Walker surged over her with a growl, as if some leash holding him back had snapped. “Should have just said so.” The stretchy fabric of her bra yielded under his hands.
It was too fast to savour, but she wouldn’t have been able to appreciate finesse with blood pounding in her ears and hunger narrowing the room to his touch. Callused fingers, fast and frantic until she revealed a weakness with an arch or gasp, then so intense he had her panting as he toyed with her breasts. She moaned when he added his mouth, his rough tongue and sharp nips of his teeth.
He teased his thumb under the edge of her panties. One gentle tug and then he ripped those off, as well, baring her to his touch. He didn’t hesitate, just rocked the heel of his hand against her and groaned when pleasure shattered through her so hot that she cried out.
If he worked his fingers inside her body, she’d come and he’d take her and it would be good, but it wouldn’t be what she needed. Using all the strength in her trembling limbs, she broke free and rolled to her stomach, then came to her knees. “Now.”
Walker growled his pleasure, but he didn’t touch her again until his bare skin brushed her ass and the backs of her thighs. He leaned over her, strong arms braced beside hers, and kissed the back of her shoulder. “Now.”
He drove into her, and the world tumbled end over end in a dizzy spiral that tightened along with her body. In ten years of running she’d never belonged anywhere as much as she belonged here, beneath him, around him.
Part of him, as she’d been since the first day she’d loved him.
Her fingers fisted in the blankets as she rocked back, taking him deeper until pleasure gained a sharp edge that sliced through her, laying everything bare. That edge cut deeper as he nudged her hair off the back of her neck and bit her, then began to move, slow and strong.
Perfect.
She wanted it to last forever, but of course it couldn’t. Zola closed her eyes and revelled in the slick thrust of his cock, the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles. Too soon, she was trembling.
He whispered one dark, quiet entreaty. “Come.”
She did, with a helpless moan that didn’t drown out the sweet sound of their bodies slamming together as she tumbled into bliss. He bit her again, arms shaking as his thrusts sped until he went rigid and followed her over the edge with a choked sigh.
Her name.
I love you. The words echoed in her mind, but she collapsed in a sweaty, trembling tangle of limbs without giving them voice. Too fragile. Too old and too new. So she pushed them down and ignored the lion’s unhappy rumble.
Walker would be theirs soon enough. She wouldn’t let him go a second time.
Walker woke with Zola draped over him, a living dream that had haunted him for years. His third time of waking and reaching for her, and she came to him as readily as the first, wrapping her legs around his hips.
“Slow.” More than a whispered promise to her, it was a pledge to himself. They’d both waited so long, and they deserved to have each other in every way imaginable.
He kept his pledge until she bit his ear and whispered, “Mine.”
He lost himself then, surging deep. Mine. More than a word — a claim, one that matched the way her body welcomed his. Pleasure overwhelmed him, pure instinctive satisfaction.
Completion.
He belonged here, exactly where he was.
Afterwards, he licked the sweat from the hollow of her throat and smoothed her hair back. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”
A sleepy shake of her head as she stroked his back. “Never on Sundays.”
One of a hundred tiny little details he didn’t know, and he relished the opportunity to learn everything about her. “Just us, then?”
“Unless we want to start making arrangements to bring the pride to New Orleans.” Her fingers slid up to tease the back of his scalp. “I have money. We can find them a place to live.”
Money was the least of it. “So do I. The problem is how much red tape is involved with a move like this. That’s part of why I wanted the wolf council’s help.”
She chuckled. “I did not immigrate. . naturally. There is a thriving business in New Orleans that focuses on nothing but making red tape disappear.”
“And if they’re like all the other thriving businesses like that all over the world, you don’t just walk up to them with an envelope of cash.”
“No,” she agreed, laughter still bubbling in her voice. “You send Alexander Jacobson. He will do it, because I’ve recently taken on a young woman of his acquaintance as a private student, and he’s feeling very grateful.”
He joined in her laughter. “I see how it is.”
“Mmm.” Her hand stilled as she yawned, then nuzzled his chin with sleepy affection. “Rest. You’ll need it if we’re to do this again in a few hours.”
“I need you more than I need sleep.” He kissed her temple and slid out from under the covers. “I’ll be right back.”
Walker made his way down the hall towards the bathroom in the dark. As he approached the half-open door, his skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck rising.
Something was wrong.
Though he could see well enough, he wasn’t that familiar with Zola’s apartment to notice anything visibly out of place, and he heard nothing. Not a damn thing to fuel his indefinable sense of wrong.
Still, it remained.
He flipped on the bathroom light, and his blood chilled. A bag of dirty black cloth dangled from the mirror by a length of coarse twine. A gris-gris, maybe, one that Zola definitely hadn’t placed.
The bag clinked as he yanked it free. He smelled flowers and copper, two scents that exploded in his nose as he upended the bag on the counter. Rose petals and pennies tumbled out, along with a small bottle of whiskey and a slim dime that seemed to spin in time with his pounding heart before finally settling on the slick tile.
Just like that, he was back in the bayou, watching his mother bury another wax doll baby under the raised edge of their ramshackle porch. She’d always whispered words, low, mellifluous entreaties that faded in the heavy air, rising to blend with the rustle of Spanish moss in the trees.
Not a gris-gris. Flowers, nine pennies, whiskey and a Mercury dime. Everything a rootworker would need to buy graveyard dirt from the departed.
It was a message and a warning, all wrapped up in bits and pieces of his past. The Scions had come in while they slept, or even while they made love. Under cover of magic, they’d violated the safety and sanctity of Zola’s home.
And yet, no blood had been shed.
Walker swept the contents of the black bag into the small wastebasket beside the vanity. The Scions wanted nothing to do with Zola, either because of her connections or because she’d been blameless in Tatienne’s affairs — but they’d hurt her if they had to. To get to him, they’d mow down anyone and anything in their way, and damn what the Conclave had to say about it.
He made a cursory check of the apartment, but found nothing. He hadn’t expected to. No one remained stealing about the rooms under cover of magic. They had no need for it.
The Scions had accomplished their mission and left their message. They knew Walker, knew what lived at the very heart of him — and the lengths he would go to in order to keep Zola safe.
And he knew where they’d be waiting.
Walker parked his borrowed bike at the end of the long driveway. Someone had taken a swing at the rusted out mailbox, and it dangled precariously from its wooden post. He righted it before he set out for the house on foot, though he had no idea why.