way she had believed the fiery attack on Luken had been real … because the attack had been real.
She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course the attack on Luken had been real. She’d made a phone call, and Thorne had confirmed the tragedy.
But this thing with Warrior Marcus was not real, never had been real, couldn’t be real. Oh, God, it really couldn’t.
She took several deep breaths and calmed the feelings of panic that constricted her chest. Of course it wasn’t real. But … and here she closed her eyes … in the dream-fantasy, Marcus had smelled so wonderful.
She touched her fingers to her lips. She smelled all his delicious fennel scent and smiled. In her fantasy he had kissed her—and what had he kept saying to her? Sleep. So she had, and then she’d orgasmed. He was such a big, powerful man and his hips had pistoned hard. And his cock, like a baseball bat.
Desire swept over her once more and her hips rocked as she let all the incredible sensations sweep over her, which in turn caused her back to arch off the mattress. That’s when she felt the oozing between her legs.
She had just finished her period. What the hell?
She sat up carefully and flipped on the light. She grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed between her legs. She looked down at the tissues certain she’d see blood. However, what came out of her wasn’t red.
What came out of her smelled richly of … oh, God … fennel.
This was a man’s essence, his seed.
Marcus?
No.
Impossible!
So what was this? What had happened? She hadn’t been with a man. She’d just had a sexy dream, a hot sexy dream, that’s all.
Really.
Her heart rate increased. Had she been drugged? Enthralled? Raped?
Was someone in her house?
She glanced around at the shadows. She reached out with her senses but she knew her home was safe. No one else was present.
She stared down between her thighs, at the white tissues below her peachy-red pubic hair. Once more that deep, musky fennel scent, like grasses in summer, spiraled up to her.
There could be only one answer. Somehow Warrior Marcus had gotten to her. He’d found a way to penetrate her dreams then penetrate her.
Marcus.
That bastard. What had he done to her? How had he done this to her?
* * *
Antony Medichi, out of Italy in the late Roman era, sat next to Havily on the ratty brown leather couch. The hour was early, not yet seven, and given Luken’s accident and her role in the near-tragedy, she couldn’t have gotten much sleep.
There was a haunted look about her lovely light green eyes this morning.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. The night’s fighting, thank God, was over and as usual the brothers were together at the Cave, one last bonding before heading to bed for the day.
Havily sat next to him, a venti iced coffee held between her hands. “Of course I’m okay. I mean I could use a little sleep, but all that matters is that Luken is doing so well.” She stared down at her cup and twirled the straw.
“That’s all that matters.”
Thorne had just given a report on how well Luken was recovering; a team of healers was with him and would remain working on him until Horace was satisfied. The warrior had even awakened for a few minutes and conversed with Thorne. He wasn’t in too much pain. Horace had seen to that. As for Luken’s wings, it was a wait-and-see.
Still, Havily wasn’t used to seeing that kind of horror, and he couldn’t help being concerned about her. She’d become important to the Warriors of the Blood, sort of a mascot, a beloved mascot.
He held a café mocha in one hand and a buttermilk doughnut in the other. He took a sip, then a bite. He loved that she sat next to him. He’d forgotten how soothing the presence of a woman could be, especially in the off-hours like this, after a night of battling when a warrior’s nerves were still standing up straight and screaming, his body bruised and hurting. Havily was like sliding into a
She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course the attack on Luken had been real. She’d made a phone call, and Thorne had confirmed the tragedy.
But this thing with Warrior Marcus was not real, never had been real, couldn’t be real. Oh, God, it really couldn’t.
She took several deep breaths and calmed the feelings of panic that constricted her chest. Of course it wasn’t real. But … and here she closed her eyes … in the dream-fantasy, Marcus had smelled so wonderful.
She touched her fingers to her lips. She smelled all his delicious fennel scent and smiled. In her fantasy he had kissed her—and what had he kept saying to her? Sleep. So she had, and then she’d orgasmed. He was such a big, powerful man and his hips had pistoned hard. And his cock, like a baseball bat.
Desire swept over her once more and her hips rocked as she let all the incredible sensations sweep over her, which in turn caused her back to arch off the mattress. That’s when she felt the oozing between her legs.
She had just finished her period. What the hell?
She sat up carefully and flipped on the light. She grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed between her legs. She looked down at the tissues certain she’d see blood. However, what came out of her wasn’t red.
What came out of her smelled richly of … oh, God … fennel.
This was a man’s essence, his seed.
Marcus?
No.
Impossible!
So what was this? What had happened? She hadn’t been with a man. She’d just had a sexy dream, a hot sexy dream, that’s all.
Really.
Her heart rate increased. Had she been drugged? Enthralled? Raped?
Was someone in her house?
She glanced around at the shadows. She reached out with her senses but she knew her home was safe. No one else was present.
She stared down between her thighs, at the white tissues below her peachy-red pubic hair. Once more that deep, musky fennel scent, like grasses in summer, spiraled up to her.
There could be only one answer. Somehow Warrior Marcus had gotten to her. He’d found a way to penetrate her dreams then penetrate her.
Marcus.
That bastard. What had he done to her? How had he done this to her?
* * *
Antony Medichi, out of Italy in the late Roman era, sat next to Havily on the ratty brown leather couch. The hour was early, not yet seven, and given Luken’s accident and her role in the near-tragedy, she couldn’t have gotten much sleep.
There was a haunted look about her lovely light green eyes this morning.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. The night’s fighting, thank God, was over and as usual the brothers were together at the Cave, one last bonding before heading to bed for the day.
Havily sat next to him, a venti iced coffee held between her hands. “Of course I’m okay. I mean I could use a little sleep, but all that matters is that Luken is doing so well.” She stared down at her cup and twirled the straw.
“That’s all that matters.”
Thorne had just given a report on how well Luken was recovering; a team of healers was with him and would remain working on him until Horace was satisfied. The warrior had even awakened for a few minutes and conversed with Thorne. He wasn’t in too much pain. Horace had seen to that. As for Luken’s wings, it was a wait-and-see.
Still, Havily wasn’t used to seeing that kind of horror, and he couldn’t help being concerned about her. She’d become important to the Warriors of the Blood, sort of a mascot, a beloved mascot.
He held a café mocha in one hand and a buttermilk doughnut in the other. He took a sip, then a bite. He loved that she sat next to him. He’d forgotten how soothing the presence of a woman could be, especially in the off-hours like this, after a night of battling when a warrior’s nerves were still standing up straight and screaming, his body bruised and hurting. Havily was like sliding into a
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