was making him sweat, even with the window down and the crisp October air on his face. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, remembering the silk of her hair in his fist, the feel of her mouth on his cock, her tongue sweeping over his tip. Lust shot into his gut, making him ache, making him go hard as stone.

Giving into frustration, Scott slammed his fist into the dashboard.

It was amazing he'd gotten the kids to school without letting his mood show. Tish had looked at him oddly a couple of times, but Toby had never raised his forehead from the back passenger window the entire drive.

His son hadn't said a word to him all morning. He’d dashed out of the SUV as soon as Scott put it in park. Tish bussed Scott's cheek, then ran after her brother. He watched the twins enter the mossy red brick building together. They held hands until they reached the doors, then dropped them as if on cue.

At least they had each other, he'd mused, not for the first time. Because god knew their father was FUBAR'ed.

Today more so than normal. He was going to explode if he didn't get a handle on this. Whatever this was. He couldn’t get the damn woman out of his head.

It wasn't as if Scott hadn't felt the need for sex over the years. He wasn't the one dead, after all, even if his existence certainly felt like hell most of the goddamn time. But true desire wasn't something he'd felt since his wife had died.

He'd never expected to feel it again.

Now he sure as hell was. And it was driving him nuts.

Sex was a basic need; like food, air and exercise. Scott knew that—had acknowledged it the other two disastrous times he’d given getting laid a shot. He knew it wasn’t healthy to deny himself, especially considering his sex drive had always been ridiculously high. The problem was, he couldn’t let go. It had been like a switch had been thrown inside him.

Oh, he could get
hard.

All his parts worked fine. It was his soul that said
fuck no.
Because Fannie was supposed to be it for him. Game over. One woman for the rest of his life.

That had been fine by him, not just because Fan was Fan, but because there was no part of Scott's makeup that allowed for anything less than absolute loyalty.

Scott shifted in the driver's seat and stared ahead at the morning rush hour traffic. Guilt had been something he'd dealt with those other times he'd tried getting intimate, but with those women he hadn’t consummated anything. He hadn't been able to cross that line with another woman and let himself go. Let himself come.

This time he most definitely had. And
how.

Obviously, his hand wasn't fucking cutting it anymore. Not with the image of her on her knees haunting him every waking moment. The way those beautiful lips had looked, sliding up and down his shaft. The way they'd felt.

The question that wouldn’t leave him alone—how much better would it feel to be inside her?

Scott growled and hit the dash again. Laughing with her, dancing together—just the simple act of
kissing
her—making out in the damn hall. It had become clear to Scott how starved he was for physical contact of any kind.

He'd forgotten how it felt to be
touched.

Cursing again, low and deep, he grabbed for the sunglasses on the passenger seat, his throat tight. Shoving them on, Scott pushed away the memories of last night for the hundredth time, letting the white-hot rage build inside him, burning away the pain.

Fine.

Just fine.

If it was the physical his body craved, he'd give it fucking physical.

Almost ten hours later, sweat pouring down his body, Scott stood facing the heaviest punching bag in Phoenix's impressively equipped gym.

His shift was over. Today it had consisted mainly of perusing case files on Docie May and Cross and writing up his report from last night—minus several details he deemed irrelevant.

He'd also done a couple hours in the classroom and outside on the grounds running a few newbies through their paces. Phoenix Inc. was a think tank, a political powerhouse and a training ground for
paras
who wanted to learn control of their powers, among other things. They also did research of all sorts; on
para
powers and their applications, yes, but more …nefarious things as well.

Scott had been working with Nolan for the past couple years on a prototype for taking down vamps. The gun was to be the first of its kind—as far as they knew. It was meant to use bullets filled with quicksilver, a chemical compound introduced to them by none other than Daimen Cross. Scott was hoping to use it to kill the fucker, but so far the ignition system was giving them all sorts of hell.

Scott's official title was Head of Training and Development. It had been that way since he'd gone full-time after Fannie's murder, though his true role was murkier. He was far from the only former military personnel at Phoenix, but he was one of the only Marines. And also the only one with MARSOCs training; the Marine equivalent of Special Forces.

Scott also had hands down the most action under his belt. Excepting Miles, of course. But as the grand old man wasn't officially employed at Phoenix, Miles didn’t count.

After he and Nolan set aside the prototype for the day, Scott had put in six miles on the foundation’s running trails—almost twice his daily distance—and lifted enough iron to lay track between Chicago and Pittsburgh and back, but he hadn't been able to work the woman or his frustration out of his head.

The feel of her body under his hands when they’d been dancing.
Her fingertips moving over his stomach, the nip of her teeth. Those violet fingernails, her face looking up at him.

Her goddamn mouth…

Scott slammed his fist into the punching bag, throwing his whole weight behind the blow. The 300lb bag swung back on its chain. Metal groaned, barely audible in the weight room, but Scott saw Alcide catch his eye in the mirror and raise his eyebrows.

He ignored the red-headed werewolf.

The only shade ever hired to work at Phoenix, Alcide Holt was an anomaly in more ways than one.

Despite being part of the largest pack in the United States, up in the Boundary Waters area of Minnesota, the twenty-something wolf chose to live almost full-time in Chicago.

Urban wolves were rare—and ones who deliberately lived hundreds of miles from their pack scarcer yet.

Alcide's baby sister had disappeared almost three years ago. Taken by wraiths. The werewolf was convinced she was still alive, but he was the only one. Wraiths didn't keep the living that way for long.

Despite the legend that wraiths left no trace but their signature calling card—a blood red scythe painted on the door of the victim's home—Alcide insisted he’d tracked his sister's kidnappers to Chicago before losing the trail. Even then, he hadn’t given up.

He’d come to Phoenix Inc., proverbial hat in hand, asking for help from the
paras.
Something no shade had ever done at the time, though a few weeks later, Miles Rousseau would become the second.

Help had been readily offered to the young wolf, but leads were thin to non-existent. Even Kelsey and Jules' unique powers hadn’t done a thing to find his sister’s likely killers. Kelsey couldn't lock on to her essence at all, and given a dozen objects of the young woman's to hold, Jules had only seen the same thing, over and over; a fogged-out, rock-strewn moor that gave the big black man the creeps.

Jules had told Scott in confidence he was sure it was where the poor thing’s body must lie.

But Alcide had chosen to take the vision as hope. If his sister was truly dead, the werewolf reasoned, Jules wouldn't have seen anything. Jules didn't argue the point, but he had taken Alcide on at Phoenix only weeks before Jules would take a fateful trip to France.

When they returned from that trip, both Kelsey and Jules were shades themselves. Vampires, courtesy of Miles, Kelsey's former lover and the object of a long ago, failed hit job of hers when Kelsey had been an assassin for the Cleaners. Now the vampire was her husband.

Life was a regular barrel of monkey balls.

Not long after Jules and Kelsey returned, Alcide disappeared. Turned out he’d been working odd jobs for Miles ever since.

Jobs Scott was not privy to and that'd kept the werewolf out of sight since that summer. He hadn’t turned up again until a couple weeks ago. No one knew much about Alcide. Scott wouldn't even know the kid by sight if it hadn't been for the red hair and his shade status.

“You could try me instead of picking on that poor, defenseless bag." Alcide's voice carried easily. "I’ll show you a lot better time. If you're up for it." He winked cheekily.

Fucking cocky bastard. Young, dumb and full of come.

Wolves loved to fight, to the point of insanity. In that particular area at least, Alcide appeared no different than the rest of his kind. There wasn't a man in the gym right now who would willingly go
mano a mano
with Scott in a mood—except maybe Gordy. Even Nolan, by far the biggest man present since Jules wasn't around, would take a pass on that bet.

You were young and stupid, once upon a time.

Scott ignored the kid and hit the bag again.

Still watching in the mirror, Alcide blew him a kiss.

Okay, never
that
fucking stupid.

Scott turned with a sneer, though he was actually more amused than irritated. He backed away from bag, sweat rolling off his face and upper body. He blinked it out of his eyes and gave a nasty grin. “You sure you want to go there, little man?”

“Little?”
Alcide rolled his shoulders as he stalked across the gym. Lean but muscular, only a hair shorter than Scott himself, Alcide was nowhere near little. He hadn’t reached his wolf maturity though, which generally hit at about age 25 or so. Alcide was a couple years shy of that yet. He'd shoot up and fill out when that hit, but now, by werewolf standards, he was definitely on the puny side. It wasn't surprising Scott's taunt struck home.

Still, any shifter had an advantage over a human on neutral ground, no matter what their size. In the woods, one on one, in his element, Scott could've taken the kid out without a second thought. Here, in the gym, effectively stripped of his powers, the werewolf would've a chance, a good one, of wiping the floor with him.

Alcide knew it, too. Brown eyes twinkled as he stalked closer.

"Let's go, old man."

From across the gym, Gordy let out a long, low whistle. "Now you gone and done it, pup. Better run while you still can."

Alcide shot the water elemental a disbelieving look.

Scott hit him.

It was a wicked blow. An uppercut to the jaw that slammed the younger man’s head back like it was on a hinge. Scott followed it with a body hit that snuck underneath ribs, making them creak as the werewolf let out his breath in a whoosh.

“You hit like a human,” he taunted. Once he could breathe again.

“First rule,” Scott said, as they circled each other, “even if you think you have the advantage, never take your eyes off your opponent. Ever.”

Shaking his head once, Alcide snapped.
“Got it.
Any other wisdom you want to impart before I kick your ass?”

Hitting something alive was improving his mood. Scott actually chuckled.

“I think I like you, ginger. My kids have been pestering me for a dog. We've a big backyard. I could even spring for a nice doghouse. What do you say?”

With a howl that shook the whole gym, Alcide rushed him. Head tucked, arms close to his body.

Good form, but not fucking good enough.

Scott dodged while delivering a snapping front kick to the knee that connected with a sharp crack.

Alcide stumbled, but recovered to spin on his heel. This time Scott wasn't fast enough to keep the wolf from getting his arms around him. Alcide lifted him into the air easily, despite Scott outweighing him by at least forty pounds. The werewolf crushed his ribs in a fierce mockery of a hug that left Scott's lungs screaming for air. Pound for pound shifters had far more power than a human. Alcide would pulverize him if Scott couldn't get free.