Under His Wings Page 3

  So when his brother asked him to quit his behavior, Evander had promised he wouldn’t continue. But he’d lied. He’d yearned to stop for Gregor’s sake, but by then it was too late—he couldn’t stop. To never feel the splitting of a woman’s flesh under his claws, to never savor the flow of her precious blood over his tongue—blood still warm from her beating heart, to never see the knowledge of her death darken her eyes even as the light of her mortality faded…

  He didn’t want to give that up. Not even for his twin—the person he loved most in this world.

  And it had been his twin who had paid the ultimate price for his pursuits. Evander had become careless and neglected to cover one of his kills with his usual precision. As identical in hippogryph form as they were in human form, Gregor had been mistaken for him and labeled “rogue”. No one had questioned it—of course a member of the Dimios’ krinos could not have been guilty of such savagery.

  So Gregor had been executed, innocent of the crimes that had been committed by his brother.

  The guilt, shame, horror and grief Evander should have suffered from that initial kill had consumed him with Gregor’s death. His brother hadn’t uttered a word, but accepted the accusation and resulting punishment of a rogue rather than betray his twin.

  Evander had begged Nicolai to spare Gregor…had pleaded with him not to destroy his brother. But Nicolai hadn’t listened, hadn’t granted mercy on behalf of the soldier and brother-in-arms who had served him loyally for over seven hundred years.

  Grief had turned to hate.

  Hate for Nicolai who’d destroyed his twin. Hate for the hippogryph society that had failed to protect him and Gregor as children, then condemned him for the monster they had ultimately created. Hate for the humans his king insisted they—the more powerful beings—hide their existence from like rats in a sewer and yet protect like menial servants.

  Gregor’s death and Nicolai’s ruthlessness had obliterated Evander’s allegiance to his people, to Lukas, Adon, Dorian…and especially Nicolai.

  Bastien had been his first victim as a declared rogue.

  Nicolai had taken the person Evander had loved so he returned the favor with the Dimios’ best friend. Every kill afterward had been a humiliating nail in Nicolai’s coffin as he failed to capture the rogue he’d trained in the art of tracking and execution.

  And now—Evander paused in front of the hotel window and stared out over the quiet backwater town called Grace Crossings—his greatest revenge loomed close. All the players were set in place.

  Soon, very soon, it would be game and match.

  Chapter Two

  Tamar Ridgeway rolled over, sighing.

  Her internal alarm clock blared the six o’clock hour with an annoying ring that refused to let her burrow back under the covers for a few extra moments of sleep. With an irritated grumble, she stretched out her arm, seeking warm, hard flesh, but instead encountered a cool jumble of blankets.

  Damn.

  For an instant, sorrow and disappointment crashed down on her like a cruel dousing of frigid ice water. A dream. That’s all it’d been—that’s all it ever was. After three years of fantasies about her winged warrior, she should be used to waking up alone. Yet the knowledge didn’t prevent the initial despair or loneliness from claiming her in that gloaming between sleep and wakefulness. It was like the morning following Christmas Day, after the excitement and joy of the holiday had passed. And the time before it came around again stretched an interminable three hundred and sixty-five days forward.

  Shoving the regret aside along with the covers, she rose from the bed and padded across the hardwood floor. A blunted ache took up residence in her left hip and thigh and she winced at the muted pulsing of strained and tired muscles. She stopped, exhaled a breath. Lowering her hands to the scarred flesh, she kneaded and massaged the tight sinew, ligaments and tendons. They were always stiff first thing in the morning and needed time to catch up with the rest of her body.

  She glanced down at her leg and the hardened whorls and thick ridges that creased it like a child’s scribble-scrabble drawing. The scars that covered the left side of her body were constant reminders of the plane crash she’d survived at twenty-five years old. After years of intensive physical and psychological therapy, she walked with a limp, had broken up with her fiancé and was still afraid of the dark…and flying. She hadn’t slept in a dark room or stepped foot on a plane since the crash, but she lived. And finally—finally—three years later, she had her life back.

  When the throbbing had subsided to a negligible thud, she headed toward the bathroom and a much-needed shower.

  Most people who had suffered the kind of trauma she’d endured had nightmares for years. Her? She dreamed of a lavender-eyed, blond winged warrior. For the first two and a half years after the crash he’d been her champion. She’d watched him laugh with his small unit of men, charge into battle and recover from his wounds. He’d been her nighttime protector, her comforter. But the last six months…damn. In the last six months instead of a spectator, she’d become a full active participant. And he’d become the man who made love to her as if he’d invented the act. Her dreams had always been vivid and detailed—even as a child. But how she imagined the things he did to her with his fingers, tongue and cock…whew.

  In the safety of her mind, she morphed into a sexual creature she hadn’t known existed. She’d enjoyed sex before, but had never craved it. Nicolai’s frank, unapologetic sexuality—from his caresses to his words—allowed her to be as uninhibited and free as he. Heat flowed to her face as she recalled some of those words. In her twenty-eight years, she hadn’t uttered the word…pussy aloud. Hell, she even whispered it in her own head!

  But when Nicolai said the erotic term, it sounded natural, raw…and tender. His husky plea from last night came to her. Take me in your sweet pussy. As if he couldn’t bear not being inside her a moment longer. As if out of all the women he’d been with—because a man that gorgeous most definitely had many lovers—she was special.

  Tamar rolled her eyes at her foolish whimsy. “Get a grip, girlfriend.” Not only had she imagined a fierce warrior lover, but she’d invented a sexual history for him as well. They had a name for that. Bat-shit crazy.

  Rationally, she understood her mind had conjured the mythical images as a coping mechanism. That reliving the horrific life-altering event of the crash over and over would have stolen what little sanity she’d retained. So she dreamed of men with huge, beautiful wings, chiseled bodies, epic battles and, in the last six months, a devastating, attentive lover. It sounded logical, reasonable even. But shoot, if they were her fantasies why couldn’t she envision herself as a tall, svelte, scar-free temptress with hair that didn’t resemble a brown Brillo pad?

  Shrugging free of her sweat-dampened nightgown, Tamar let the material pool at her feet before stepping out of the silk ring and skating the green shower curtain to the side. She reached in, twisted the knobs, adjusting the water to the right temperature and speed. Wiggling her fingers under the stream, she tested the heat then climbed into the tub and tugged the shower curtain closed behind her. The steady, firm pulsations dragged a half-sigh, half-groan free from her. And as she passed the soapy washcloth over her breasts and inner thighs, a flash of heat and embarrassment bloomed inside.

  Nicolai—she shuddered at the mere name of her dream lover—might be a figment of her imagination, but upon wakening her body ached as if it had been truly taken, and not in the realm of Nod. Her breasts were sensitive to the touch, the nipples and surrounding skin reddened as if masculine lips with a faintly cruel curve really had been sucking and pulling on them. Her inner thighs were sore as if she’d squeezed them around slim hips time and time again. She shivered and it echoed deep within where Nicolai’s cock had been buried as he’d fucked her most of the night.

  Heat streamed up from her chest and flooded her cheeks. That word was relegated to the night and her erotic fantasies, not daytime where reality came in the form of sun
shine, lesson plans and PTO meetings. She wasn’t a prude—could lob the F-bomb herself. But she’d never used it in a sexual context. And she couldn’t describe Nicolai’s…conquering as anything else. None of her previous lovers had made her feel like a foreign land coming under the rule of a new master. But Nicolai did.

  With him she felt cherished, wanted, precious and…well…fucked.

  A sudden spike of pain in her calves and thighs jerked her attention back to the steam-filled bathroom.

  “Not again,” she muttered, dropping the bath cloth on top of the soap dish. She lifted a foot to the edge of the tub and rubbed the muscles harder and with more vigor than she had earlier in the bedroom. Her doctors and physical therapists had warned her she would have cramps and gradations of pain most likely for the rest of her life. So this new emergence of pain wouldn’t have worried her if it appeared only in her left leg.

  But in the last few months the sharp stabs had attacked her right limb as well and shot up her spine to throb between her shoulder blades. It more than troubled her—it scared the hell out of her. In the last year, she had worked out religiously to strengthen her body. As a result, her physical therapy sessions had been reduced from three times per week to once and she’d returned to her job as a sixth grade social studies teacher at the local middle school.

  Finally her life seemed back on track, or getting there, and now these new symptoms had emerged.

  God. She closed her eyes and willed back the tears stinging her lids. Before the plane crash, she’d taken “normal” for granted. Like the weekends and summers filled with rock climbing, hiking, traveling. Then there were the simple things such as rising out of bed, walking from her home to her car, standing in front of a class, fixing a cup of coffee… Now she valued each and every task. When a person’s existence converged down to lying in a hospital bed, unable to move, trapped in an uncooperative body, the small inconsequential actions became treasured gifts.

  Despair squeezed her chest in its freezing grip. Just when normal hovered within her grasp, something else jeopardized it.

  Life could be such a cruel bitch sometimes. In one hand “life” had saved Tamar from a fate no one else had walked away from. Yet in the other, she taunted Tamar with the possibility of that same blessing being snatched away years later.

  A brilliant and hot surge of anger welled up from a desperate and wild place in her spirit. The rage spilled over, incinerating the grief. No, a voice roared, bouncing off the walls of her mind and resounding in her soul.

  Death hadn’t defeated her. The man she’d loved turning into a monster before her eyes hadn’t broken her. Learning to walk and function again hadn’t beaten her. Neither would this unknown adversary. She’d battled physical, mental and emotional foes for this slice of life. No matter what, she would go down swinging, punching and cursing to keep her piece of normal.

  That’s what fighters did.

  * * * * *

  “Do you know what today is?”

  Tamar glanced up and smiled at her fellow teacher and friend Theresa Hanson—or Resa as she was nicknamed. The slender blonde’s infectious grin invited others to join in the laughter that bubbled out of her like a champagne fountain. If the teacher wasn’t so nice, her perkiness would be downright annoying.

  “You mean besides the last day of school?” Tamar asked, returning to the task of cleaning her classroom before the janitorial crew came in to store the desks and chairs for the next ten weeks of summer vacation. Unlike the other teachers at Grace Crossings’ only middle school, she didn’t look forward to this time of year. She missed the clamor of children’s voices, the homework, projects and lesson plans that kept her busy. Her mother had died right after Tamar had graduated from college and, as the only child of an only child, she had no family to visit over the break. The distant relatives she did know of were too distant by blood, time and miles to drop in on.

  “Yes, besides that,” Resa said, bouncing—did the woman walk anywhere?—across the room to remove posters of Ghandi, Martin Luther King and John F. Kennedy. “Although the last day should be a national holiday. I petitioned Congress, but haven’t heard back yet.” Tamar snickered and Resa giggled. “I really did. I’m expecting the FBI to show up at my door any day to see what sort of nutcase actually submitted the request.”

  “Hey, as long as the agent looks like Jason Statham, I wouldn’t even put up a protest at being frisked and manhandled.”

  “Amen to that, sister,” Resa crowed. “But back to the significance of today.” She paused for affect, whipped around and held her pointer finger in the air as if requesting silence from an esteemed assembly. “It is get-stinkin’-drunk-off-your-ass-because-we-don’t-have-to-go-to-work-or-deal-with-kids-for-the-next-two-months day!”

  Tamar burst out laughing. “You are so bad,” she admonished, but her huge grin ruined the scolding.

  Resa waved off the reprimand. “Oh please.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m like that little devil on your shoulder who just says what you’re thinking. So how about it?” she asked, her green eyes sparkling with deviltry and merriment. “Several of the teachers are going to meet at Paulo’s for dinner and drinks. Maybe head to Boston afterward for some dancing.” Resa performed an impressive pirouette in her pink flip-flops. She followed it up with a hip grind that would have made Dirty Dancing’s Johnny Castle proud.

  Even as she smiled at Resa’s gyrations, dread coiled in Tamar’s stomach like a rattler’s body prepared to strike at the most inopportune moment. Paulo’s—the one bar in town—had been a favorite hangout of hers and Kyle’s, her ex-fiancé.

  Her brain transmitted the assurance Kyle was long gone, but her gut cramped and her heart pounded. It didn’t take much these days to jog her nerves or memories of him. Jesus, she was damn tired of being scared. She hadn’t laid eyes on her ex in well over a year, but in the last four weeks the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if someone watched her…followed her. She’d felt it while grocery shopping, leaving her physical therapist’s office, exiting school.

  Foolish, really. Her ex had left the state a year and a half ago after she’d threatened to report him to the authorities for domestic violence. And since the bruises from his last round of vicious abuse had barely faded, she’d had the evidence. Rather than face the criminal consequences, he’d fled Grace Crossings and the state of Massachusetts.

  The bruises had disappeared with time. But the wounds of fear, shame and betrayal were branded on her soul. The person she’d trusted above all others—aside from her doctors—had hurt her when she’d been weak and defenseless.

  After all this time, had he returned to torment her again?

  “Tamar?” She met Resa’s concerned stare. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” Tamar shook her head and placed a bright-red ceramic apple that had been a gift from a student in a box. “I’m sorry. I zoned out for a second.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Her friend clasped her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “Don’t feel pressured to go. If not tonight, we can always go out another evening. I’m sure I’ll have no problem thinking up a reason to celebrate.” She grinned, but worry still darkened her green eyes.

  “No,” Tamar reassured her and summoned up a smile that wavered then fell away. “I—” She paused, hesitant about dumping her worries on her friend. But when Resa rubbed her back, she forged ahead. “I don’t know. Ever since that special interest ‘Where is She Now’ piece aired on the news a few weeks ago…” Tamar smoothed her fingertips over the top of the cardboard storage box. “I’ve felt antsy. Like someone’s been following me around.” Resa’s eyes widened and her lips parted. Immediately Tamar felt stupid. Really, who would be that fascinated in her to spend their time stalking her? She forced a laugh. “Forget it. It’s silly.”

  “Tamar, are you sure? Maybe you should go to the police—”

  “And say what?” Tamar flicked a hand in the air. “Never mind. With the rehashing of the plane crash, seeing the foota
ge on television and reliving it…I’m probably overreacting and being oversensitive. Really. Forget it.” She smiled and tried to convince herself it didn’t appear as phony as it felt. “I want to go tonight. What time are we meeting?”

  Uncertainty tightened Resa’s pretty features a moment before delight brightened her face and she shot her arm up in the air, palm out, waiting for Tamar’s high-five. After Tamar slapped her palm to Resa’s, the blonde beamed. “Cool! See you at seven?”

  “I’ll be there,” Tamar promised. And as the other teacher bounded from the room and Tamar resumed her packing, a grim determination settled in her heart.

  This was her life again. She had her freedom and friends back, had a wonderful career she loved and a future that gleamed bright and wide open. She refused to muddle it up with imaginary scenarios and paranoia.

  She’d been granted a second chance and she would grab it by the tail.

  Even if it bit her in the ass during the ride.

  * * * * *

  “See? I told you we would have a good time,” Resa boasted hours later as they left Paulo’s. She stumbled and Tamar grabbed her arm, bracing the inebriated teacher. Her left leg protested at the additional burden, but Tamar kept ahold of the blonde until she regained her footing.

  “Oops!” Resa giggled, and then broke out in a surprisingly in-tune rendition of Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee from Grease. Tamar bit back a smile. Her friend had taken the get-stinkin’-drunk-off-your-ass part of their celebration to heart, downing beers like they were on the endangered species list.

  Good thing Resa was a happy drunk.

  “Watch your step,” Tamar said, her tone as dry as the June night. Or her blood alcohol level. She and another teacher had stuck to a two-beer limit, had been designated the “sobriety crew” and assumed the responsibility of hauling Resa and the other two women who had joined them home. Since Resa lived in Tamar’s direction, she’d volunteered to pour the cheerful blonde into bed and carry her back to the restaurant in the morning to pick up her car.