Winter's Knight (6 page)

“N-n-nothing? Just...” Shea’s eyes opened to plead with Lucian, and the words took obvious effort. “Just... need you... youto talk to me.”
“Talk to you,” Lucian murmured with raised eyebrows, managing to make it a statement at the very last syllable second. Again, Shea seemed half undone, and Lucian chose to ignore the voices yelling that Shea wasn’t into kink, that Shea wasn’t as scared as he looked, that fear made no sense here. Lucianlistened to the instincts running deeper than doubts, the ones built on experience that noted Shea’s use of the word, “need.”
Lucianheld the jacket around Shea’s arms withone hand and raised the other to caress Shea’s cheek. “Make-out repartee? I can do that.” Lucian swiped his tongue over Shea’s lower lip, and he slid his touch down Shea’s torso to pull the shirttail out of the slacks. “Can tell you that you taste better than I thought possible.” Lucian sampled Shea’s mouth again with a swift suck to swollen lips and drank a note of longing. “And you feel...” Lucian tugged aside undershirt and sighed when his palm hit hot bare skin over the flexing muscles of Shea’s abs. “Such a sucker for sensation. Youknow me.”
“Yes. I do know you.” Shea shuddered and restlessly arched into Lucian, and his belly shivered under Lucian’s hand. “You’re still... so cool.”
“Warming up,” Lucian said, finally foregoing the jacket, letting it fall to the floor in favor of tugging Shea away from the wall by the bottom shirt buttons Lucian began undoing. “And if you get me to the couch, you canhave your choice onhow to get me hotter.”
“Ch-ch-choice?” Shea tried, and one would think he was the one withthe stutter, not Lucian.
“Always choices with me,” Lucian said, walking backward toward the reading area tucked behind the bookshelves. “Can have it like this.” He moved closer, wrapped his arms around Shea’s waist beneath the shirts, pressed themtogether and let Shea feel Lucian’s hard-on. “Or...” Lucian danced them in a waltzing reversal, happy that Shea followed the lead. Lucian kept some distance this time, gently encouraging Shea to walk blind and undoing another button. “Slow as you like and just us, here. I left my usualrole on your porch, sweet Shea. Up to you.”
“I like it like this,” Shea confessed, breathless and with eyes fixed low on Lucian’s face. “You lead, sir. I want to follow.”
Lucian tripped on his own feet, and Shea caught him. He almost asked Shea to repeat that entire phrase, but the flashofpanic that flew across Shea’s expression stabilized Lucian enough to groan with calculation. He pulled Shea into his arms for a slower kiss, and Lucian tried to catch up to a reality that was making a mockery ofhis control.
Roughly a million questions poured into Lucian’s brain as he and Shea spilled onto the sofa. He felt like an idiot for not seeing the big picture before this instant, but honestly, how in the hell could he have known that Shea wanted to try a submissive hand to Lucian’s deal? It’s not like Shea had even hinted at it. Ever. He ate at Shea’s eager mouth and wondered if this was a new curiosity or the thing that Shea had tried to ignore. Maybe it wasn’t only that Shea was interested in Lucian, maybe Shea was interested in experimentation, too. And now here was Shea consenting, calling Lucian “Sir” and Christ, but Lucian’s brain red-lined at the unforeseen possibilities. He spread Shea’s shirt open, found a nipple to pinch while their bodies slid and rubbed together, and Luciangasped ingreed.
Shea bucked under Lucian, and the cry was pure pleasure, music to Lucian’s ears. Strong hands gripped Lucian’s back, tightening with each stroke he laid on Shea, but Shea just held on, not pulling or pushing him one way or the other. Heavy thighs spread under Lucian’s weight and grinding hips, and Shea’s arousal grew thick under the flimsy material of the dress slacks. Lucian tipped to one side and palmed it, his other hand slammingonto the cushionto brace himself.
“Want you... sweet Shea,” Lucian rasped, moving down Shea’s jaw and neck with open-mouthed kisses, tasting. Shea moaned, head back and the tendons of throat going taut. Lucian bit into the meat of one, riding Shea’s writhe with a sharp suck. “God,” Lucian cried. He sat up and saw the ink decorating Shea’s chest. Lucian squeezed Shea’s cock in a promise and adjusted for balance.
“Oh, this is new.” Lucian traced the deep red heart surrounded by an armored cage with the fingertips of both hands and then bent to repeat the pattern with his tongue. When Lucian began lapping upward to collar bone, however, he felt something else: the even ridges ofraised scar tissue hidden under the shadows ofblood and steel. Lucianfrowned.
“Uh-huh,”Shea panted, and he stilled. “Last year.”
“I like it,” Lucian said, not wanting Shea to think Lucian had some aversion to Shea with tattoos. Quite the opposite, really. He trailed touch over Shea’s flank, all but salivating at the definition and licking toward pectoral. Something wasn’t right with Shea’s breathing, and Lucian kicked himself. The man wanted to be led, and Lucianwasn’t doinghis job.
Lucian paused to remove the band holding his hair, and it spilled over Shea’s chest to a musicalexhale from the larger man. “Hands in my hair, sweet Shea. Tight as you like,” he ordered, licking and pulling Shea’s nipple into his mouth.
Shea shuddered and grunted before blunt fingers slid against Lucian’s scalp, cupping the back of Lucian’s head. Wrapping slick strands around his fists, Shea gradually tightened his grip. Lucian released Shea’s skin and dug blunt nails into his side, dragging themina scratchthat ended at Shea’s navel.
“Good boy,” Lucian said in a sweet slur over Shea’s lips. Shea’s lust-darkened eyes widened, and Shea squeezed Lucian’s hair to the point ofpain. Lucian repressed a curse, jaw flexing while he undid Shea’s belt. He kissed Shea’s lower lip, and Shea didn’t respond except with fast, staccato breathing. Lucian’s pulse raced in a triumph undermined by weak, sickly alarmand discomfort.
“Arms over your head,” Lucian said in a growl, thinking it’d be best to slow down, and Shea instantly released Lucian’s hair. Maybe Lucian could stroke Shea while his hands were out of play. Lucian could whisper to himthe entire time, tellhimhow muchLucian fucking loved being here, reassure Shea that nothing was wrong, that he was doingeverythingexactly-
Twin hammer blows hit Lucian in the solar plexus and on the hip, flinging him bodily off the couch and against a corner of a bookshelf. Agony lanced up Lucian’s spine, and his head cracked on wood. Lucian saw stars, and books thumped to the floor. The shelf rocked dangerously before righting itself, and Lucian tried to remember how to breathe.
Shea scrambled up and back over the arm of the couch, harsh sounds ripping from his chest that might have been sobs, but Lucian was too busy coughing to payattention.
“Shit, fuck, damn it, damn it, shit,” Shea chanted, ragged and desperate and high-pitched while gripping the arm rest until it creaked in protest. “Christ, fuck... ohfuckingshit. God damnit all...”
“The... h-hell w-was that?” Lucian stuttered in a wheeze.
“You need to get out.” Shea’s voice was tight. “I need youto go.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Lucian said, the venom of the words getting lost in a torrent of hurt. He struggled to stand, staring at his friend cowering in the corner like some sort oftormented puppy.
“Everything.”
Shea sounded a heartbeat away from hysteria, and Lucian shoved away his anger. “I’m sorry?” he tried, coming closer, and Shea scuttled backward on the floor, shaking. It took a second for Lucian to realize the sound ofpainhe heard was his own.
“Shea, it’s all right, I didn’t mean to--” Lucian knelt on the rug before he even realized what he was doing, hand outstretched.
“Luke,” Shea whispered, whipping his head from side to side and staying well out of Lucian’s reach. “It’s not you. I just... I can’t. I can’t do this yet.”
“Do what, sweet Shea?” Lucian asked as tenderly as he could. Some part of him was absolutely sure it was dying at the sight of Shea in such turmoil; it told Lucian that if he didn’t fix this, do something, right the wrong, figure out what the hell just happened, Lucian would wink out of existence. “The Scene shit? You don’t have to--”
“No. I don’t.” Shea’s tone turned to stone. “Get out. Now.”
“S-Shea?” Lucian asked, trembling and hating himself for sounding like he was six and hiding in the closet fromhis father’s fists.
“Oh, Christ. Fuck this,” Shea muttered and staggered to his feet. He sucked in a breath and shouted, “Luke, get out! I need you the hell out of my house! Now!”
Rage powered Lucian upright, and for a horrible moment he thought he might do something truly insane. Attack Shea, throw a book at the asshole’s head, something. The waking burn of a forming bruise across his shoulder blade and the tightness in his chest stopped him.
And so did the confusing mass of hurt, anger, fear, and loss that filled his love’s eyes and slid in a single silver track downone cheek.
“All right,” Lucian said, chilly as the ice filling his guts and engulfing his heart. “I’ll go, sweet Shea.” Lucian added the cruel twist of inflection, and the nightmare part of him liked the way Shea flinched. Lucian stalked to the entryway. The gun lay in his path, and he kicked it with a garbled cry, yanking open the door and slamming it hard enough to rattle windows behind him.
Lucian made it to the Rover, and time kept skipping. He didn’t recall the porch, the gravel, or his keys, but he relished the spin of tires when he hit the gas.
Somethingwas wrongwithShea.
The Rover found traction on rock and snow and bounced down the mile-long drive toward the main road that wound its way by the Ollivander farm. Lucian couldn’t stop shaking, realized he’d left his coat on the rack inside Shea’s cabin, and he nearlyhit a tree.
Someone had hurt Shea.
Yanking the wheel in the direction of the skid, Lucian avoided a head-on collision and reality stuttered again. The next thing he knew, he was on scraped asphalt, tires straddling the center lines. He glared at the speedometer that screamed he was doing ninety in a thirty-five, and the Rover careened back to the proper side ofthe road.
Something that Lucian had done had made Shea lashout.
Lucian’s back throbbed in complaint, and he ignored it. He slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street, stopping next to a wooden fence lining private property. Lucian didn’t recognize the fence, the pasture, anything. His breathfogged the car, he couldn’t feelhis hands or feet, and he smashed at the controls on the dash until heat flooded the interior. A horn blared, Lucian braced for impact, and a sedan whipped around the Rover. The driver shook a fist, and Lucian’s head hit the wheel, once, twice. The painbarelyregistered.
Someone was goingto pay.
Slamming on the hazard lights, Lucian eased the truck off the road and into a ditch. He fumbled in his pockets until he found his phone. It slipped to the floorboards, and Lucian cussed in stammers that worried the last remnants of his sane self. He couldn’t figure out how to turn off the damned keyguard, and he screamed inthe enclosed silence, deafening.
Finally hitting the right buttons, Lucian clutched at his chest and doubled over inthe seat. The callrangand rang, and Lucian felt alone in the world. God and purpose and everything he’d ever worked for didn’t matter, didn’t know his name, and Lucian hung on the cliffofdespair.
“Clark.”
Luciantried to speak, couldn’t.
“Hello?”Clark said.
“...dialed you accidentally,” Lucian heard in the background. Daniel. “Why’s he callingthis time of--”
“Shea,” Lucian said, the single syllable a mess of sound.
“Luke? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t f-fuckingcallme that!”Luciancried.
“Sir. Sorry, sir.” The snap in Clark’s voice didn’t lessen the concern, and Lucian couldn’t breathe. His chest hurt, he was sweating and shivering. It felt like he was dying.
“What’s your location, sir?”Clark asked.
Lucian shook his head, and snarled. “I don’t know. Farm. Near the farm.”
“The Ollivander Farm, sir?”
“I don’t know. Goddammit, Clark, something’s wrong.”
“I understand, sir. We’ll fix it. Just tell me where youare.”
“W-wrong with Shea,” Lucian clarified. He blinked burning dry eyes and hated his father so much in that single instant that the emotiontried to obliterate him. “Ssomethingh-hurt him.”
“Does he need medicalattention, sir?”
“No. Not like that.” Lucian got a full lungful of air, sighed a shakyexhale.
“Good, sir. Better. Just breathe. Are youhurt?”
“He threw me into the wall,” Lucian whispered like he was recountinga bad dream.
“Shea did?”
“We were on the couch, and it was fine. Fucking fine. And thenI... I said--”
Good boy.
“--something, and he threw me.”
“Do youneed a doctor?”
“No.” Lucian forced another deep breath, and the world beyond the windshield wavered inthe red haze of rage. “I need to know what the fuck happened to him, Clark. I need to know why I don’t have that information. Why you didn’t tell me anything or find out that someone got close enough to my Shea to do harm. And I need to know it now so I know who the fuck to kill.”
“Sir. Where are you?” Clark asked, impatient emphasis oneachword.
“I told youI don’t fuckingknow!”
Clark was silent for a few seconds, and Lucian had sense enough to feel bad for yelling but not enough compassion to apologize. “If you’re near the farm, you’re closer to us than you are to home,” Clark said. “You’re in no shape to drive, but I know I won’t be able to convince you to stay there until I can get this goddamned software to work to pinpoint your location.”
“Let me see,” Daniel said, close enough to the phone for Lucian to hear. There was a rustle, a low sound, and Clark spoke to Daniel with a hand blurring the speaker before comingback to Lucian.
“Get here,” Clark pleaded. “We’ll talk about what happened. Please, sir, just--”
“Fine.” Lucian tossed the phone into the passenger seat, and for once the GPS didn’t fight Lucian as he called up maps and directions to Clark and Daniel’s townhouse. He defied the speed limits and dared a cop to show up. He replayed every single second of the night over and over. He wanted to live inthe memoryof Shea’s kiss and hands, Shea’s moans and words, Shea’s taste and smell. He wanted to die at his own incompetence, at his inability to string facts together fast or tight enough to see the problem. He knew Shea, and the gun and the violence and the scars didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense, and he knew he should retreat. Leave Shea alone. He’d gotten his chance with Shea, had fucked it up, and Lucian was still reeling at how life was continuing despite his expectations. Lucian wasn’t supposed to survive losing Shea, and without Shea, nothingwould ever matter again.