The Warlord (Rise of the Warlords 1)

“Drink,” he commanded.

She looked at the finger, then his face. Finger. Face. She wanted to refuse, as evidenced by her glower. But she snapped, “Why?”

He knew what she asked. “I might not like what you are, but I won’t leave you in pain.”

Glaring, she marched over. With a firm clasp of his wrist, she brought his finger to her lips and...softly licked. The sight of her tongue inspired a string of internal curses.

Her eyes closed as she savored, a little color returning to her cheeks. When she fit her lips over the healing wound and sucked, satisfaction joined forces with possessiveness, and he nearly roared at the rightness. Providing for his wife. Nourishing her.

When the wound closed, she nicked him with a fang. As she sucked a little more and swallowed, he trembled and scowled. He...wanted.

Once she finished, she lifted her head. He almost protested. She’d taken a mere handful of drops.

“I won’t thank you.” She turned to finish bathing. Weakness gave way to sensuality, every move she made meant to rouse a tide of lust. The way the suds sluiced down her curves, her hands following...

He panted. He couldn’t look away.

She bent over to soap her calves, and he swallowed a groan. Those legs. Those curves. The elegant line of her spine. Those spectacular wings, fluttering in invitation.

He shifted his gaze to her nape, where an elaborate brand snagged his interest.

Brand? He’d felt the scars when he’d handled her, but he’d assumed the raised tissue came from a childhood injury, before her immortality took root.

Curious, he stepped into the stall. He even entered the water to clasp her arms and press her against cool tile. He smoothed her hair out of the way, dragging his knuckles over her damp flesh more slowly than he’d intended, saying, “Why do you have the brand of a deity on your nape?”

She didn’t fight him—yet. “A deity? What deity?”

He grazed his thumb over the raised flesh, those possessive instincts threatening to engulf him. She should wear my brand. “This symbol is the mark of a god or goddess. Not one I recognize.” And he knew every faction of royals, from the Titans to the Egyptians, and everything in between.

“And?”

“And brands give another person access to you in lifesaving and dangerous ways.” Roc carried the one for Chaos, as well as his own personal mark, and one for each of his warlords. Those brands secured telepathic communications and allowed a summoning. Ian used his brand to locate and flash them all. “How do you have a brand and not understand its purpose? Who gave it to you?” More important, what did they plan to do with her?

“Nice try, but you won’t scare me into talking. No, you know what? I’m happy to share this time. Neeka gave it to me, and even when she’s being the most annoying person ever born, with questionable motives, she has my best interests at heart. She’d never do anything to endanger me. Unlike my own dear husband, who does everything to endanger me.”

No one executed better assaults against a man’s ego than Taliyah and her viper’s tongue. “Be absolutely certain you trust her. The brand can be used against you. This Neeka has paired you with some unknown deity who might hope to weaponize you for their own gain.” Was this how she remained lucid, despite her hunger? Did some god use the mystical link to provide her with power?

“I get it. You’ve seen my taste in spouses, so you doubt my intelligence. Here’s the thing. The guy who plans to kill me shouldn’t question my best friend’s intentions. She’s bled for me. You’ve made me bleed. So yes, I’m absolutely certain I trust her. Now do us both a favor and exit my stall. I’m treating myself to a spa day. I’ve earned it.”

Exiting is a favor—to myself. But it was too late. He’d touched her luscious body. He’d inhaled her scent and warmed.

Instinct demanded he heat her.

Roc stepped closer, urged by primitive forces. He settled his grip on her waist and gently massaged, thrilling when she groaned. No one made sexier sounds than a needy Taliyah Skyhawk.

Had she rolled her hips, as if imagining his fingers inside her? Wishful thinking? Roc couldn’t deny he imagined it. He’d had a taste of her. For his sanity, he required more.

As always, she rallied quickly, her defenses firmly entrenched. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is a little more than watching, yes?”

“Don’t care.”

“You’ve forgotten that I’m a disgusting phantom so quickly? How embarrassing for you.”

The reminder hit like a typhoon. He skidded two steps back, ripping his hands from her.

She was right. How easily he’d caved. When you played with your temptation, you deserved your inevitable wounds. But he still didn’t leave the stall. He couldn’t. She’d turned to face him, and his mind lost control of his body.