“She’s curious. I suspect she feels the energy between us.” Bunny looks at each of us. “She has no idea that the charm she wears is a protective symbol. The rune I marked on her cheek should reinforce it.”
Morgan’s energy is volatile. There are a few ways to suppress it. Runes and charms seem to help. Relying on us will be even better. But she’s not there yet.
I walk to the bar and pour myself a drink. The amber fluid tastes like fire against my throat but immediately warms. I need something to satiate the urges. I know the others do too, and I pour four more glasses and pass them around.
Handing the last to Clinton, I ask, “How are you holding up?”
He swallows the drink whole. “It’s hard to be around her and not…”
“I know, brother. We all feel the same.” But even as I say it I know it isn’t true. Clinton has a deeper sense than the rest of us. He always has. He’s the one that knew the time had arrived for us to rejoin with Morgan. That watching her from afar was no longer possible. The demons are banging on the gates and without the bond forged by the six of us together, they’ll get through.
I look at Damien. “You’ll create her ring?”
Damien nods. “She seemed receptive to the one I’m wearing. The metals are infused with magic that will allow her memories to flow a bit faster, while not overwhelming her.”
It’s the best we can do. The clock is ticking but Morgan’s powers are great. Unleashed all at once, she could destroy exactly what we’re trying to protect. Ultimately, she must initiate the bond. It can’t be the other way around.
I look at the other guards; we’ve been chosen for our strength and abilities. We’re here to forge a bond with Morgan, a girl with more power than she could ever imagine she possesses.
“What happens if she doesn’t figure it out?” Sam asks, but he knows the answer. The gates will open and death will spill into the streets, consuming any and all living things.
“We won’t let that happen. Each of us will do exactly what it takes and what is in our personal skills to build the bond with Morgan.” I give each man a knowing look that they all return, including Clinton, who nods before glancing away. “We can’t allow the apocalypse to begin.”
Chapter 10
Morgan
It’s dark when I wake and the only sound in the house is a haunting melody drifting up from the first floor.
I feel an ache in my stomach and decide to go to the kitchen. Since I’ve arrived at the mansion I’ve felt unsatisfied with a constant, unquenchable hunger. A thin strip of light lingers under Sam’s door, and I almost stop to see if he wants something, but the music downstairs takes on a deep vibration that I feel in my bones. I’m lured down the steps.
Clinton’s door is shut but I approach it anyway. I pause before the mahogany panel and with a closed fist, rap on the wood. For a moment I worry he can’t hear me. I’m also terrified that he will. My heart pounds in my chest of what lies behind that door. I know Clinton won’t hurt me, the men swore their allegiance, but something about the smoldering, sexy man sets me on edge.
I’m about to turn away for the kitchen when the music abruptly halts and footsteps echo off the floor. The door opens and he
stands before me, hulking in the small space.
We stare at one another. His eyes are gray and tense. His hair is tied at the neck, although short strands hang by his sharp cheekbones and my fingers curl into a fist to keep myself from pushing them back. I try to keep my eyes from his chest—it’s bare and so very, very perfect. From the brown, round nipples to the fine trail of hair that travels from his abs to the low-slung pajama bottoms hanging from his hips. A drawstring swings from the waist.
“I heard your music,” I finally say, well aware it’s come out in a whisper. “I was sleeping and then, the music and…”
He glances up the stairwell but the entire house is quiet. If Sam or Bunny are working, they’re too immersed to notice what’s happening down here.
He pushes the door wider—an invitation—and even though I still feel a sense of danger I step through and enter Clinton’s suite. There’s no mistaking the heat of his eyes on my back as I walk down the hall and I’m hyper aware of my clothing—or lack thereof. Tiny shorts and a thin, gray T-shirt. The air is cool in the room and I attempt to cover my aroused nipples by crossing my arms.
His suite is nearly identical—just below my own. The walls are dark wood paneling and heavy, red fabric drapes over the windows. His instrument, a cello, rests on a stand in the middle of the living space. I can’t help but walk over to the fine piece.
“You play beautifully.”
He speaks for the first time. “Thank you.”
I’m taken aback by the softness in his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to the hard muscles and hostility on his face. The tension ratchets up a notch and the ache, now moving across my body, up to my chest and down between my legs, grows more intense. “Will you play something for me?”
The look on Clinton’s face is one of resignation, but he moves to the chair and sits. His legs spread and the juxtaposition of the massive, half-naked, burly man playing an exquisite classical instrument is nearly too much to handle.
He reaches for his bow and grips the neck with one hand. His biceps tense and his abs tighten. I sit on the leather couch across from him. The first notes are low and long, vibrating in my chest.
I’m overwhelmed by the music and lean back, closing my eyes. The melody washes over me and soon I’m drifting…