Rowan grabbed an apple from the basket on the kitchen table. She looked it over quickly before placing it back and grabbing another. She took a bite and stared at the both of them.
“Mallick has been allowed to terrorize the James family for generation after generation. Using us and feeding on us.” She shook her head and took another bite. “It will end on Samhain.”
“But, Rowan. Isn’t there another way?” Marie-Noelle, wrung her hands in agitation.
“No,” Rowan said quietly. “There isn’t.”
“We need to talk.” Marie-Noelle had a bit of the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes, and he knew it took a lot for her to face her daughter. “About a lot of things.”
Rowan was quiet for several seconds, and when she spoke her tone was . . . almost kind. “I know, and we will, but I can’t do it right now.”
“No, no . . . of course.” Marie-Noelle took a step back.
“I need to speak to Azaiel.” She paused. “Alone.”
Marie-Noelle pointed to the front yard. “I was just on my way out to find Mikhail.”
Rowan’s mouth tightened slightly though when she spoke her voice was neutral. “He’s actually in the back garden. He and Leroy got into it, and there was this scene . . .”
“I hope Mikhail didn’t hurt that animal, but seriously . . . where in the world did Vicki get her hands on that thing?” Her mother shook her head and moved toward the back door. “It belongs in a barn . . . far away from here.”
“Trust me, it’s not the donkey you need to worry about,” Rowan muttered.
Marie-Noelle left Rowan and Azaiel staring at each other in silence.
Rowan’s eyes darkened, and he caught the steady increase in her heart rate as she stood there, her gaze traveling the length of him. Slowly. By the time she met his eyes once more he was hot, his muscles tight, and an unmistakable bulge was present between his legs.
That the woman could do that to him with just a look was insane.
She chucked her apple into the wastebasket and took a few steps until she was so close he felt the heat off her skin. It seared across his flesh like a caress of fire. He smelled the fresh soap she’d used to wash, the sweet lemongrass in her hair . . . and heard the small catch in her throat when she touched him.
He was mesmerized by the sprinkling of freckles that splattered across her nose, like the sweetest dusting of cinnamon.
His hands clenched at his sides as she studied the mottled bruise he’d favored earlier. It still hurt like hell, but already his body’s fast healing capabilities were working, and the sting wasn’t quite as bad as it had been.
“Thank you, for getting the grimoire.”
Damn, but her touch was light. The pads of her fingers traveled up to his shoulder, then across and back down to his abs.
“For fighting for Kellen and making sure he came back to me.” Her eyes glittered, the blue depths smoky and alluring. He’d never seen anything as spectacular as the woman before him. He’d seen her in action—knew how tough she was and yet . . . her skin was like fragile bone china, and she was so small, so feminine.
He wanted to crush her to his chest. Feel her soft breasts against him, touch the silky skin beneath her ear. Sweep his tongue inside her mouth and claim her in every way that he could.
He made an animalistic sound, and her eyes widened. “Are you all right?” Her hand fell from his chest. “Did I hurt you?”
“You need to stop,” he said hoarsely.
Her tongue caressed the tips of her teeth, and the expression in her eyes changed. They smoldered. The heat between them doubled. Hell, it tripled, and the energy was intoxicating.
“Stop?” She smiled, a secret, soft smile meant for lovers. “Why?”
The little minx was playing a game, but the ferocity of emotion that rolled through Azaiel wasn’t to be trifled with. His eyes flashed in anger, and he grabbed her hand, not caring about the whimper that breathed from her mouth as he held her.
“You will stop this, Rowan, because if you don’t, I will bend you over the counter”—he leaned forward, and his voice dropped—“and rip your clothes off and finish what we started the other night.” His heavy breaths were matched equally by the woman he held. “And I won’t stop . . .” Her eyes were wide navy saucers, focused on his mouth. “ . . . until I’m done and sated, and you’ve screamed my name at least a dozen times.”
“A dozen times,” she said breathlessly.
Her mouth was so close to his. “A dozen,” he repeated, glaring at her.