Table of Contents

- Part Two

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

Ebony Rising

The Raven Queen’s Harem

Part Two

By

Angel Lawson

Cover Design

AngstyG

This is the second book in the Raven Queen’s Harem. Please make sure you read Part One, Raven’s Mark, before you dive in!

The apocalypse has been here before, carried on the wings of a goddess. Her anger spilled blood with a blade. Her tears brought plague down on the earth. Her fear hovers in the shadows, waiting for the next heartbreaking rejection. The next betrayal.

She knows it will come.

It always does.

Because the goddess leads with her fist but kills with her heart.

No one can alter destiny.

Not even the chosen.

Chapter 1

Morgan

Sweat clings to my skin, pooling in my lower back. My hands are slippery, encased in the heavy, padded gloves.

“Two minutes,” Clinton commands, starting his stopwatch. “Now.”

With arms that feel like lead, I pummel the sandbag, hardly making it sway. I’m not weak; I’m just exhausted. I wake at dawn for three hours of nonstop writing to fulfill the obligation of my acceptance into the University arts program. But once that’s complete I move on to the rest of my required lessons.

Two hours of physical training every other day. Two in ancient history. The same divided between art, chemistry, and divination. Evenings, after our mandatory dinner, I mostly spend alone. I’ve noticed the guys tend to slip off—sometimes leaving the building. No one has extended an invitation for me to join them.

“Faster!” Clinton shouts.

I glance at him in the mirror. Just seeing him ignites a spark of energy that fuels my movements. Clinton is not just good-looking—he’s hot. He’s a huge man with muscles on top of muscles. His abs are more nine-pack than six, and I’m pretty sure his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. I swipe at the bag, getting in a hard jab, eyes focused on the dark hair that grazes his shoulders. With each punch I pretend I’m trying to get my hands in his hair, which is one step closer to getting his mouth against mine.

The Goddess’ power flares deep within.

His eyes watch my every move. He assesses my form, speed, and skill. Tomorrow we’ll work with blades. The next day, hand-to-hand combat. His job is to help me become strong enough to fight the Darkness. Because it’s not about if it will come, it’s about when it will come. And I need to be ready to fight it off, unlike last time.

“Focus, Morgan,” he says. But the energy wanes and my muscles scream. My biceps feel like Jell-O, barely able to make contact. Clinton steps behind me, easing his arms next to mine. He takes over, guiding each punch, landing them with more power than I’ve ever mustered.

The stopwatch beeps and he cradles my arms in his.

“Time,” he whispers huskily in my ear. Goosebumps ripple across my hot skin. Even though I’m burning up, a shiver rolls down my spine and I push my body against his.

“How was that?” I ask, knowing the physical part of the training is over. Well, maybe not all of the physical. We’re just not going to need the punching bag any longer.

“You’ve improved.” He holds up the watch and the number blinks.

02:15

“Wait,” I snatch it from him. “I did an extra fifteen seconds?”

“Yes, you did. You’re stronger than you think.”

I spin, pressing my palms against his chest. It’s impossible to think of my own strength when faced with his. I run my hands down the soft cotton of his shirt, feeing the hard muscle beneath.

Clinton is so tall that when we stand like this, face to face, he rests his hands just under my ass and lifts me up until I wrap my legs around his waist. He does that now, amplifying the tingling shiver in my spine. The only thing I can think of is his mouth and--from the way he looks at me, like a hungry wolf--he’s thinking the same. I get a tickle of anticipation and lick my lips.

“I think I deserve a reward for a workout like that.”

“Do you now?” he replies gruffly. But I feel his hardness against my lower body.

“Hmmhmm.”

A wicked grin appears on his mouth. “I’m not one to deny my queen.”

Queen. It’s weird. So, so weird.

He tightens his grip and tosses me onto the thick, padded, training mat. I yelp as I fly through the air, but it’s out of excitement, not fear. Leaning back on my elbows, watching the hulking man stalk toward me, I inhale.

Okay, there’s maybe a little fear.

The kind where I’m terrified I’ll break my own rules. Cross the barriers I’ve firmly established between me and my potential mates.

Clinton crawls over me and I wrap my hands around his massive biceps, reveling in his size. He’s the strongest of my guardians—the ancient shape-shifters that followed my spirit through the millennia. When his lips finally meet mine I feel a surge of mystical power—our connection—and I move my hand to the back of his neck, tugging on his hair. His hand travels down my body, grazing my bare stomach, and ghosting over the heat of my core. I steal his breath, absorb his strength, and whine when we part.

The stopwatch, lying a few feet away, beeps.

“My time is up, sweetheart,” he says, grimacing as though he’s in pain. One look between his legs and I understand his struggle.

I grab him by the shirt and tug him back down. His eyebrow lifts. “Just one more minute. Bunny won’t mind.”

He laughs, shaking his head, because we both know that even if Bunny cared he wouldn’t say a word. He’s the sweetest of the group. Despite this, Clinton kisses me long and slow, dragging it out until I feel it in the soles of my feet. When we separate I lean back on the mat and rake his hair over his ear. “I guess there’s a reason for the time limit,” I say. “Another five minutes and the choice would have been made for me.”

Clinton helps me off the ground, plucking me with ease, like a flower from the grass. “Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, Morgan.”

“I know, I know.”

No, I don’t get the luxury of letting the boys fight it out over me and letting the best man win. No. It has to be the right one. The one. And I have to make the decision.

I’m on a quest for my mate and the clock is ticking.

Chapter 2

Morgan

I wash the sweat and exhaustion off in the shower. The small tryst with Clinton recharged my weary muscles, and like each physical encounter with my guardians, I come away more balanced.

With a towel around my body I walk out of the bathroom and into the spacious bedroom. It’s all part of the suite given to me when I came here a month ago. I thought I’d won a prestigious writing scholarship. In truth, although I did win a coveted spot in the writing program at New York University, the housing grant was something different.

This house--or rather, this mansion--was called The Nead. Gaelic for The Nest. I’d come to live here with five skilled artisans. They each had an interest in their craft as well as a deep bond with me—something I didn’t know until I arrived and the secrets of the past were spilled.

I walk past the bed, where two open books lie. Homework from Dylan. He’s insistent that I read up on every reference to the Morrigan that exists. Why? I stare down at the illustration of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her eyes are dark with power, her lips full and red. There’s a crow perched on her shoulder and dead bodies at her feet. The Morrigan is a terrifying force that if betrayed will rain ruin down on the living.

I am the most recent incarnation of the Morrigan.

My guardians are doing everything they can to ensure I keep my power in check and find the chosen one out of the five. My mate will be the anchor to my soul. The tie that binds me to earth and keeps the Darkness lurking just outside our realm at bay. But, until I choose, my power has to be kept in check and the best way to do that is to let the guardians absorb my dark energy. The best way to do that? One sexy encounter at a time.

I’ve spent the last few weeks processing the strange situation. Some, like my friends back home, surely would think I’ve accepted it too easily. Who am I to just blindly accept that I’m an ancient goddess holding the fate of society in my hands? Maybe I should have laughed it off when Dylan told me the truth. Maybe I should have run like hell, considering that these men want me as nothing more than a sexual plaything.

But I knew instantly in my heart that the stories I’d been writing were true. That Maverick, the little girl in my book, isn’t a character I imagined. She’s a reinterpretation of myself.

Of my ravens.

When Dylan revealed my destiny he explained everything I’d been feeling since I was a child. The joy the birds brought me, the vision-like imagery for my book, the moments of anger and uncontrollable emotion. And the fact I knew, deep down, I was saving myself for someone special.

My phone chimes, letting me know I’m already late for my session with Bunny.

I grab my shoes and head out the door for another date with destiny.

*

“Sorry,” I say, entering Bunny’s attic studio. “I’m late. Totally my fault.”

He looks up from his low worktable, once wood but now just a thick pile of paint and goop. A cup with a stirring stick is in his good hand and his sweet smile nearly cracks my heart.

“It’s fine.”

I cross the room and stand next to him. The substance he’s mixing is gold and shimmery. I rest my hand on his shoulder and feel the instant heat between us. “It’s not. It’s important for me to keep my time with everyone equal.”

He nuzzles his face in my neck and I feel the ticklish prick of his spiky copper hair. “You took a shower after training and smell delicious. It was worth the wait.”

I wrap my arms around him. “You’re too good to me.”

With a light kiss to my neck he holds up the container and says, “Come on, I want to try something new today. Can you grab those brushes?”

Bunny lost the use of his left hand and arm when he was in the shape of a raven. I was there when it happened and it’s my biggest regret and most lingering guilt. I’d led an agent of the Darkness, in the form of a cat, deep into the forest. Bunny tried to stop us. The result was a terrible disfigurement, including limited use of his arm and hand. As a raven he could no longer fly, but as a human he miraculously still creates the most amazing pieces of art.

I pick up the slender cup holding a variety of brushes of all lengths and sizes. Bunny is already across the room where a table has been set up. A thick cloth covers the top.

“What’s this?”

“Today I’m going to paint you.” His eyes flash coppery-brown behind the dark frames of his glasses.

“Bun, you paint me every day.” I glance around the room at the dozens of massive canvases lining the walls, floor to ceiling. They each have the same theme. Me.

He smiles and moves closer. He smells like chalk and oil paint. A scent I’ve grown to love—almost crave.

“No, you don’t understand.” He rests his container on the table and runs his hand down my arm. “I’m going to paint you. Your body will be my canvas.”

This ignites a small fire in my belly. I’ve never been naked in front of Bunny before, even though he has a variety of paintings depicting me nude. Interestingly, they’re all incredibly accurate. The tiniest moles and birthmarks specifically detailed. I’m afraid to ask how he knows.

“We don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.” His eyes flash with worry.

“No,” I assure him. “I want to. I really do.”

The next moment is charged as Bunny turns to give me some privacy. I stop him and say, “You can watch,” because the barriers between us need to be broken and this is just one of them.

Bunny freezes in his spot, Adam’s apple bobbing as I reach for the button on my shorts. I shimmy them over my hips and push them aside with my foot. Reaching for the hem of my shirt, I quickly pull it over my head. Bunny’s right hand clenches into a fist at the sight of me in nothing but my pink lace bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes roaming over every inch of my body. He starts at my red painted toes and travels up my legs. He licks his lips, eyes skimming over my belly button. I reach for the clasp at the back of my bra when he blinks. “Wait.”

I frown. “What?”

“Can I do it?”

I nod, wanting nothing more than to feel his touch as he undresses me. The spark of energy flares between us. Like the others, Bunny is an extraordinarily handsome and unique man. He’s much smaller than Clinton and Dylan. They’re ridiculously large, tall and broad-shouldered. Bunny is thin but solid. A wisp of air but he carries the same intensity and power as the others. I wouldn’t want to see him angry.

In my adolescent memories Bunny holds a special place. Not just because of the injury but from before when he would hop around the ground, following me everywhere. That’s how he got the name Bunny. I gave it to him.

His artist’s fingers are long and agile. His movements are precise. He doesn’t need brawn, he has skill, and even one-handed he removes my bra with a quick flick of the wrist.

The strip of fabric drops to the floor. I feel his breath on my belly when he hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties. They fall in the pile and in less than two minutes I’m bare in front of him. I wrap an arm around my waist nervously.

“Can you take off your necklace?” he gestures to his arm.

“I thought I was supposed to wear it and the ring all the time.” Damien forged the ring from precious metals to provide protection.

“Just for a bit—it will be fine.”

I remove the necklace. Then the ring comes off, placing them in a small dish on his worktable.

With a dry paintbrush he presses the tip in the hollow of my throat and drags it down between my breasts, stopping only when it tickles the sensitive spot below my navel.

My nipples harden from the sensation and Bunny’s pupils constrict in reaction.

“I think you should get on the table,” he says quietly. I nod, keeping my eyes away from the bulge in his pants. As gracefully as I can, I hoist myself up on the surface, and following Bunny’s instructions I lay flat on my back. I’m thankful there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces, but at the same time, ever since I committed myself to this endeavor—searching for a mate—I’ve lost a fair amount of modesty. Mostly it comes from the constant hunger. The intense desire that courses through my body all the time. I know it’s the Darkness calling and the only salve is to dull the ache with the guardians.

No, there’s no time for embarrassment.

I stare at the ceiling as Bunny preps his supplies wondering what he thinks about me like this. He’s so quiet and shy. With the others, they let me take the lead, although I get the feeling I’m pushing their self-control to the edge. Choosing a mate must be my decision and they’re all willing to let me take charge, although they are active and engaged participants. But Bunny? I’ve never felt his hand or fingers on me like I have with the others. I haven’t tasted his skin other than a few lingering kisses. Because of this, I think of him all the time. Curiosity may get the best of me.

He suddenly appears, blocking the high ceiling. He smiles and says, “This may feel a little cold at first but as it reacts to your body it will warm up.”

“Is it paint?”

“Sort of,” he pushes his glasses up his nose. “I mixed a base acrylic paint with a compound that Damien created.” Damien works with precious metals and jewels. “I thought maybe we could bring about a heightened experience.”

I tilt my head. “How so?”

“I’m hoping we can ground you to earth and strengthen the gate between you and the Darkness. Maybe open a conduit to your decision-making process, so you know,” he swallows, “you can make a choice between us sooner.”

“It’s worth a shot.” I lay my palms flat on the table. “Let’s do this.”

Bunny starts in the center of my belly, above my navel and below my breasts. The first touch jolts through me like a shard of ice and I jump on the table. “Holy shit.”

“I told you.”

But like he also said, the cold dissipates and turns into a blanket of warmth. I relax back on the table and with a focused look, he begins working diligently.

The tip of the brush sears like a piece of ice traveling across my skin, but I anticipate the slow, burning heat. It’s a strange mixture of pain and pleasure that only grows when he extends the paint away from my belly and toward the other, more sensitive areas.

He works with three different brushes—two held between his teeth. Since I can’t see anything but his face I watch his expression as he reacts to my every movement. His pupils constrict at the same time as my nipples. His mouth twitches when the bristles tickle across my hips. A line of concentration slashes between his brows. We both bite down on our lip when he decorates my left breast and then my right with the most excruciating patience.

The desire is not just from his touch, but from the properties in the paint. I feel the magic seeping into my flesh and my stomach tenses at the rush of raw energy.

Bunny moves down my body with long strokes against the dip of my sides and the arch of my hips.  His brush travels downward, swirling across my legs. He spreads my thighs and I clutch the table. I know I’ve left a wet spot down there.

“Why are your cheeks red?” he asks, pulling the extra brushes from his teeth. He’s fully attuned to my reactions. “Are you uncomfortable? Just tell me.”

“No,” I reply, staring at the ceiling. He’s standing above my hips and thighs. “It just feels really good and even though I’m trying to keep my mind out of the gutter, my body has a mind of its own.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You’re exquisite. The most glorious canvas I’ve ever had the pleasure of working on. Do you want to see?”

My first thought is no. I don’t even like to look at myself in the wide mirror outside my shower. But Bunny is an incredible artist. I feel an intense urge to see it myself. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

He walks away and I instantly miss the heat of his body near mine. The magic, I think, must not only react to my skin but his proximity as well. It makes me wonder what would happen if he were even closer.

Bunny returns with an oval mirror and holds it over my body. My eyes widen when I see what he’s done. Nearly every inch of my skin is covered in, what I now understand to be from my research and studying, runes. I lift my hand to a symbol above my breastbone.

“You can touch it. They dry quickly.”

I’m careful at first, worried anyway. But the paint is dry, feeling more like it’s part of my skin than just applied on top. The designs shimmer when I touch them, as if activating their magic. The warmth hasn’t left my body. It’s only grown stronger and as Bunny watches me looking at myself, the spark burns.

“I feel the magic,” I tell him. “Do you feel it?”

“I do,” he whispers, lowering the mirror. “I need to complete the runes before the mixture spoils.”

He starts to move back between my thighs but I grab his shirt and drag him back.

“Morgan?”

“No,” I tell him, pulling his mouth to mine. “No more painting. No more magic. I need you to fuck me. Now.”

Chapter 3

Bunny

Morgan’s lips sear against my own, channeling the magic and lust into a force I’m not sure I can withstand. I’m not like my brothers. The ways of women are not innate. I’m not sure how to give her pleasure. Would she even want it from someone like me?

Her body hums, the whole house probably hears it—feels it. A deep soulful vibration that rattles around my heart before landing in my groin. She sits on the table in front of me, body covered in golden glyphs. Each one a spell of protection—created to keep the Darkness away. But I feel the power beneath the surface, under her heaving breasts and sparking in the pit of her belly. It’s in her fingertips, her breath, it’s coiled tight in between her legs.

The Morrigan, even the small bit residing in this woman’s soul, is strong. Her thirst unquenchable. She needs to be needed. She wants to be wanted. To turn her away is like firing a shot in a battle that can’t be won.

My job—our job—as guardians is to contain that fire before it spreads, and until she finds a mate there’s only one way to do it.

She comes at me again, round, full breasts smashing against my chest. Her lips are blistering hot and her eyes have turned a shade darker. I thread my fingers through her hair and groan when she bites my bottom lip.

“Please,” she begs, but I know it’s the magic talking. Even when she moves her hand to the front of my pants, I know she’s not ready to declare her intent. “You’re here to protect and serve me, Bun. The Morrigan wants to be fed.”

It’s the first time she’s referred to herself by her given name—the woman we swore to protect when gods still roamed the earth. I step back and take in the ravishing, naked woman before me.

“Spread your legs,” I command, my mission clear. She needs me and I crave to serve her. Morgan leans back and presses her palms against the table top, widening her thighs. Her tits jut forward and I curse my disfigured arm for not being able to touch them both at the same time. Instead I use my finger to circle around each of her nipples, raising them into a hard peak. I guide a path lower, between her breasts, over the runes fading into her skin and down to the soft hair between her legs.

Her hips tilt forward in invitation and, stepping closer, I nudge them even wider. Her eyes watch with anticipation, licking her pink lips as I swipe my tongue across mine.

Bending between her legs, I inhale her scent and brace myself for pleasuring Morgan in a way the others haven’t yet.

Chapter 4

Morgan

The coil tightens, twisting and twisting until my breath comes in tiny pants.

My fingers curl against the table’s edge, holding on for dear life. Bunny’s breath tickles my clit, until it throbs, begging for more, more, more.

Between my legs he works his tongue the way he uses his paint brushes; with skill, precision and unbelievable patience. The slow lathing turns rapid and I cry out his name.

“Almost,” I promise, loving the way his hand grips my thigh, and I tug the hair near his ears.

“Take your time.”

It’s clear he’s not in a hurry. He never is, but my body needs release. Our eyes connect seconds before the orgasm rips through my body and for a second I think I may fall into the deep coppery pools. But the coil snaps, sending me tumbling down the edge, nerves raw and explosive. I groan and box his ears with my thighs.

“Fuck,” I mutter, leaning back on the table. Every inch of my body is slick with sweat. The area between my legs aches. I rest for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath. When the fog in my brain clears I sit and look for the man that just showed me the stars. Bunny stands before me, eyes worshipful.

“Did that help?” he asks, the tip of his ears red.

“Bunny,” I say, dragging him back over by the shirt. “That was incredible.” I touch his chin. “Thank you.”

His eyes flick over my shoulder where I know a large clock hangs on the wall. “You don’t want to be late.”

We both know I have a history lesson with Dylan next. We also both know I don’t want to be late. Dylan’s not a big fan of tardiness.

Before I move I tug Bunny down for a kiss. I taste myself on his lips and his mouth still carries the fever of want. I feel awful getting pleasure without offering any in return, but the men assure me this is their duty. My needs come first. I’ll make it up to him later.

When I stand, wobbling slightly on my feet, I discover the golden runes have disappeared. “Where did they go?”

“Your body absorbed them. You’ll carry the magical protection for some time.”

“Do you really think it will help me select a mate?” I ask. Bunny picks up my discarded clothes. His eyes never leave my body as I redress.

He touches my temple and trails his finger down the side of my face, along my neck and stops at my breast. “Your mind, body, and heart need to merge to the same place. The spells should assist. It will always be your decision, Morgan, but with your emotions and desires so heightened, a little assistance can’t hurt.”

We stand across from one another and I feel a change from the woman that walked in the room. Not only in myself but in the relationship I have with Bunny. His mouth has touched my most sensitive and private of places but I have a feeling his paintbrush tapped into something even more elusive.

My soul.

Chapter 5

Morgan

A small break is worked into my schedule between my appointments with the men in the house. Originally I thought it was just good time management. Like a break between classes at school. I’ve learned over the last week that these small respites are mostly used to shower. I spend half the day covered in either sweat from training or the lingering scent of sex. The men, astonishingly, don’t seem to mind, but I think it’s awkward. The whole sharing one another concept seems strange, even if they don’t think so.

After my encounter (that’s what I call them, because “after my epic orgasm” sounds weird) with Bunny I rush downstairs for my second shower of the day. My phone chimes the instant I cross over the threshold of my room.

Shannon, the screen says. A photo of my best friend from college smiles back at me.

Shit.

I won’t even deny it. The first month I was in New York I barely thought of my friend. I missed emails and texts. I ignored phone calls, but two days ago Dylan reminded me of the importance of keeping up with family and friends.

“I don’t have any family,” I snapped back, feeling slightly defensive. “I killed them, remember?”

He rolled his eyes. “You didn’t kill them, Morgan.”

No, but when I was a teenager I let the Darkness past the gate. My parents were the victims of the toxicity that followed. Luckily the ravens—my guardians—were nearby and shut the entry point. It was too late for my parents but at least no one else suffered.

“When your friends call, engage with them. It’s normal. It’s healthy.”

“What do I tell her?” I asked, specifically thinking of Shannon.  “That I’m too busy fucking around with five guys to return her call?”

His jaw clenched. “We’re not fucking around.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Dylan was right. He and I were definitely not fucking around. He’d barely touched me. The others? Sure, there was no actual fucking, at least not yet, but a lot of everything else. “Fine. I’ll answer the next time she calls.”

The phone vibrates in my hand. Now is that time.

I swipe the screen. “Shannon?”

“Holy crap, Morgan. You finally answered!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. My eyes widen when I take in my appearance. My hair is wild. The makeup under my eyes is smeared and my neck is blotchy from Bunny’s lips.

I can’t even imagine what my inner thighs look like.

“I’m the worst kind of friend,” I say, feeling a wash of guilt that isn’t just about Shannon. Juggling five guys is not normal for me, even considering the supernatural implications.

“I’ve just missed you,” she says. “I miss college. Adulting sucks.”

“How is your job?” I ask. Shannon has a degree in dance and music theory. So naturally she’s teaching dance camp to three-year-olds.

“Exhausting. Why did my parents let me get such a worthless degree?”

I laugh because even my creative writing degree is a crapshoot. I just lucked out and got into a graduate program. There’s no assurance I’ll ever make a dime from my writing. “I’m sure it will all work out. So tell me how things are going back home.”

Shannon launches into details about our small group of friends, most of whom I haven’t thought of since I left. Living in New York, writing all the time and then discovering I’m some kind of goddess who has the power to take down humanity has kept me distracted.

“I saw Ryan the other day,” she says.

“Ryan?” I ask, hardly paying attention. Seriously, I’m the worst kind of friend.  I’d dropped my pants and inspected my legs. The runes are still gone but a large, pinkish hickey is forming on the soft flesh of my upper thigh.

“You know, the hipster-hottie from the school paper you were sort of dating before you left?”

“Duh,” I say. “The train was ratting by. I just didn’t hear you. How’s he doing?”

“Not much—he got that internship at the Atlanta Journal.” She pauses. “I think he misses you, too.”

I almost laugh. “Shannon. He does not miss me.”

“No, seriously, Morgan. I saw him the other night. He asked about you.”

“We didn’t even part on the best of terms, you know.” I think of Ryan and his little hipster glasses and thick beard. I crushed on him hard even though he was a bit of a douche about my writing. Too whimsical and juvenile. The image of that boy back in college compared to the men living in his house? Talk about juvenile. I bite my tongue and say, “Ryan’s great, but I don’t think I’m interested in a long distance relationship.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Shannon?”

“Oh my God. You met someone!”

“What? No.”

“You did!” she shouts. I hope she’s inside. “I can hear it in your voice. Tell me all about him.”

Tell her? I fight back a real laugh this time.

Tell her about him?

Or rather them.

How do I even begin to explain what’s happening in this house? In the world, even? How do I suggest that I’ve got a smidge of goddess in my soul and she’s not a good one? Hell no, she’s the Queen of the Ravens, the Goddess of War and wrathful as hell. With the energy and power coursing through me right now I’d chew up a guy like Ryan and spit him out.

I take a deep breath and say, “There’s no guy. I’m just busy. Living the city life, you know? Studying and working my ass off. Figuring out how to live with a bunch of housemates. It’s just crazy and there is no time for a relationship right now.”

“Housemates?” Shannon was my roommate for four years. I’m not surprised she’s curious.

“Yeah, five guys.”

“You’re living with five guys.”

“Are they hot?”

I drop in the chair in my sitting room and lean back against the pillow. Dylan told me I needed to keep in touch with my friends. So that’s exactly what I do.

*

“You’re late,” he says when I finally get to his room. The door is ajar, clearly left open for me to enter when I arrive. Dylan sits in a buttery soft leather chair near his attic fireplace. The ceilings are huge and vaulted—it must be freezing in the winter. A thick book rests in his lap.

“Sorry.” I struggle to catch my breath from running up the steps. “I got a phone call. From my friend Shannon, you know, the one you told me to stop ignoring.”

He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. Everything about Dylan is perfect. He’s tall. Muscular, but not bulky. Short, jet-black hair. Brilliant cobalt eyes. Other than Clinton, Dylan is the only guardian I find intimidating. He’s smart, quick, and I lose myself when I’m near him.

“You’ve missed your lesson,” he says, ignoring my excuse. “We’ll be a day behind.” As I step closer I notice him take a sharp inhalation and his eyes narrow.

The call kept me from taking a shower and I have little doubt he smells the sex on me. I brace myself for…something. Jealousy? No, the guardians aren’t jealous. They’ve encouraged my sexual experimentation. They know better than anyone that I must have an outlet. Desire? I roll my eyes. If Dylan truly desires me I wouldn’t know. Since the true intention of me being in the house was revealed, to fight back the Darkness, he’s kept his distance. Maybe I’m bracing myself for nothing other than his judgment. His eyes are laced with opinion. Even so, he places the book on the table next to his and keeps whatever is running through his mind to himself.

“Maybe I can come back tomorrow for a make-up session.” I offer. “It’s Tuesday and other than my writing time in the morning, I just have a meeting with Professor Christensen and Anita.”

He seems to consider this. “You received your runes today?”

“Yes.” I push up my sleeve but there’s nothing to see. “Fully spelled.”

“And you had an intensive training session with Clinton this morning?”

I nod, thinking of Clinton’s mouth against mine. “Quite vigorous.”

He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I did hope to go over the Raven Wars with you this afternoon.”

“The Raven Wars?”

“The two-hundred-year battle that started with the Morrigan’s betrayal by Cu. There are lessons to be learned in the history.”

Despite my exhaustion, my interest is piqued. “Good, then let’s meet tomorrow. I’m eager to get to work.” I meet his steely eyes. “Unless you have other plans?”

I wait to see if he tells me where he and the others go on occasion. It’s not like they’re not allowed. They can leave. Predictably though, Dylan doesn’t even blink. “One o’clock sharp.”

I smile. “Perfect.”

I turn to leave but hear Dylan call my name. “Make sure you take a shower before dinner,” he says, swallowing thickly. “You smell like sex and I’m not sure the others can take it.”

I nod and quickly leave the room. As stoic as Dylan tries to be, the tight feeling in my belly tells me that the others aren’t the only ones that can’t handle the smell of sex on me for long.

Chapter 6

Dylan

I release a groan and drop my head into my hands when Morgan walks out of the room. After a moment, I stand and grab a pre-dinner drink. There’s no doubt I need something to settle my nerves. Being in the house with the Queen as she releases her energy on the others is testing my resolve. What once was a thick rope tying me to the Morrigan is now a thin thread pulled taut by want and desire.

I gulp the warm, amber liquid in one swallow and place the book I’d been reading on my study table. Even though I sounded pissed when I spoke to Morgan, I wasn’t. I’m not. Unlike the others, I’ve kept my connection with her strictly professional. Even Bunny broke down today, pleasuring her so thoroughly her orgasm ricocheted through the house like a boomerang.

My turn is coming. It’s part of my duty and allegiance to being her guardian. She must test each one of us to see if we’re not only compatible but actually her mate. The fate of society depends on it. The Darkness knows no bounds and the energy she contains is unparalleled.

The clock chimes behind me, alerting me to the fact it’s time to prepare for dinner, where once again I’ll be faced with Morgan and her alluring temptations.

I plan to hold her off as long as I can. Not because I don’t want her. I do.

That’s the problem. I want her too much.

Chapter 7

Morgan

She blinks, and from her position and the hard surface under her back she knows she’s back on the table. She feels the whisper of a paintbrush on her toes. She glances at the ceiling and it’s not the vaulted beams of the attic but the square mahogany tiles of the dining room.  With a look upward, she spots Bunny and smiles.

“What are we doing here?” she asks. “Did the runes not work?”

Her voice comes out muffled, like she’s underwater. Bunny stands above her head, speaking but she can’t hear what he’s saying. A raven caws in the distance and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his coppery eyes. She opens her mouth but a figure catches her eye and she looks to the side.

It’s Sam with his handsome, charming smile. A knotted bun of hair sits atop his head, making his cheekbones even more dramatic.

He holds a thin paintbrush dipped in gold and paints her left breast with delicate precision.

Before she can react, she feels the pinprick of both her nipples pebbling in pleasure and looks to her right.

Damien uses his own brush to coat her flesh. The crystal chandelier makes the smooth dome of his head gleam. His violet eyes focus intently on his work. His hands are quick and worshipful.  A tremor coasts down her body.

Near her belly she feels the cool smear of paint followed by a sharp hunger in her loins. Morgan lifts her head to get a better view of Clinton placing kisses with gold-coated lips past her belly button. She smiles when she sees him, pleased. Another set of hands, strong and capable, push her legs apart. She searches in the hazy light, expecting to find Bunny but instead it’s Dylan between her thighs. A surge of warmth destabilizes her.

The lights flicker and in the dark she realizes the paintbrushes have become hands, mouths, and the velvet tips of hidden skin. Morgan blinks again and she’s on all fours. She can’t see her guardians but she feels them. Lord, she wants them. From the mouth suckling on her breast to the whisper of kisses on her neck. There’s the delicious feel of a tongue lathing against her most sensitive part, sending shockwaves up her body. There’s the heavy feel of a man behind her, his cock sliding between her cheeks.

A dim light fills the room and Morgan is astonished to find it coming from herself—from the runes glinting with life.

She turns her head to see which guardian is behind her, beg him to do it, take her virginity. She’s ready for the next step. With any of them. All of them…

A loud horn blares and I lurch forward, jostling against the seat.

“Sorry,” I say to the woman next to me, shifting back over to my seat.

“Are you okay?” she eyes my face. It’s heated. My armpits are drenched under my thin summer sweater. My panties are drenched and I’m thankful my skirt is black.

“I just don’t like small places. It makes me feel claustrophobic.” I stand and pull the cord. I need to get off the bus. Get some fresh air. What kind of dream was that—on the bus of all places?

The bus doors open with a whoosh. I stumble off, taking a gulp of the warm but fresh air. My feet touch the pavement and I’m grounded, the confusion of my dream—or was it just a fantasy?—dissipating.

The university office is only a few blocks away and my heart rate settles as I get closer. A shadow passes overhead and the ruffle of feathers draws my attention upward. A sleek, blue-black raven roosts above the office building. It ducks his head and blinks at me with one eye.

I feel a sense of familiarity and also a spark of anger. Are they following me? I know they’re technically my guardians, but I’ve never been told they would do this. I also didn’t know they could still shift.

Leaving the raven and the muggy air, I duck inside the building and head to Professor Christensen’s office.

The secretary waves me in. I have a standing weekly appointment to discuss my novel, Maverick’s Murder. I started writing this novel in my head many years ago, and then in college submitted a section to my creative writing teacher. She suggested I use it to apply to graduate school.

In my head, Maverick’s Murder was nothing but a story—a story I was deeply invested in. I thought about it. Dreamed about it. Frankly, I obsessed over it. Now I understand why. Maverick’s Murder isn’t about a girl and her birds. It’s about me, the Raven Queen and my murder of crows. My raven guardians.

The first passages in the book are memories. Slightly altered retellings of how, as a child, I had five guardian ravens that followed me around. They’d been assigned to me by the gods to monitor the Morrigan’s Darkness that resided inside. Agents of evil, in my book a cat and a prince, lured me into the woods behind my house to open a gate that flows between this world and another. On the other side is something I can only describe in the book as death; a vengeance wanting to consume the lives and souls on Earth.

It’s not pretend. It’s real, and if the Darkness lures me back again and that portal opens, the apocalypse will begin.

Professor Christensen’s door is open and I’m surprised to hear another voice in the room. The professor is incredibly punctual—always waiting for my arrival and dismissing me when it’s over. I stop just before entering, recognizing the voice. It’s Anita Cross. My critique partner.

I tap on the door and peek inside. They both smile when they see me.

“Morgan, come in.”

I greet them both and add to Anita, “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“My fault,” Professor Christensen says, leaning back in his seat. He’s distinguished as always, with his gray hair and expensive suit. “I had the crazy idea to get you both in here together. I wanted to hear how things are going.”

I’d read the first five chapters of Anita’s book. Her writing is spectacular—to the point it makes me feel a little inadequate. Interestingly, her book is a dystopian theme, focusing on an America in the distant future. Plague has taken the country and the survivors create a new breed of royalty.

I take the seat next to Anita. She’s poised and perfect-looking, of course. Not a hot mess of sex fantasies and sweat. “I’ve truly enjoyed reading Anita’s work. She’s an amazing author.”

“She says the same about you,” he replies. “Which is why I decided to give you both a little assignment. You’re almost too flattering of the other’s work. Like you’re afraid to help the other push a bit deeper. I’d like you to come up with three questions for the other author’s main characters, trade, and then answer truthfully. Dig into the meat of these creations, their true motives and desires.”

“That’s a great idea,” Anita says, scribbling the instructions on a note pad in her lap. I reach into my bag and rummage around for my own, dropping my pen three times in the process.

Today is not my day.

“I’d like you to get on this immediately,” Professor Christensen says. “Text one another the questions in the next twenty-four hours. Meet up again on Thursday to exchange ideas.” His blue eyes move between us. “Sound good?”

I’m mentally going over my schedule. Besides writing, I have my lessons back at The Nead. I’ll just have to rearrange some things. “Yes, that sounds great.”

“Morgan, maybe we can meet at your place. You have that fantastic library.”

I don’t like the idea of another woman in my home. I’m not exactly jealous—more protective than anything else. I’m also concerned about the increasing amount of magic being performed. Before I can come up with a good excuse Professor Christensen nods his head and says, “That’s a fantastic idea. There’s so much history to that house. I hope you make the most of your stay there.”

I have little choice but to relent. “We can meet at my place. I’ll text you the time, okay?”

“Perfect,” Anita says as she stands to leave. I struggle for an extra moment to get my notebook back in my too-full bag. “Morgan, can you stay for just a moment?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He stands and moves to close the door. When he returns to his desk he says, “How are things with your housemates?”

I brush a curl of hair out of my eyes. “Good.  They’re great, actually.”

A thin line creases on his forehead. “They’re not too distracting? I’d hate for something to derail you from your work.”

“Distracting?” I fight the heat in my chest. Hell yes, they were distracting. But also sweet, encouraging, and teaching me how to survive. “That hasn’t been a problem at all. Some days I barely see them.”

Unless I’m dreaming of them. Touching them. Testing their mettle as I seek my mate.

“Good, good. I just wanted to keep up. It’s an unusual situation.”

I frown. “Have you ever met any of them before, Professor Christensen? Are there specific reasons for your concerns?”

He clears his throat. “No, I haven’t, but a few have reputations in the community. Underground exhibits and performances. I admit it’s nothing more than rumor but it’s my job to advise you.”

Now I’m annoyed but try to keep the tone out of my voice. “Are you finding my submissions lacking? Is there a problem with my work?”

“No.”

“Well, then I need you to trust that I’m an adult and can manage my personal life.”

“It’s just that you have no parents to rely on—”

“My parents?” A cold, angry feeling sparks in my chest. “Professor, I made it through my senior year of high school and four years of college without their guidance. I think I can manage.”

I grab my bag off the floor and exit the office, even though I hear him calling my name. Out on the street, I gather my composure. Christensen may be an overbearing ass but he did do me a favor by revealing the rumors about the boys. I knew they were going somewhere at night.

Now I plan on finding out more.

Chapter 8

Morgan

Davis, the butler at The Nead, waits for me in the foyer when I arrive at home. He hands me a tray of lunch. I thank him and he adds, “Don’t forget your appointment with Master Dylan at one o’clock.”

“Sharp,” I say, rolling my eyes and shoving a piece of cheese into my mouth. “Got it.”

Although there’s nothing specific to confirm this, I’m getting the feeling Dylan is trying to push me away. It’s stupid. He’s the one that broke the news about me being the Morrigan and about the need for me to find a mate. He understands the importance—as much as anyone else. Except when I’m with him it’s all history and business and death and war. As I approach my door, I know that even though we haven’t crossed any intimate barriers with one another, it’s going to happen. It has to. Soon.

Maybe today.

Quickly, I shower, rinsing off the sweat and grime from my bus ride. My mind wanders to the assignment given to me by Professor Christensen. Anita’s book has three main characters—each seemingly lucky to have survived the deadly virus that wiped out a huge portion of humanity. They take on roles of leadership as communities rebuild. One female and two males. They fight over her affection and the glory of producing the first heir to their new world.

I lather and wash my hair, feeling the suds drip down my body. It brings to mind my dream on the bus. The feeling of all the men touching me at once. Five men.

What have I gotten myself into?

I rinse out the shampoo and turn off the water. I only take a few seconds to dry off and slip into the closest thing: a black and white print sundress. The straps are made of thick, glossy ribbon that tie in a criss-cross in the middle of my back. The dress doesn’t require a bra but I do find a pair of black lace panties in the top drawer. Once things heated up between me and the guardians I made a trip to the nearest lingerie boutique. It seemed necessary.

The clock by my bed says 12:57 and I do not want to incur Dylan’s wrath again. With damp hair and zero makeup, I grab my homework and leather-bound notebook before racing up the stairs to Dylan’s quarters.

I run into Bunny at the top of the stairs. Fully aware that I’m pushing the time I grab him by the arm and ask, “Do those runes have any side effects?”

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Dreams? Fevers?”

“It’s possible,” he replies. His clothes are covered in paint and there are two blue smudges on his cheek under his glasses. “Did something happen?”

“Not bad.” No, that dream wasn’t bad. It was…just a lot. “Honestly, I was probably just tired. Things have been a little hectic.”

A line of concern slashes across his forehead. “If you need to slow down, say something to Dylan. He’ll understand.”

I glance at my watch. 12:59. “Shit, I gotta go.” I lean over and give him a quick kiss on the lips, feeling a bit of my anxiety burst. God, these men are better than Xanax. “Bye!”

Running down the hall, I notice Dylan has left the door ajar once again. I step over the threshold right at one p.m.

“I made it,” I say, walking into the main study. Dylan leans over a table, his eyes focused on a book. “Hello?”

He glances at the empty chair across the table from him. “Sit. Get out your assignment.”

I follow instructions, pushing back the heavy wooden chair and flipping through my book. The room is silent—there’s not the constant strain of music like in Clinton’s room or the gym. Nor the hum of machinery from Damien’s workshop out back. Sam is eternally talking. To himself. To me. To the images in his photographs. And Bunny is so engrossed in his paintings sometimes you forget he’s there entirely.

Dylan’s presence is unmistakable. He’s the sentry, of course, the first of my guard. He’s always been there to make sure I’m safe and there are no predators or dangers around.  Even in the silence it’s impossible to ignore him. His size. His face. The assured confidence that rolls off his body.

“Did you complete your reading?” he asks, finally looking at me. His eyes take in my still-wet hair and plain face. Unlike the others that brighten when they see me, Dylan’s expression is indifferent.

“Yes.” I push the book forward to reveal the page. The books in Dylan’s library go much deeper than any account of the Morrigan’s history via an internet search, or even the university’s well-stocked library. “According to the lore, the Morrigan was not always so angry. She had a happy childhood but she did have the heart of a warrior. Which is why she was smitten with the Cu Cuchulainn. She thought they could run the battlefield together.”

Dylan watches me as I speak.

“Cu didn’t believe a woman could match his strength, but he did find the Morrigan’s body worthy of a tryst. They made love by the river bank—one that soon would flow with blood from the battle—and when they united, she thought they would be partners forever.”

“Then he rejected her,” Dylan says.

I point to a passage in the book. “He took her virginity—then her heart. He mocked her desire to fight side-by-side. He left her, stole from her, abandoned her, and that’s when something fragile and dangerous in her broke.” I look into Dylan’s brilliant blue eyes. “She summoned her rage. And the ravens followed. She sent the birds to be a harbinger of death so Cu would understand his fate was sealed. Then she turned on his army and slaughtered them on the battlefield. The blood from the slain men soaked in her feet, building a force of rage that scorched the world and blocked out the sun. The land turned barren. The sky an ashy gray. The gods shut down the entry points between worlds, locking that one away from this one.”

Dylan leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Throughout history the barriers have been weakened and broken, allowing the essence of the Morrigan to cross over. The black plague was one time. The Spanish flu was another. The sickness sometimes infected individuals directly. Attila the Hun. Franco. Genghis Kahn. Queen Mary. And of course, Hitler and Mussolini.”

“Wait, the sickness infected them and turned them into mass murderers?”

“Yes. Sometimes it took decades to stop either the actual illness from wiping out humanity or the people that carried the virus.” He sighs. “The difference now is that that same sickness is inside of you, Morgan, and the gods anticipated it. They gave you the five of us as your guardians. Only we have the strength to tolerate the pain and aggression that builds up inside.”

“But only one of you is my true mate.”

“Yes.” His jaw tics. “Eventually, the ones not chosen will leave for new assignments.”

Leave? I don’t like the idea of that at all.

I push back my chair and walk across the room to the expansive wall of windows that looks out over the city. The sky is a bright blue. The park below a vivid green. I feel Dylan behind me, a charged current passing between us.

“The whole thing is very surreal,” I finally say.

“I imagine it’s hard to comprehend. The gods blessed you with snippets of the Morrigan’s memory and the ability to write them in your book. Just as they have done the same with the guardians and their skills. It’s so important that you’re strong enough, because the time will come when you’ll be tested. It has happened to each one of those leaders I mentioned. Do you realize that most of them came from lower positions in society? Regular soldiers. Peasants. Failed students. Pathetic leaders of rebellions. Yet they all lit a spark in their followers. That spark is the Darkness.”

“And one day it will come for me?”

“Again. It already has once. That day behind your family’s home. The day your parents died. We shut it down, but other opportunities will arise. Soon.”

I know the warning is true. I feel it in the way my skin itches. The way my stomach twists with constant desire. Still staring out the window I ask, “Why won’t you touch me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t touched me, Dylan. Not like the others. If it’s so important for me to pick a mate—test your strength—and control the Darkness, then why haven’t you stepped up to the plate?”

He pales, making his eyes seem brighter and jet-black hair darker. “I’ve been focused on your studies. Have the others not fulfilled your needs?”

“Some of them,” I reply. “But you know exactly how I’m doing. We’re all tuned in to one another. You feel what I feel. Something is holding you back and I’d like to know what it is.”

For the first time in weeks I see the flicker of real desire in Dylan’s eyes.  In an attempt to be patient I bite my lip and wrap my arms around my waist. The neckline of my dress plunges just enough to get an eyeful of cleavage. His eyes skim my flesh. I won’t throw myself at him. We’ll have to come to an understanding and right now I can’t figure out what’s going on in his head.

To my surprise, he reaches for me and thumbs my bottom lip. In a sudden, unexpected rush he says, “You’re the most alluring woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Morgan.”

“Then why don’t you want me?”

In the next moment the tall, muscular man looks inexplicably vulnerable. “I want you more than you can imagine. You’re like the fire of a thousand suns and I’m a tiny moth with no hope but to burn my wings. You’re like a gallon of wine for a man dying of thirst. You’re the stars that guide a sailor home.”

His words sound like poetry, but other than the hand that moves from my mouth to my neck, he still hasn’t moved an inch.

I inhale and say, “Let me guide your way. Let me quench your thirst. I’m here for you just like you’re here for me.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

This time I do make the first move. I step forward and grab him by the front of his shirt, wrinkling the fine, blue linen. I tug him downward, pulling him into a reluctant kiss. His lips are hot as fire, his breath sweet like honey. He caves just an inch and his strong hands cinch around my waist.

Dylan’s hips brush against my belly and I feel the hardness beneath the fabric of his pants. There’s no mistaking his want. So something else is holding him back. I pull myself away from his mouth and ask again, “Why are you afraid?”

He presses his forehead against mine and his jaw tenses. Just when I think it’s a lost cause he says, “You entice me, Morgan. Like no other in any other time or place. You ignite a hunger in me that I worry I cannot control.” His lips move to my neck and he kisses a fiery trail from one side to the other. “I don’t want to just make love to you. I want to consume you. I want to plunge deep inside and leave a mark. I want to fuck you senseless. I want to claim you.”

“Is that so different from the others?”

“No,” he replies gruffly. “It is the same, but I’m different. I don’t have the control they do.”

“I don’t believe you,” I can barely hear my voice over the hammering of my heart.

He lifts my chin and says very slowly, with incredible intent, “I will break you, Morgan. You are not ready for my passion. I will tear you apart.”

Those words. That declaration. Jesus. I step back, unsteady on my feet.

His expression is instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry. The truth is too much.”

I look up in his eyes.

“You don’t get to tell me what I can handle, guardian.”

“What?” His eyes are wide with confusion.

I place a hand on each hip and gesture to Dylan’s favorite reading chair. “Take a seat and get ready to do your fucking job.”

My sentry. The leader of my guard does exactly as he’s told, lowering himself into the chair with a noble grace.

I move before him and prepare to show him exactly how strong I am.

Chapter 9

Dylan

The edge in Morgan’s voice—the commanding tone—snaps me to attention.

I sit. I wait. I watch.

She stands before me, hair curly and wild, in the tiniest slip of a dress. A black bow holds it all together in the back and I nearly yanked it off the minute she stepped in the room.

I’d been honest with her. Every word I said was the absolute truth. I’m terrified of my reaction to her. There’s no chance I’d take it easy on her. No fucking way I’d be gentle. And although I can push back it would be disrespectful to flat out tell her no.  When it comes to the displacement of the Darkness, I have no greater obligation. She’s my Queen and I’m here to serve her.

Morgan approaches me, her dark eyes lit with determination. Resting her palms on the arms of my chair she leans over, giving me an exquisite view of her ample breasts, and whispers next to my lips, “You may be afraid of yourself, Dylan, but I’m not. I think you’re tense and need a little release.”

My cock is already hard. It’s been hard for weeks now, listening to Morgan work her way through the men in the house. Every kiss, every touch. Christ, the orgasms. I don’t know about the other guardians but when she unravels, I lose time. My body freezes as she channels all her energy into that one final explosion.

I look into her eyes. “I’m at your mercy, Morgan.”

She smiles and hovers her mouth over mine. My lips ache, wanting to touch hers, and just when I think I’m going to lose control she kisses me, soft and seductive.

Then she hikes up her skirt and climbs on my lap.

My reaction is a hiss and I grit my teeth. Her eyes widen for a brief moment but narrow once she realizes the reason for my reaction. She presses down with the core of her body, fitting my twitching cock against the miniscule slip of silk fabric separating our flesh.

“You’re strong, Dylan. More than the others. You’re the glue holding this whole thing together. I get that.” Her lips sear against my throat and her fingers unbutton my shirt. Her fingers are cool against my hot skin and the scrape of her nails down my chest and over my nipples lights a fire in my groin. She licks my mouth. “But you deserve to let go. Enjoy yourself.” She swallows. “Enjoy me.”

She pushes me back into the leather cushion and slides down my body. I regret the heat from her core leaving my cock but her hands move to the buttons on my pants. She unfastens them with graceful ease. I lift my hips and watch her tug them down, removing them entirely. My fully erect cock springs from between my legs, aching with unparalleled desire as she inches her hands up my thighs.

I can tell she doesn’t plan on making this quick and easy. No, the determination in her eyes implies she’s committed to a deeper connection than just getting me off.  As her lips explore the muscles below my hips, I reach for the ribbon behind her back and yank. The bow slips, loosening the straps of her dress. She stands and it falls to the ground in a pool of fabric by her feet. The silver charm at her neck glints against her skin.

My cock pulses at the sight of her. My heart hammers against my chest. She’s beautiful. Her breasts are perfect and her hips swell with a sensuous curve. Her ass is round and fleshy. My hands fist, fighting to stay off of her and let her maintain control. I eye the perfect brown of her nipples, the hard peaks that confirm her excitement. I smell the musky scent of want between her legs—even through her black lace panties.

“Lean back,” she tells me.

I jut my chin and comply, sliding down so my cock waves between us like a surrendering flag. My position brings a smile to Morgan’s puffy, pink lips. Seeing me in a state of relaxed submission with my belly exposed and vulnerable assets in the air give her all the power. Just because she’s on her knees does not mean she’s servicing me. No. It’s clear the roles are reversed. She owns me right now.

And I’m two seconds from begging her for more.

She saves me from doing it, cupping my balls with her cool, delicate hand. My body seizes. Her grin grows and I watch through hooded eyes as her hand moves up the rod-hard shaft and her tongue wets her lips.

She leans forward, her breasts pressed against my knees. Her thumb swirls against the tip of my cock, spreading the slippery cum down the sides. Unable to withstand it any longer, I reach for her. Her hair, her cheeks.

Together we guide her mouth down the hard warmth and I exhale, shuddering out the tension and desire I’ve carried for weeks and weeks.

Up and down her head bobs, and I weave one hand into her curly locks and another cups the heavy weight of her breast. She’s done this before, with Damien, gifting him with the pleasure of her mouth.

My excitement grows and my hips rise to meet her mouth and she braces herself accordingly. Leaning back so I can see her whole body. Her pert nipples. The dip of her lower belly.

“Fuck,” I growl at the tightening in my balls. I want it to last forever. I want to bury my face in her hair, sleep with my hands wrapped around her body.

To my surprise she pulls her mouth away but continues to use her hands, slip-sliding up and down my cock. “Give me your light. The goodness,” she cries and I realize what she wants me to do.

With a guttural moan I come, chanting her name with each thrust. Cum flows from my cock, coating her body in thick, hot spurts. My head spins. My balls ache. My breath comes raggedly. For a brief moment I’m back in the sky, soaring amongst the clouds, while my girl waits for me below.

I blink and fall back against the cushion, spent of every ounce. I watch through the haze of ecstasy as Morgan uses her free hand and rubs her fingers in the slick goo.

“What the hell?” I say, narrowing my eyes as the runes reveal themselves, glimmering and glinting on her breasts and stomach.

She looks down and back up. Her eyes shine bright. “Withholding on me doesn’t make me stronger, Dylan. Each one of you has to do your part. I respect your concerns over my body but you can’t shy away from your duty.”

There’s no fight in me anymore. She’s proven her point. I’m not the one in control here. I tug her off her knees and into my lap. We’re both sticky and her body shines like the sun. I bring her mouth to mine and kiss her passionately, sharing the source of energy that courses between us all.

She pulls back and says, “I was wrong about one thing.”

I push a curl of hair off her cheek. “What’s that?”

“You didn’t need a little release.” Her hand rests on my shoulder. “You needed a big one.”

Chapter 10

Morgan

Late afternoon sun warms the window seat. I’ve got my notebook in my lap and I’m struggling with the assignment given to me by Professor Christensen. It seemed easy at the time; three questions for the main characters of each other’s books. Anita’s book has a character, a young man named Cass. He’s the son of an original survivor—a very powerful man—whose family has created a dominant class in their post-apocalyptic world. Cass does not see eye to eye with his tyrannical father and he’s heir to the throne. On his father’s deathbed he’s told that their power comes from a magic source. Cass must decide if he’s going to use the power the same as his father did or toss it aside altogether and become one with the people.

With my pen, I scribble down a few questions:

Does Cass have the strength to survive with ordinary citizens?

Will the people even accept him as one of them?

Who will take over if he steps down from the throne?

My stomach rumbles and I check the time. Dinner is in ten minutes. With every encounter, the table becomes a little more intimate. The earlier activities with Dylan provides another link in the chain. I’ve tested them all and I’m not closer to finding a mate than I was when I started. Each of my guardians is worthy. They’re talented and smart. Strong and capable. They put my needs and safety first.

There was no condition that I had to lose my virginity to my mate. I’d clarified that in an awkward and abrupt conversation with Dylan two weeks ago. But it still seemed like the right thing to do, so I held off. How would I even decide which man was to be my first real lover? They’re all equally compelling and proving themselves quite skilled sexually.

Although I’d still done nothing more than a little dry humping and making out with Clinton, I’ve experienced enough with them all that it seems even more likely I’ll have to make a wild guess as to who will be the first.

I walk to the bathroom and drag a comb through my curly hair. My lips still look a little enlarged and my cheeks carry a red tint from the encounter with Dylan. I’d never known a man so stubborn. He certainly brought out my rebellious side and I loved seeing him crack under pressure and just let go. I smile at my reflection. That had been delicious. He had been delicious.

I hear a knock at the door and rest my hairbrush on the counter. I slip on my shoes and find Sam waiting outside the door. He looks amazing, as always, even dressed in his causal knee-length shorts and button-down shirt. Tonight the shorts are a dark navy blue and the shirt a preppy-plaid. His warm, brown skin makes his green eyes shine. His hair is tied in a knot at the back of his head.

“Ready for dinner?”

“I am, thanks for waiting for me.”

He exhales and I see a glimmer of exhaustion. “I’ve been in the studio all day. I needed to see someone else. Lucky for me, the most beautiful woman in the house lives down the hall.”

I snort. “I’m the only woman in the house.”

He frowns. “What about Sue? She’d take offense to that.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

That earns me a grin and he links his arm with mine. Sam escorting me to our mandatory dinner has become a tradition—one I like. Slowly I’ve come to appreciate each of the men for their individuality, and Sam, at the end of the day, is probably my very best friend in the house.

A friend with benefits, but a friend all the same.

“How was your meeting with your professor today?” he asks as we arrive in the foyer.

“Good. I was just working on an assignment. He’s determined to have me and my critique partner work more together. She’s coming here on Thursday.”

“Here?”

“Yes, we’ll meet in the library.” But his question makes me pause and I hold on to his elbow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you guys have any friends? People you work with? I know you all slip off occasionally at night. Where are you going?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Morgan.”

“I’m just curious. I’ve never seen any of you speak to someone outside of the house before. Are you not allowed?”

“We’re not hermits,” he says, but his eyes are guarded and Professor Christensen’s comment about rumors of their activities lingers in my mind. “I shop for supplies—meet models in the park and shoot photography all over the city. I know the others do, too. We’re just dedicated to protecting you and everyone else. There’s not a lot of time left for socialization. We have one another—and you.” He gives me a wistful grin. “Although I could definitely go for a night out at the pub, you know?”

“Maybe we could go sometime?”

He links his fingers with mine. “Maybe.”

We enter the dining room. Clinton waits at the door and I give his hand a squeeze as we pass. The others wait, with drinks in hand, near their seats. I greet Bunny across the table and run my hand over Damien’s shoulder. Dylan watches my every move, waiting for me to take my spot at the head of the table. I’ve quickly learned that my guardians are a stickler for old-fashioned manners and never sit before I do. Sam pulls out the chair for me and I take my seat. The others follow.

Sue and Davis arrive with dinner, a steaming pan of lasagna, salad, and buttered bread. Generous glasses of red wine sit before each of us and I’m not shy about taking a drink. It’s been a long, complicated day.

The vibration coursing through the room tells me that everyone is aware of what happened between me and Dylan. Talking sex isn’t polite dinner conversation, so I dig around for a little guardian history.

“I have a question,” I say, allowing my pasta a moment to cool. “How did you become guardians anyway?”

Looks are exchanged down the table. No one answers right away so I fix my attention on Dylan. There’s no doubt he knows the answer. He takes a long gulp of his wine and says, “Mythology says we were created from the blood, bone, and ash left on the battlefield from your people.”

“The ones the Morrigan slaughtered?” That idea leaves an uneasy feeling in my bones. She killed them and then the gods bound them into an eternity of servitude?

“She was betrayed,” Clinton says, the muscle in his jaw tensing. “Cu Cuchulainn let the Darkness loose. Our ancestors were the victims. The gods created us to make sure it never happened again.”

I rest my fork on my plate, my appetite gone. “How long have you actually been alive?”

“Alive?” Bunny asks, his expression full of wonder. “It seems like since the beginning of time. First as blood. Then bone. Later, tears and ash. I lay on the ground, buried among the charred remains of death. A god scooped me up and placed me in his pocket. For a millennia, I settled in the warmth until he remembered I was there. He held me in his palm and blew his breath on me, like a strong wind, and I scattered amongst the clouds. Rain dropped me to the ocean until I was pushed and pulled into the waves of hurricane. The god declared me ready, snatched me from the air and molded me in his hands. I returned in the form of a raven, my mission set in my mind: Protect the world from the Darkness and the Darkness from herself.”

The entire table has taken a quiet, somber feel.  I look at each guardian. “Did the same happen to each of you?”

“More or less,” Sam replies. “It was an honor to be chosen and created by the hand of a god.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat. “You don’t blame me—her—for this at all?”

A choking sound comes from Damien and it takes a moment before I realize he’s laughing. “I don’t think you understand what a gift it is to serve in this capacity.” His violet eyes flash passionately. “We’re blessed. Guarding you—providing an outlet for your energy and power. There is nothing more fulfilling.”

“We were a speck,” Clinton adds. “The gods made us a force.”

“Serving me and my--” I swallow, “--needs, cannot be that great.” I mean, I haven’t picked a mate. I won’t let them have sex with me—yet. The whole house is a ball of tension.

Dylan leans forward, elbows on the table. “You do not understand the extent of our abilities, Morgan. We’re more than what you’ve seen.”

“Then show me! You’re each amazing with your talent and art, but there’s something deeper inside. I can feel it.” I take a deep breath. “I feel it in your touch. In your bodies. You’re so strong.”

Expressions of pride settle on the faces of my guardians. Oh boy, they liked that. Dylan is the one to reply for the others. “It’s a double-edged sword. We are strong. We are beyond capable. And we do hone our skills each and every day. But if we have to show you what we can do, then we’ve failed.”

“Why?”

“It means the Darkness has slipped by us and the gates of hell have opened.” He gives me a hard look. “Don’t ask for something you can’t take back.”

I nod in understanding. For all their tough bravado, these men are playing with fire—me—and if they’re not careful they will set off a bomb they can’t contain. I pick up my fork in an effort to change the subject and move on with dinner.

What I don’t tell them is that during Bunny’s story, listening to the pain and the wonder of the gods’ decisions, the rune over my left breast burns like the fire of a thousand suns.

And I like it.

Chapter 11

Damien

With the package in hand, I cross the entry foyer, hoping to catch Dylan in his rooms. Davis, always seeming to know my intent, stops me from the pantry off the kitchen.

“Master Dylan is down in the training room.”

“Is he?” He hadn’t mentioned an extra session, but I suspect I know the reason. “Thank you, Davis, you saved me from going up three flights of stairs.”

I cut down the side hallway and take the back stairway to the basement training room. Midway down I hear the loud, thumping bass Dylan cranks up during workouts. I push open the door and see he and Clinton are in the middle of one of their crazy circuits. The moves are intense and I can’t help but stop in the doorway and watch.

Although we’re all superb physical beings, Dylan and Clinton are the biggest of the guardians. Dylan is tall and lean, his muscles tight cords that run along his back and arms. Clinton is just massive. A huge beast of a man. When you see them like this—or really any of us in the training room—it’s not far-fetched to believe we were created by the gods.

With Clinton timing, Dylan begins the last round of nine circuits. Nine pull-ups, nine push-ups, nine dead-lifts, then platform jumps, planks, and four other back-breaking exercises. Dylan groans in pain as he pushes through the final round, screaming as he drags a hundred-pound weight from one side of the room to the other.

“Time,” Clinton says.

Dylan screams in pain, relief, and accomplishment before picking up the weight and throwing it across the room. It lands two feet away from me with a crash on the rubber mat.

“Hey,” I call out. “Don’t take that stress out on me.”

They both look up and Dylan gives me a sheepish grin. He’s breathing heavy and sweat soaks through his gray t-shirt.

“You want in?” Clinton asks, racking the weights.

I shake my head. “I worked out earlier and I’m about to head out for a while.” I hold up the package. “I finished.”

Clinton drops the last weight in the rack with a heavy thud and Dylan stares at the felt-wrapped object in my hands. I unwrap it, excited to show them.

“Damn, she’s gorgeous,” Clinton says.

“Can I?” Dylan asks, holding out his hand.

“Yeah, of course.”

The sword is solid but lightweight. The hilt is carved with protective runes and I embedded magic-infused gems into the guard. Dylan takes the sword by the grip and holds it upright. “Beautiful.”

He performs a few moves, the blade cutting through the air and glinting in the harsh training room lights. Satisfied, he flips it over and offers the handle to Clinton, who tentatively takes the powerful weapon.

“You’ll start training her tomorrow?” Dylan asks him.

“First thing.” He raises an eyebrow, skeptically. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s part of the prophecy. We have to teach her properly. God forbid the gate falls and she’s unable to fight.”

“What if she uses it against us?” I ask. It’s the question we all have. I know I feel the creeping Darkness every time I’m near her. The longer it takes her to find a mate, the more apparent it is.

“I have faith Morgan is strong enough to withstand the evil and will fight for the good,” Dylan replies. He looks between us. “Do you not?”

“I think she needs to pick a mate and channel her energy as intended. Her indecision is concerning,” I say.

Clinton’s eyes narrow. “Are you jealous? Because—”

I hold up my hand. “No, I’m not jealous. It’s hard to be jealous when every time she or anyone else in this house gets off and you feel it too. It’s the best of both worlds and I’m sworn and dedicated to my service. But instead of the Darkness diminishing as she explores her choices, I just feel it getting stronger.” I look at Dylan. “Do you not?”

“I concede that Morgan herself is getting stronger. I’m not sure about the Darkness.” He walks over to grab his towel and wipes the sweat off his face. “She’ll have to choose at the end of the thirty day span. She has twelve days left. After today, I’m confident that she not only understands her role, she’s embracing it.”

“Was that before or after she sucked you off?” Clinton asks. I search his eyes for a hint of the jealousy Dylan accused me of but it’s not there. It’s a genuine question.

Dylan holds him with a hard stare and simply replies, “During.”

Chapter 12

Morgan

The city lies before me, like a kingdom. The lights spread for miles, dotting the landscape with tiny stars. The heat of the day has dissipated and the green grass under my feet is soft and warm.

After dinner, Sam asked if I wanted to see the rooftop garden. Although Dylan mentioned it when I’d first arrived at The Nead, I’d forgotten it existed. We passed by Bunny’s studio (where he’d disappeared to right after the meal was over), and into a narrow alcove with what looked like a small, built-in seat. I’d never paid much attention to it. Sam hopped up on the platform and opened a small door on the low ceiling. It wasn’t a seat but a step.

Sam offered me his hand and helped me up. My muscles were sore from my morning workout and the climb up the narrow, wooden staircase seemed to go for miles. He waited for me at the top and snapped my photograph as I walked into the garden for the first time.

Long stretches of grass. Small fruit trees. Flowering bushes and plants line flat-stoned pathways. Sam stretches his arms like he’d been dying to do it all day.

“Come on,” he says, taking me to a small bench facing the west. “We’re just in time for the sunset.”

I split my time between watching the orangey-pink ball of fire disappear and Sam work his camera. It’s a nice one with a complicated lens and attached flash. He takes pictures of me, the sunset, and the city below. I know the photos aren’t normal. None of his pictures turn out the way things look now—but tainted by the influence of the Darkness. Sam’s cameras capture the image of what the world will be—not how it currently is.

“Can I see how it works?” I ask once the sun has disappeared and the sky is streaked with purple. Stars dot the sky behind us to the east.

He walks behind me and circles his arms around my body so the camera is before us, capturing an amazing view of the city below. I feel the heat of his breath on my neck and the thump of his heart against my back. In my ear he says, “It looks normal through the viewfinder.” I squint and see the buildings in the distance. Nothing weird. He snaps a few photos and then clicks a button, making the images appear on the small screen.

“Holy crap,” I say, pulling the camera closer. Sam leans his chin on my shoulder. On the screen the beautiful, lit-up city is gone. There’s nothing but the shell of jagged, bombed-out buildings and a hazy, ominous mist hovering over the decaying city. “This happens every time?”

“Yes.”

“So, even though we’re doing all this to stop me—the Morrigan—from opening the gate, this is still going to happen?”

“Yes,” he says but then frowns. “Well, maybe. Right now? Yes. Can we change it? We think so.”

“How?” But I know the answer. I feel it in my bones. The hunger and the want. I must take my mate and release the negative energy inside into the one I’ve chosen. They hope the Morrigan will be appeased with a bond. I lean against the edge of the building and face Sam.

He cups a hand behind my neck. “I know it’s hard and I know it’s a lot to take in. You came up here to be a student and now you’re dealing with all of this.”

“I’m not even close,” I confess. “I have no idea who I want to pick.” I gaze into his sincere, sympathetic eyes. “When I’m with you, I want you. When I’m with Clinton or Damien or Bunny or Dylan…I want them. You each give me the feeling of safety and security. You all bring out my deepest desires. I trust you all. With my body—with my life. I don’t know how I’m supposed to choose.”

“You have a few more weeks.”

I slip my arms around his waist and pull him closer. “Two months ago,” I tell him, “I sort of liked this one guy at school. He was cute-ish, with a hipster beard and glasses kind of like Bunny’s. But he wasn’t that into me and he was sort of a pretentious dick.”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“I thought Ryan was the best I could get, you know? I never had great luck with guys. I had no idea the five of you would not only be here but had been waiting for me all along.”

“Maybe that’s why you never clicked with anyone.” He presses his lips to mine. “You knew, deep down, we were here.”

“Is it weird?” I ask him. “Knowing I’m with the others? That we do…stuff together?” Even in the shadowy garden I know Sam can tell I’m blushing. I’m getting better about it—talking about sex—but even so, it’s still awkward at times.

He stares at me for a minute and then asks, “Did you ever hear how we transformed from ravens to men?”

“No.”

He takes my hand and leads me to a wrought-iron bench with a spectacular view. Roses bloom nearby and I smell their heady fragrance.

“When you opened the gate the last time and the Darkness got through, things became chaotic. We’d been sent to watch and observe you in the form of a raven. The instant the Darkness crossed over it was like suddenly we were too large for our skin. I was in the air searching for you when I fell from the sky, landing hard on the ground. My bones broke and stretched. My feathers dropped from my body. My skin peeled away. I, and the others, were left in the forest in new bodies,” he uses his hands to gesture, “these bodies, with the understanding we needed to get the gate closed and find you.”

“But you didn’t find me.”

“No, but we closed the gate.” Sam looks out over the city. “It was a hard battle. And we fought it on both sides, until we managed to close it up once more. You were gone by then—disappeared into thin air—but we knew this was a good thing. You needed hiding and we were no longer able to follow you like we had once before.”

“So then what?”

“We were brought up here, to The Nead. We worked and studied, refining our skills until we found you again.” He takes my hand. “To answer your question about how we feel about this; we’ve known this day was coming for a long time. We’ve prepared for it. We’ve trained for it. We will do anything for you, Morgan. Anything. Jealousy isn’t an option.”

His words are sweet. Heartbreaking really, but something else bothers me and I finally just ask. “I know I’m supposed to choose my true mate. But what about you all? Is it just an obligation? A duty? Or does love not matter in all of this?”

He laughs and shakes his head. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he kisses my palm. “You own our hearts, dear Queen. Our minds and our souls. The guardians not chosen will break into a thousand pieces when you finally pick the one, but it’s a risk we are willing to take. It’s a risk we must take.”

“This is just so freaking weird.”

The sky is fully dark now and the city casts a glow over the garden. I take a deep breath, absorbing the flowers and trees. Absorbing Sam. Even though our time together has been chaste—nothing more than a few kisses--I feel a sense of peace from our talk. Our bond is more than sex. My release comes from my mind as well as my body. I look at the handsome, sweet man next to me and for the first time since I learned about needing a mate, I think I feel a little closer to a decision than ever before.

Chapter 13

Clinton

The sliver blade glints when I hand it to Morgan. Her eyes widen and the surprise that graced her lips shifts into something different—the curve of a small smile.

“Damien made this for me?”

“Yes. For your training.”

She looks up from the sword, her eyebrow lifting in question over her dark, curious eyes. “You want me to fight with a sword. Like a knight or something? Wouldn’t it look a little weird for me to carry a weapon like this?”

“When—if—the Darkness succeeds, Morgan, the ways of the present will fall away.” I press my hands over hers, feeling the magic in the sword rush from the hilt through her skin and then mine. “The enemies you’ll fight won’t go down easily. This will help you win.”

“So to beat the Darkness, which we don’t even know exactly how that will present itself, I need physical training, runes painted on my body, magical charms,” she glances at the ring on her finger, “and now this? You’re scaring me, Clinton.”

“Good.”

I slip behind her and maneuver my hands around her hips and back onto the blade. Her body molds to mine and I inhale her sweet scent. “You’ll want to hold it like this.”

I show her but it quickly becomes apparent that her innate abilities are strong. She holds it perfectly, cutting through the air with precision. Her hair is pulled back but wild tendrils curl around her face, and her cheeks are bright with excitement.

“How does it feel?” I ask, taking a step back.

“Good,” she says with a hint of surprise.

I walk across the room and grab my own weapon, a similar sword off the rack on the wall. When I return to the mat, we square off. “Are you ready for this?”

“Strangely,” she says, gripping the handle, “I think I am.”

I’m skilled in the art of warfare. The gods created me from the ash of the strongest, most cunning soldiers in the Morrigan’s war. I know her moves as well as I know my own. I’ve shadowed her from the sky and the ground. I’ve slept next to her soul. But today I have height and weight on her. I have experience she hasn’t even begun to unravel—yet she stands before me with the darkest glint in her eye and I know I should be careful.

The tip of her sword shines against the light and she smiles wickedly before lunging to the left and then spinning, throwing me off balance. I straighten and tilt my head.

“It’s like that then?” I feel the surge of adrenaline between us and can’t take my eyes off the way her chest heaves with excitement.

Her only reply is to lick her lips before she goes on the attack once again, her blade slicing toward me.

I bring down my sword and we duel.

Chapter 14

Morgan

The tip of the blade points at Clinton’s throat. In a blink, he could be dead. One slice and his blood would spill. I’m reveling in my skills when he moves beneath me, sweeping my legs, sending me tumbling to the ground. He moves fast—quick as lightning—and before I can think he towers over me, clasping a hand around my wrist. The sword stays tight in my grip, the magic coursing from the metal, but Clinton squeezes with a mighty force. I grunt bitterly before finally dropping the blade.

The heavy metal is replaced by Clinton’s hand and fingers and in seconds I’m pinned to the ground, not with a sharp sword but by the overpowering man.

“Well done,” he says. His hair falls over his ears and I long to brush it back. “I think you’ve retained some of the Morrigan’s fighting skills.”

“That’s crazy. How could that even be possible?”

“The same way we all cling to memories, rituals, and understanding of the past. It’s in our soul, Morgan. It’s instinct.”

I look up at him, paralyzed by the gray steel of his eyes. The rush of the fight boils beneath my skin—a conflict of desire. I’m finding that I love a fight. I revel in it, the way my body and mind feel when they’re pushed to the brink. But along with that comes the Darkness that has only one cure. “Right now my instinct tells me to kiss you.”

Clinton licks his lips and dips his head to mine. My hands are still bound and although it makes me a little edgy and out-of-control, I like the way it feels. I like the way he feels. He’s big. He’s unpredictable. And I’ve come to trust him completely.

His mouth lands hard against my own and I sink into the mat. I’m sweaty and slick from the workout but so is he. Unlike Dylan and Bunny, Clinton isn’t shy with his affection, but even though he’ll kiss me there’s a firm line and I know soon we’ll have to cross it.

Unlike the others though, something about Clinton scares me. His size maybe, or just his presence. He’s powerful and I’ve felt the hardness between his legs.

Dylan warned me off but it only took a second for him to become putty in my hands. Clinton? I don’t have the same confidence.

I blink and take in the man hovering over me. He releases his grip and cups one hand behind my head. His kisses are perfection. Soft when they need to be, hard when I want it. The dark energy from the training drains with every touch and I want to inhale him.

I lift up on my elbows trying to reach him and his hands move down my sides, sending a ripple through my body. The runes heat up; I feel them under my skin and I desperately want to feel that way all over, inside and out.

I bite down on his lip and grab for the front of his pants. Murmuring in his mouth I say, “I’m ready for this too.”

He responds greedily, raising his hips so I can get better access. I don’t have artist’s fingers, and I fumble, missing the button on his pants. Instead I tug at his hips, feeling the hard length beneath the fabric. Fear swallows me again. But it’s the kind tinged with adrenaline and anticipation. I cling to him, needing his body next to mine, and just as I’m about to reach my hand down his pants I feel Clinton stiffen slightly, a split-second of hesitation.

“What?” I say, barely above a whisper.

He rolls over and I straddle his lap. I grind down a little with my ass.

“You have an appointment.”

My eyes flick to the clock over the door.

“I can skip it.”

“No you can’t.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“Because…” He lifts me off his body, biceps bulging. He grimaces and shifts his pants. “We’re not doing that now. Not here.”

I laugh. Like a burst of hysterical laughter. “Wait, you’re rejecting me?”

Because we both know I was ready to finally go for it. Like do it do it. My eyes catch the sliver of my sword and Clinton’s hand comes down on it. He wordlessly moves it aside.

“I’m not rejecting you.” He brushes my hair aside. “When this happens between us—any of us—it won’t be on a smelly mat in the basement. Or in ten quick minutes before your critique partner arrives.” He leans forward and kisses me with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed. “It won’t be fast. It will not be quick. Trust me on that.”

A chill runs down my spine at his words. My nipples harden and my lower belly tightens. He’s not helping me turn away. I only want him more. Regardless of my desires, he helps me from the floor, holding the sword.

“I’ll store this down here.”

I nod, feeling light on my feet. God, Clinton does something to me. He has since our first encounter. I start for the door and he grabs me by the arm. He kisses me again and whispers in my mouth, “This isn’t over.”

I don’t reply but I feel it in my bones. No, it isn’t.

Chapter 15

Morgan

An ornate wood and gold clock sits on the mantle above the fireplace. The tick-tock echoes through the room, accentuating the awkward quiet between me and Anita.

We sit across from one another at a small, square, game table. We’ve swapped questions. It’s a testy process—it’s hard not to feel under attack as a writer during any sort of critique. I do see the value in Christensen linking us up.  I feel my skin is getting tougher—unlike the exposed rawness I felt in college when people like Ryan questioned my work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still ridiculously connected and protective of my story. I know that it’s part of my larger history now—the Morrigan and the Darkness—but I still have the same compulsion to get it down on paper. I want to get it right even if I can’t help but feel defensive.

Anita; with her sapphire blue eyes and long, straight blonde hair smiles at me from across the table. “Do you want to go first?”

No. “Sure.”

She reads from her copy of the questions. “Why does Maverick follow the cat to the woods even though the ravens are freaking out?”

I tap my pen against the paper. The feeling of being in the woods with the cat swallows me whole. I take a breath and say, “Simple curiosity I guess.”

Anita’s smile slips. “That’s not good enough. Maverick is your protagonist. Your main character. She has to have some motivation other than just curiosity.”

My fingers tremble and I snatch them off the table. “Maverick has a feeling—like a gut intuition—she needs to follow that cat. She has to. Just like she communicates with the ravens she has a connection to the cat. It feels natural.”

“But the cat is bad, right?”

“The cat is…” I search for the correct word, “alluring. There’s something about him that’s different. That makes her ignore the ravens. Unfortunately, Maverick has an irrational response to a bad character that leads to deadly, tragic results.”

Anita watches me, her eyes slightly narrowed, as though she knows I’m holding something back. “You’ll have to convince the readers about that. You’re close, but I’m not sure if you’ve sold it yet.”

“Good point,” I say, swallowing back my annoyance. She’s right.

Turnabout is fair play and I get to go after her characters next. It feels liberating—yes, I’m a little vindictive. I almost laugh because if the Morrigan truly resides in my soul, ’a little’ is probably the understatement of the year and I’m actually doing really well with restraint.

The thought makes me feel lighthearted—maybe I am beating the Darkness—and when Anita asks me a question on the way out the door I surprisingly consider it.

“I’m going to a concert tonight and have an extra ticket. Do you want to come?”  I do consider it—for a split second—but then hesitate because my days and nights revolve around my routine at the house. Anita notices and says, “I think it would be a great way for us to get to know one another better. Build some trust and camaraderie.”

Leave the house? On a Thursday night? I run through my schedule in my head but I know the evening is free. I just have a session with Damien in the afternoon.

“Come on, Morgan. It could be fun.” She gives me a flirty smile and bats her eyelashes.

She’s quite persuasive. Alluring, even.

“Okay. Yes, let’s do it.”

Anita hops in excitement and squeezes my hands. “This is great! I’ll text you details, okay?”

When the front door closes behind her and I take moment to breathe, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. If anything, maybe it will give me a little credit from Professor Christensen for making an effort.

Chapter 16

Morgan

Dinner is a quick affair. I dodge the sultry looks from Clinton, still in a heightened state from earlier in the day, and excuse myself before dessert. Anita instructed me by text to meet her at nine. I don’t dress until after dinner and even though I’m not intentionally hiding anything, I don’t inform the guardians of my plans. They seem hesitant about anything outside The Nead, and although they are my protectors I don’t actually need their permission to leave the house.

I stand before my closet unsure of what to wear. I’ve been in New York for over a month and I haven’t actually been out yet. I pull out my phone.

Suggestions for what to wear?-M

Something fun. Dressy but not too much-A

That doesn’t make sense-M

My phone vibrates and an image pops up. It’s a picture of Anita wearing a sexy red dress with tiered ruffles from the knees to her hips. The front plunges to a deep V between her breasts and has small capped sleeves. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and it’s not straight—she curled it in loose ringlets. The only noticeable makeup is the bold red lipstick.

Got it-M

I stand back in front of my closet and push the clothes to the side. I’ve got nothing comparable to that dress in here. Except…

I dig past my winter jacket and find the plastic-covered outfit against the back wall. I tug down the zipper and smile at the contents.

Yes, I think this will work.

Chapter 17

Damien

Bed.

That’s all I want.

Bed. Maybe a thick piece of Sue’s chocolate cake from the kitchen.

It’s been a long day—a long week. Forging the sword for Morgan had taken a lot out of me. The magical pieces like Morgan’s ring and sword require a huge amount of physical and mental energy to create. I need sugar and sleep.

Sue and Davis have cleaned the kitchen when I stop in for a hunk of cake. I carry it out on a plate, licking the icing off with my finger. As I head toward the front stairs I notice someone by the doors.

My jaw drops.

“Have mercy,” I mutter. Morgan spins in my direction, making the fringe on her black dress swing.

“Damien,” she says. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” I swallow the piece of cake that has suddenly become lodged in the back of my throat. “Damn, you look, fuck, Morgan. I’ve never seen you like this.”

A primal urge crashes over me like a wave.

Aware of the way I’m looking at her, Morgan bites down on her upper lip and something in me nearly cracks in two.

“I’m just waiting for my cab,” she says.

“A cab? You’re going out?” Like that? I almost add, but don’t.

“I’m meeting Anita, my critique partner.” She looks at me defiantly and God, I want her even more.  Lights flash out front and the cab horn blares its arrival.

“Have fun.”

She flashes me a smile. “Thanks.”

I reach for her and grab her by the arm. I tilt my head and she does the same and we kiss, slowly. “You look fucking stunning.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Be careful.”

She nods and kisses me once again, her lips hot with fire against mine. She slips out the door and I’m left standing in the foyer with my cake in hand.  I look up and Sam stands at the top of the steps.

“Does he know?” I ask.

Sam nods. “Already gone.”

We haven’t told Morgan yet that she can’t leave the house alone—it’s not that we don’t trust her—we don’t trust the Darkness, which will take any opportunity to slip through the cracks.

“Did you see that dress?” I climb the stairs.

Sam nods vigorously. “Holy shit, yes.”

Chapter 18

Morgan

The cab stops outside a busy strip of road. A deli, a bodega, two pawn shops, and a boarded-up storefront line the sidewalk. I look at the address Anita gave me and wonder for a quick second if she’s pranking me. When I glance back at the street I spot her next to the abandoned shop, waving.

The dress isn’t easy to miss on the litter-strewn road. The bright red draws looks from pedestrians. The minute I’m out of the car Anita pulls me into a tight embrace and says, “I’m so glad you came.”

“Exactly where is this concert?”

“I’ve been reading about this new thing. Secret clubs. From the outside it looks like an abandoned building but the insides are supposed to be amazing.”

“Like a speakeasy?” I ask, referring to prohibition bars.

“Yes!” Her eyes light up. “But each one has a theme and they only last a few nights. I managed to get three tickets.”

“Three?”

She points to the boarded-up wall. For the first time I notice a familiar-looking blond. He has striking features—a narrow nose and strong chin. He looks as apprehensive to be here as I feel. His eyes burn the same color blue as the girl standing next to me and I say, “Are you related?”

“My brother!” She drags me over. “Morgan this is Xavier. Xavier this is Morgan.”

His face relaxes and his eyes drink me in. “Nice to meet you, Morgan. I’ve heard a lot about your project.”

Typically, my defenses rise. I’m never a fan of discussing my book, particularly with strangers. Xavier must notice because he tilts his head and says, “Only good things, of course.”

“Your sister is very talented,” I reply. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

He smiles and it’s breathtaking. “I have heard that once or twice.”

“Hey!” Anita cries, tugging at his sleeve. He grins down at her and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I’m not braggy.”

“Never,” he says with a wink in my direction. “So, are we ready for this adventure or what?”

“I’m ready to get off the street,” I reply. The night air is still warm and hopefully there’s air conditioning inside.

Xavier offers me and his sister the crook of his arm. It’s weird but what in my life isn’t lately? I link my arm with his and he leans in and says, “I’ll buy you a drink to cool you off.”

Anita directs us down a small alley and takes two steps down to a rusty door. She bangs twice, smiling back at me and her brother. I glance up at him and with the street light behind his head his hair glows and I get the strangest feeling I’ve met him before.

The door opens with a creak and a well-dressed man with flaming red hair stands in the entrance. Anita hands over three tickets and he nods for us to enter.

I follow Anita down the steps and just like she said earlier, we step into something amazing—a whole different world.

“Wow,” I say, freezing in the doorway. I take the whole place in. The bar to the right, gleaming with a glossy shine. Three bartenders in bow ties and starched white shirts work behind the counter, mixing cocktails. A cluster of men and women surround the bar and small tables fill the floor space. A small stage sits at the front of the room, with a single chair in the middle. A heavy black curtain hangs behind the stage. I have no idea what sort of concert to expect, but before I can say anything Xavier has bolted for the bar and Anita is dragging me toward a table with a reserved card on top.

“This is really neat,” I tell her when I’m settled in my seat. “I had no idea places like this existed.”

“One of the perks of living in the city. So many cool things to do. After seeing that amazing historic house you live in, I thought maybe you’d like it.”

Xavier returns with three martini glasses. I don’t waste time taking a sip of mine.

“So who’s playing?” I ask.

Anita shrugs. “That’s part of the surprise. You never know. Sometimes it’s someone famous or like, undiscovered but incredibly talented. One time it was a rapper singing show tunes. Another, a Broadway star playing hard rock. It’s always something unique.”

“And after a few days they’ll close it down?”

“Yep,” she says. “And then move somewhere else.”

While we wait for the show to start I learn a little more about Xavier. He’s an investment banker—doing things that make zero sense to me even when he explains it in explicit detail. “Working on the stock floor is sheer pandemonium. I love it though. It’s a rush. The clock is ticking—numbers are flying. It’s like mental marathon every day.”

Even though Xavier is very attractive there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the ego or smug confidence. He’s exactly not my type, which after a month of living with five amazing men is a little refreshing. Honestly, just being out of the house feels good. There’s so much energy and tension between me and the guardians. I didn’t even realize how much I needed a break.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say to Anita. “I’ve been a little cooped up.”

She gives me a sly grin. “Not sure I blame you. I’ve seen a couple of those housemates. Yowza.”

Xavier makes a face but the lights dim, keeping him from any comments. The chatter in the club comes to a halt and even the people by the bar quiet. A spotlight arcs over the ceiling and lands on the chair, which, to my surprise, is now occupied.

By a familiar face and body.

Clinton sits in the chair, his cello angled between his legs. His hair is loose, swaying by his jaw, and his muscular biceps strain against the fitted, black button-down.

The crowd applauds at the sight of him, seeming to know or recognize him. They only settle back down when he lifts his bow and begins playing a deep, haunting melody.

It’s certainly not the first time I’ve heard Clinton play. His music lured me from my room weeks ago. The vibrations creep over my skin and into my soul. I may be in a packed room filled with other people but instantly I’m transported. It’s like the club around me disappears and it’s just Clinton and me. Watching him now, I remember the way his mouth feels, the way his body lights mine on fire.

His gaze isn’t on anything in particular. His jaw is tense. His fingers are deft and precise. A heavy weight moves across the room, something I now recognize as magic. Ancient and powerful. I lean forward, feeling the energy rising in my body.

Xavier shifts next to me, his arm brushing against mine. Heat tingles across my skin—fiery and alive. A powerful need—a want—shocks through my system. It’s the music. The crowd.

It’s the Morrigan.

I glance over at Xavier, who’s staring at me with hungry eyes. The Queen wants to respond, but I push her back down, calling on the lessons of the last few weeks.

I focus back on the stage. I focus on Clinton, who has the crowd so enthralled they never notice when he lifts his eyes and stares out into them. Our eyes lock. I know they do. I feel it when the runes flare. In the twist of my stomach. He can’t see me in the dark—not with human eyes—but the guardians are not exactly human and I know for certain he’s aware of my presence.

I blink and bang my elbow on the table, knocking into my glass, sloshing the contents across the top.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, breaking the magic of the moment. Anita looks at me in annoyance. Xavier stares. I stand and mumble, “Excuse me.”

I push through the tables, stepping on toes, issuing apologies. The bartender points me to the small hall in the back and I find the doors leading to the bathroom and one that has a broken exit sign overhead. The door sticks but I slam my shoulder into it and the hinges give, tumbling me into the alley.

I take a gulp of air.

“You don’t control me,” I say to the Goddess inside. I understand it now. She wields her power with an iron grip and if I don’t find a way to release the energy she’ll come forth. How? That’s the scary part. I don’t know.

The back door opens and slams into the brick wall. The energy in the air spikes and I turn, thankful that Clinton’s performance is over.

“Thank God,” I say, spinning around but it isn’t Clinton, it’s Xavier.

He understandably misinterprets my statement and lunges for me. He doesn’t wait, pressing his lips to mine. The Goddess roars, eagerly consuming the energy of the man before me. I tug the hair at the back of his neck and bite his bottom lip. He pushes his hips into mine, pinning me against the wall.

This is how it should be done, the Morrigan whispers in my ear. The rune painted over my heart flares. Feed from him.

I could devour him. I lick his tongue and absorb the energy. He’s not like my guardians. He’s different. Raw.

Dark.

The Goddess inside me cries, wanting to tear him apart.

Xavier hikes my skirt up my hips, the brick of the building cool against my upper thighs. The rough texture scrapes and I grab for his belt.

Be done with your purity. Here. Now.

“Shut up,” I tell her, knowing it’s the wrong thing to do. My brain knows this. My body—

“What?” Xavier says.

“Nothing.” I reach for him but jump when the door slams against the alley wall and a massive hand drags Xavier off of me.

“It’s time to go home,” Clinton says to the other man. Xavier looks miniscule next to him. Clinton’s steel gray eyes rake down my body—assessing me for injury.

“Hey man, back the fuck off. This isn’t any of your business.”

A dark shadow crosses Clinton’s face. The Morrigan whimpers back into her shell. Morgan takes back over and I feel the heat of the rune on my chest fade. “Xavier.” I swallow. “You should probably go.”

“What?” He looks between us. “You’re the cellist? You’re leaving me for a musician? Fucking tease.”

Clinton makes a move but I step forward, pushing him back. I grab Xavier by the chin, my nails digging into his skin. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“What? I can’t call you a tease? Please. You wanted it.”

“Maybe I did, but I don’t anymore.” I release my grip, which I can tell he notices is stronger than expected. “Just go.”

“Whatever,” he stays, stepping back. He rubs the spot on his chin where I touched him. A fiery red mark remains. “You’re not worth it.”

Clinton holds the door for him and slams it once Xavier steps back into the bar. I straighten my skirt and say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Without speaking, he walks me out front and waves down a cab. One appears immediately and he swings open the door, letting me in. From the street he tells the cabbie our address. I realize then that he’s staying behind.

“You’re not coming?”

He shakes his head with a small jerk, the knot in the back of his jaw twitching.

He slams the door and walks away.

Chapter 19

Clinton

From the doorway of the club I watch the cab drive off. It took every ounce of strength not to get in the backseat with her. Morgan was scared and confused. I was aroused and about to take her in public.

That wasn’t how this night should end.

In fact, none of it should have happened in the first place. How she ended up here? In this club, listening to my music? It can’t be a coincidence and I enter the building to find some answers.

The crowd is still in full swing, the tables near the stage having been cleared for a dance floor. My act was planned to be short—it’s up to the artists’ discretion how long they want to perform. The simple fact I’m creating the music—me, a guardian—means magic is involved. It’s volatile and with the right trigger, explosive.

There’s no doubt Morgan was the perfect trigger.

I push through the crowd, towering over most of the other men. Many look up and recognize me from the stage. I don’t stop, hoping to catch up with the two that brought Morgan here.

I spot the red slinky dress of Morgan’s friend and the male with her. I can only assume they’re related. The guy notices me before I get to the table and he holds up his hands. “Listen man, I don’t want any problems. Okay? Misunderstanding. The girl said stop and I stopped.”

“What did you do?” Anita asks suspiciously.

Xavier coughs. “Nothing. We just had a moment. Then this guy broke it up. No big deal.”

“Where is she now?” she asks.

“She left,” I say. “How did you know to bring her here?”

“Know?” the girl asks. “I just lucked into some tickets. Thought it would be a fun night out.”

I don’t believe in luck.

“Who gave you the tickets?”

“They were just delivered to my apartment. Said I’d won them.”

Xavier coughs again and I notice a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. I nod at him. “You may want to get him home. He’s not looking too great.”

“Not feeling so great either,” he replies.

I walk away, realizing the girl doesn’t know much, if anything at all. I head to the back and grab my cello before making my way back out to the street. Hailing a cab, I think about that moment during the concert between me and Morgan. I knew she was out there the minute I walked on stage. I sensed her. Smelled her. I felt the heat of her body and the powerful runes etched onto her skin.

When the magic spilled from my bow, igniting a fire in her soul, something happened. She left. The man, Xavier, followed.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but the Morrigan was summoned. I could hear her voice through the strains of my music. I heard her as clearly as I knew Morgan did. That’s how it starts. That’s how the Darkness takes over.

A yellow cab pulls over. It’s a van—big enough to transport my instrument. I hop in the backseat and give directions. The street lights flash out the windows.

A smart man would cool off for a bit before going home after a night like this. I may be strong. I may be powerful, but no one ever told me that I’m smart. I am cunning, a warrior, and I have a feeling I’m about charge into battle.

Chapter 20

Morgan

The door is unlocked when I arrive home. Thankfully no one greets me. My lips are still hot with shame, my mind a jumble of the Morrigan’s whispers. Want and desire and need and yearning war in my mind. They tug at my body. I close the heavy wooden door with a click of the latch. Carrying my heels I run up the steps, past Clinton and Damien’s rooms to the third floor. Sam’s light is off. I enter my room, dropping the shoes with a too-loud thud against the hardwood floor.

My skin crawls. I think of Xavier and the way his body felt. The way the Morrigan responded to him. I’d never heard her before. Not like that. Not off the page.

I cross the suite and enter my writing study. On the window seat is my notebook with the last chapter I’d written. I’d been struggling to convey what happens to Maverick when she opens the gateway between one world and the other. What happens when the Darkness crosses over?

The fair-haired prince stands next to her. His eyes glint with deceit.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Your destiny,” he replies. His teeth are white and sharp. A gust of cold air passes through the gate, the kind that chills a person to their bones. Maverick feels it deeper than that. In her soul. Black smoke wafts into the green forest. The ravens caw overhead but it’s hard to hear them.

The cold air turns warm—hot, even—blistering her cheeks. A voice calls to her, “Join me, Goddess of War. Unleash your powers from this world to the next.”

She turns and faces the prince, who continues to smile. Maverick takes his hand and tugs him down with one hand. The other is heavy with a surprising weight. But she knows. She knows what to do with those that are disloyal. With her lips close to his she leans in to steal his breath, while raising the other hand and stabbing him with the tip of her blade.

He jerks back—the smile vanished—but he knows. He knew. As does Maverick.

In every story this is how it happens. This is how the Darkness begins.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Startled, I drop the book and spin, using the moves from my training. I land a punch in Clinton’s gut.

“Oof,” he grunts, taking a step back.

“Mother fu—” I clench my fist. It’s bruised for certain. “Clinton!”

“Sorry.” He takes my fist and kisses the bridge of knuckles. “I called your name.”

“What are you doing here?” The twist of fire in my belly from the concert is still there.

He holds my gaze. “It’s time.”

“Time?”  I’m confused by his statement but the warmth in my belly gives me an instinctive clue. “Because of tonight?”

“The Darkness is too strong. You’re running out of time to pick a mate. But I also think you’re scared to choose between us. That if you lose your virginity to one of us, then that’s it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t work like that, Morgan. You’re free to make the choice. Having sex with one of us doesn’t bind you forever. That energy needs a place to go—you felt it tonight. You felt her. She’ll only get stronger.”

“So you think it should be you?” He’s right. I’ve been afraid of this moment for weeks. Particularly with him. It seems ironic yet strangely accurate that he would be the one to push me on this.

“It can be any of us, sweetheart, but it needs to happen soon.”

He stands before me and waits. I know in my heart I can dismiss him and he’d leave. I could ask for any of the others and they’d come. But the consuming energy from the concert is still live and charged between us, and the fear that has knotted in my chest for weeks slowly dissipates.

I take a step forward, closing the gap between us.

“I’m scared.”

He frowns. “Of me?”

“No. Of how things will change from here. I mean, my life has already changed a lot. Living here. The Morrigan. The magic.” I swallow. “The sex.”

“Your right. It’s another step, but a necessary one. I don’t think you’ll regret it.” His eyes search mine. “It doesn’t have to be me, Morgan. I can walk out that door.”

I consider how earlier I’d wondered if Sam would be the one. So kind and a good friend. He’d take care of me for sure. And Bunny? He would be gentle. I knew that. Damien would treat me like a princess. Dylan would give me a night I would never, ever forget. But Clinton? He’d been the one I was afraid of from the beginning.

Which may make him the perfect one.

“Maybe nothing about tonight was a coincidence? Maybe we’re meant to do this.”

He ghosts his hand down my shoulder, his fingers linking with mine.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

I nod and lick my lips and a switch flips between us. All of the talk and worry and craziness of the night disappears. Clinton pulls me into his arms, his hands grappling with my backside, pushing up the hem of my dress. He lifts me up and I straddle his hips, happy to be face-to-face with him since he’s so tall.

He walks quickly toward the bedroom, holding me like a treasure. I kiss his forehead, cheeks, nose, and mouth. He tastes like liquor from the club and when he stops at the edge of my bed I can’t believe I ever hesitated.

“Tell me to stop at any time. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“I regret that scene at the bar, Clinton. I never wanted to be with him. I wanted to be with you. You were magnificent up there on the stage. So strong. So sensual. I thought about your mouth. Your lips. I thought about your cock and what it would feel like inside of me. It was too much—too intense. That’s why I left. Xavier just got in the line of fire between us. Stupid boy.”

A shift takes place on his face. Something feral and less constrained. When I mentioned his cock I felt him tighten between my legs. With one hand he gently lays me on the bed. He stands over me, pants tented with arousal. He places two hands on my bare legs and pushes my skirt over my hips. I rise up and his eyes turn glassy at the sight of my black, lace panties.

The next few minutes are a blur. I lose my dress, the black fringe falls to the floor. Clinton’s shirt follows, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. I eye the ladder of muscle that flinches at my touch and I can’t look away from the hair that travels from his navel to the waistband of his pants. When I tug at the button and he quickly shucks them off. I can’t help but stare at his throbbing erection.

It’s big like the rest of him.

My stomach tightens in anticipation and the space between my legs grows warmer with desire. I should be afraid but I’m not. I desperately want his weight and warmth on top of me and I pull him down.

The contrast between the two of us—hard to soft—is a glorious feeling. His arousal pushes against my core, each of us slippery with excitement. His mouth meets mine and he kisses me hotly. Hard. His hands move to my breasts and he explores them with the same precision he uses playing the cello or teaching me to fight. When there’s a gap of space between us I lift my hips, wanting, wanting and wanting to feel him against me—in me.

He doesn’t need my permission but when he stares down at me I realize that he’s waiting. This is my choice. Everything about this is my choice. My mate. My guardians. The fight between good and evil.

“Please,” I beg, reaching between our bodies. I touch the velvet tip of his cock in invitation.

He’s quick, entering me with a swift motion. I cry out in surprise, feeling the spread of pain. The intrusiveness of warmth.  My eyes are shut when I hear his voice, “Breathe, sweetheart,” and I do, unclenching my teeth and exhaling long and shuddering.

I open my eyes and find him staring at me, checking on me, but I’m fading into the feeling of him inside of me, marveling at the way my body reacts to him. I slip my hand over his bicep and squeeze. He moves his hips, just a little, circling them in a way that causes me to gasp, “Oh!”

It’s in a good way. A very good way.

Clinton realizes the shift, the way I’ve relaxed to his movements, the way the sensations adjusted from pain to pleasure. He pulls nearly all the way out before slipping back in. The move triggers a wave through my body. I can’t help but smile when he does it again.

He smiles back.

I plant my feet next to his hips and he grunts with approval. Satisfied I’m okay he sinks deeper—faster—speeding up gradually. The change makes my breasts bounce rhythmically, slapping against his chest, igniting another, different wave of sensations. I moan with approval, eliciting a pleased grin from the man over me, and when he dips his fingers between us, brushing against the desperate bundle of nerves, I cry out.

He sets a rhythm, his long hair swaying with each thrust. At first it’s awkward and off kilter but soon it’s our rhythm, our place in time. Our skin slick, our nerves frayed. Our. Our. Our.

I wonder for the slightest moment if it’s just Clinton and I or something larger. Do the others feel it? Do they feel him pounding between my legs? Do they feel the coil tensing and tightening? I wouldn’t be surprised. Magic courses through this house. Through my limbs.

My mind slips away and my body takes over. Clinton seeks my mouth and kisses me desperately, panting raggedly. I think he’s going to come but then his fingers find that spot again I close my eyes and I’m the one that can no longer hold back. With the tweak of his fingers I’m sprung, riding the wave of euphoria.

As my body shudders, I slip into the wild. The walls creak and the rafters sway. I think I hear a muffled caw outside the window and swear I feel the charm burn against my chest. Brightness engulfs me and I shut my eyes, spinning, spinning, spinning. The energy, the Darkness lurking inside releases, bathing me in adoration.

My nails dig into his back and that’s when he comes, riding the crest of my own orgasm. His shoulders tense, his abs constrict. He grunts into my mouth, long and ragged, mimicking his hips.

Clinton collapses, his massive body heavy against mine. I like the way it feels. I love the sticky warmth of his seed pooling between our bodies. I don’t want him to move, but I know that this is just the beginning. There’s more. So much more.

As soon as he catches his breath he rolls me over, switching our positions. I’m on top, relaxed and truly satiated for the first time in weeks. The Morrigan is quiet. The energy quelled. For once I don’t feel the Darkness lurking at the edges. I hadn’t realized how close she had been.

When I look down at Clinton, his cheeks red and his eyes glassy and distant in a way I’ve never seen before, I feel a mixture of emotions. Slight embarrassment—wondering if I did it right and if it felt as good for him as he presented. Pride for taking this step in my life. I’d been fearful—of Clinton the most—but I beat that. I owned it. I claimed him more than he claimed me and that feeling burns in my chest.

“What are you thinking about?” His finger criss-crosses over my bare body. He’s mimicking the runes painted on by Bunny. The burning from earlier with Xavier—on my chest—is gone.

“How I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

He laughs, a rare sight on Clinton’s face.

“Do you think the others know?” I ask.

His face loses a hint of its humor. “They know.”

A new feeling settles in my chest.

Dread.

“I’m going to have to choose now, aren’t I?” Because I’m still not sure. Even after all that, I’m not sure.

He brushes a curl of hair behind my ear. “Yep.”

I sigh and slide off his lap. I’m sticky and need a shower. A dull ache has replaced the euphoria. I don’t hate it. It’s a reminder—a good one—but a signal of how I’ve changed.

Clinton catches my hand and squeezes it just as a loud knock raps at my suite’s door. A thin line forms between his eyes and he says, “Get dressed. I’ll see what’s going on.”

None of the guardians have come to my room this late before and the worry on Clinton’s face sets me on edge.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. The rapping happens again. Louder this time.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs his pants up over his hips. Shirtless and barefoot, he walks down the hall and I grab a blanket from my bed and wrap it around my body, following him.

The door opens and Dylan stands on the other side. His eyes land immediately on me from over Clinton’s shoulder. If he’s fazed by our state of undress or intimacy, he never reveals it.

Like Clinton said, he knows.

“We have a problem,” he says, shifting his gaze back to Clinton. “Meeting in the library. Ten minutes. Everyone will be there.”

I walk down the hall, gripping my blanket at my chest. I push past Clinton and ask, “What is it. What happened?”

Dylan pins me with an ice blue stare. “Xavier is sick.”

Something inside me cracks, a jagged edge that cuts to the bone. I sway and Clinton draws an arm around my shoulder. Terrified, I ask anyway, “With what?”

“You infected him, Morgan. With the Darkness.”

Chapter 21

Dylan

Earlier That Night…

Gifted with intuition and instinct, I know the minute dinner is over that Morgan has plans. She leaves the dining room quickly, declining dessert. We stare at one another for a moment and excuse ourselves. We all have work to do and mine, first and foremost, is to make sure Morgan is safe.

I’m aware she’s longing to leave the house. I’m also aware of Anita’s visit earlier in the day. I’m not surprised when she exits her room after dinner, dressed to go out.

I am stunned by her beauty.

Her legs.

Her hair.

The curves of her hips and the swaying fringe of her dress as she walks down the stairs.

I watch as Damien speaks to her. I watch Sam watch her. The second she touches the doorknob, I’m gone, shifted into my original form. Sleek feathers. Sharp beak. Wide wings.

I alight from the window in my room.

*

I’m the only guardian that has retained the ability to shift from raven to man. As the sentinel, it’s my job to keep a close eye. I trust Morgan. I have faith in her, but the Darkness is powerful.

It will take a champion to resist the Morrigan’s tests. They’ll come in a variety of forms. Money. Success. Beauty. The Darkness will take any slip to work her evil and since Morgan is not fully reinforced with the help of a mate, a breach is likely.

I follow the cab through the city streets, landing on a water tower when it stops. Morgan exits the car and meets with her friend. There’s a man with them—I sense a familiarity with Anita. I also feel Clinton nearby.

From my perch above the city, I wait.

*

The Darkness rose while Morgan was inside the building. Now, she’s on the street below, in the shadows of the alley. Her lust and desire are amplified. I expect Clinton to follow her outside—he’d triggered something—but it isn’t him. It’s the blond.

I’m about to shift when the door opens. Clinton performs his duty and sends Morgan home, following soon after. The other man? The one she kissed? Something has transpired. I feel it.

Pushing off the ledge I fly through the city, following a different cab to a different place. There, the man is helped inside by his sister. I can smell the death on his skin already.

It’s familiar.

It’s ancient.

It’s the Darkness.

Chapter 22

Morgan

The guardians are already in the library when I arrive. Clinton shuts the door behind me and I make uneasy eye contact with each man before finding my seat.

“What happened?” I ask, feeling the dull ache of concern in my chest.

“The Darkness jumped the barrier.”

“I felt her,” I confess. “Something happened with Clinton’s music and it’s like I just slipped. I could hear her speaking to me. It was like she was there. Xavier and I got caught up in it. She disappeared when Clinton arrived.”

“When you were in the alley with Xavier you scratched him on the neck. It seems that was all it took to infect him with an illness.”

“What kind of illness?” I ask. The blood drains from my face. “Is it the plague? The flu? Ebola?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Has it spread?” I look around the room. The guardian’s faces are strained with worry. “Can it spread?”

“We just don’t know yet but we’ll make every effort to contain it,” Dylan replies. “This can’t happen again, Morgan. You’ve got to fight harder.”

His words hit me like a slap. “Do you think I’m not? That I’m slacking off?”

“You snuck out of the house!” he rages—raising his voice in a way I’ve never heard before. “You risked everything for a little play time. Some leisure. Not to mention hooking up with another man.”

“Dylan!” Sam says, rising from his chair. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

I stand and push Sam out of the way. Bunny sits on the couch, looking as though he’d like to disappear. “Don’t you dare suggest I’m not committed. It’s all I do. I train. I study. I balance and expend my energy trying to keep the Darkness at bay.  I have other obligations. I had a life before I came here. I have friends, or at least I’m trying to. And I never would have gone to that club if you’d been honest with me and told me Clinton would be there. It’s like I walked into a fucking landmine. I stepped on a mine and the whole place blew up. Don’t blame that on me.”

To my surprise it’s Bunny who stands up and makes an attempt to diffuse the situation.

“This isn’t helping,” he says. “There’s a man dying and he could be patient zero. Fighting about it is not going to fix this.”

“What do we need to do?” I ask, thankful for a little logic.

“Damien and I go over and try to help Xavier,” he says, and Damien nods in agreement. He looks at Dylan. “Go do what you do best—research the hell out of this. See if we can stop it.”

Dylan reluctantly nods.

“Clinton, fortify the armory. We may need it.”

“Got it.”

“Sam, get on the street. Start taking photos. Make sure we aren’t missing something big coming our way.”

“Good idea.”

“And what about me?” I ask.

“You need to rest. Recharge. Your mission hasn’t changed—it’s only sped up. You’ll have to choose a mate, Morgan. Now.” His copper eyes hold mine. Clinton said it earlier. I know it in my heart. It’s time.

They file out of the room and I should follow—go to my room and rest—but I don’t. I sit back on the leather couch.

I feel a tickle in my ear. A soft whisper. There must be a way to figure out who is my match. Who is my one. The voice makes a suggestion, like a thought popped suddenly in my head.

My eyes scan the books around the library. The answer must be in here. I touch the rune over my heart. It must be in here as well.

As though I’m guided by an unseen spirit, I walk across the room to a thick book with a black, peeling spine. I pull it from the shelf and take it to the table. On the cover in faded gold is a woman surrounded by her five crows.

I open it up and read.