Under His Wings Read online

  She closed her eyes and in cautious increments hoisted her feet to the couch cushions and reclined against the soft pile of pillows propped behind her. Okay, so this spell of depression could—for the most part—be attributed to the drugs. They lowered the solid walls of optimistic determination she’d erected out of necessity through the years. But damn it, she’d just witnessed her friend get torn to pieces by a monster she’d probably fabricated from too many viewings of Harry Potter. She had been attacked and suffered a hard knock on the head.

  If anyone deserved to indulge in an interlude of why-the-fuck-does-Fate-hate-me, it was her.

  With a sigh she drifted on a nice, hazy medicinal wave and wondered if she would dream of Nicolai as she’d done in the hospital. The vision had seemed so real. She snuggled deeper into the soft cushions and let the dark undertow of sleep seduce her…

  He’d seemed so real.

  When she opened her eyes, dusk had overtaken the day and shadows stretched across her living room floor and walls. A shiver coursed through her and, in turn, set off a clamor of aches demanding to be addressed. Little men with chisels who whistled while they worked drilled the inside of her skull. Her hip and leg complained just a little less vocally at her lying in one position for so many hours.

  First meds. Then shower. And finally, bed. The five-hour nap—give or take an hour—had only succeeded in making her more drained.

  Forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the steamy bathroom into her bedroom, a towel wrapped around her, the ends tucked between her breasts. Too exhausted to tangle with the rat’s nest on top of her head, she’d pinned the heavy mass up for her shower. Even that slight tug on her scalp had caused her to flinch in pain. As she released the clip and her curls tumbled to her shoulders, she heaved a breath of relief.

  Tamar crossed the room toward her dresser. She pulled the top drawer open and removed her favorite pair of cotton sleeping pants dotted with martini glasses and a black tank top. Within seconds she had dropped the towel and donned the pajamas, but as she retraced her steps over the hardwood floor and caught her reflection in the large vanity mirror, reality slammed into her.

  Resa. Image after image of her friend flashed through her mind. Resa smiling, bouncing around in her perpetual perky manner. Resa laughing, grin wide and open. Resa belting out a Broadway tune. Resa…dead, gone, a victim of a madman. Or beast.

  “Jesus,” Tamar whispered and the tears besieged her, a flood shattering the dam that had held back her grief and horror. Resa shouldn’t have died like that—she hadn’t deserved the viciousness and terror of her death.

  Once the sobs welled and flowed, Tamar couldn’t stop them. How long she stood there, submerged in tears, she didn’t know. It could have been ten minutes or ten hours. When her sobs eventually abated, leaving a gaping, empty hole in her chest, exhaustion pilfered every last reserve of strength she had left.

  Thankfully her body took pity on her emotional state and shut up. Her tread was smooth as she headed toward the bed. Passing the window, she cast a cursory glance out toward her backyard.

  And froze.

  God. No.

  She was trapped in a nightmare, transported back to that deadly night on the street with a monster wrapped in a man’s skin. Only the monster now prowled her backyard.

  Its massive bulk, as wide as a minivan, crouched on her grass. Wings that had easily spanned twelve feet folded alongside its body, the hind hooves stamping out an impatient rhythm before stilling. Its rounded eagle’s head cocked to the side as if it listened for the slightest movement that would betray the location of its prey.

  Tamar was that prey.

  She knew it. Somehow he—it—had found her, tracked her to her home and intended to finish the kill that had eluded it the night before. Her heart slammed against her chest like a rabbit sighted by a great raptor. Yet unlike that bunny which scampered for its life, she remained rooted in front of the window, petrified with fear. If the eagle-horse-hybrid mutant happened to tilt its head in the opposite direction, it would spot her. And attack.

  That mobilized her into action.

  She didn’t want to die.

  Not like Resa.

  Tamar whirled on her heel and ducked out of the line of sight. She crab-crawled to the bedside lamp and tugged on the chain, plunging the room into darkness except for the shaft of moonlight that beamed through the window like a lighthouse beacon.

  The soundtrack of Resa’s death played in her head. Looping over and over. The horrible cracking and crunching of bone. The awful wet smacks she refused to analyze and identify. She straightened, scanning the room for anything she could wield as a weapon. Her quick inspection skipped over the fireplace then careened back to the iron poker. She raced over to the utensil, snatched it from the set. Its weight was a comfort in her grip.

  Her breath thundered in her ears as she crept back to the window. With her spine pressed to the adjacent wall, she peered around the sash. Shit. Empty. Her backyard was empty. Where the hell had it gone?

  The poker hung from her hand as she contemplated her next move. The eternal optimist in her wanted to believe the beast had left. But then a picture of the evil delight in his stygian gaze as he promised to take his time with her filtered across her mind’s eye. No. If the monster had found her, he wouldn’t just leave. Not with her trapped…nowhere to go…and no one to interrupt him this time.

  A noise, so soft she almost believed her fear conjured it, whispered through the utter stillness. Tamar sucked in a deep gust of air, held it and strained to pick up the sound once more. Silence met her ears. And more silence.

  Maybe…there.

  Like a footfall on carpet.

  Or a brush of cloth against a wall.

  Outside her bedroom.

  Panic drove her to the corner nearest her bed. She wedged herself between the headboard and wall, brandishing the makeshift iron weapon in front of her like a club. The moon’s pearlescent light didn’t reach the corner where she hid and the darkness pressed down on her, an oppressive weight. Her breath echoed in her head like a shrill wind through a cavern.

  Memories of another time when total blackness had borne down on her threatened to drag her under the looming tide of terror. A time when the yawning void of light had been as petrifying and painful as the twisted metal that pinned the left side of her body to the seat of a crashed airplane.

  Tamar fought not to give in to the dread that poked at the periphery of her subconscious. Sweat dotted her forehead and a bead rolled lazily down her temple. It coated the skin between her breasts and made a mockery of the deodorant she’d applied after her shower. Her fingers tightened around the poker, her damp palms slick against the heavy metal.

  The bedroom door opened as slowly as a swinging pendulum. She almost expected gnarled, clawed fingers to curl around the edge like the imagined goblin that’d lurked inside her closet when she was ten. From her hiding place, she couldn’t see who entered the room and her nerves stretched to the snapping point as she waited.

  A shadow separated from the void that surrounded it and slid over the floor toward her bed. Toward her. Her heart slammed against her chest, a wild animal frantic to escape its cage. Every survival instinct screamed run, get out! But it was too late—had been since she’d spied the beast outside her window.

  Now all she could hope for was a quick death…and maybe to make the intruder hurt a little, she vowed, lifting the weapon higher.

  The figure moved closer. Tamar tensed, ready to streak out of the corner like a bat out of hell. It shifted direction, nearing the window. Moonlight glanced off it, revealing the faint outline of a large man. The shades of black lightened to gray, bringing its shoulder, neck and face into focus.

  Shit.

  The poker lowered, her arms going limp with shock. Her lips parted and a soft gasp escaped her throat. It couldn’t be…

  “Nico?”

  The man who had haunted her dreams and saved her sanity for the last three years s
tepped fully into the shaft of light. His thick blond waves appeared silver in the moon’s beam, but the strong carved-from-granite jaw was the same. As were the slashing arch of his brows, the arrogant, aquiline blade of his nose and the full erotic curves of his mouth.

  She knew his face well—had traced its beautiful features with her eyes, fingers and lips many times.

  But always in her fantasies. Never in real life, in the flesh.

  Joy hurtled through her, lit her up on the inside like a Fourth of July firecracker. Her lips tilted upward, her smile widening, and the warm glow of delight spread as if she’d downed a shot of whiskey. The tip of the iron poker hit the floor as her arm dropped to her side.

  For years she’d anticipated each night when would she escape to the place where she could see Nicolai, be with him, make love to him. And for years she’d dreaded the morning when she’d awaken to an empty bed, alone and lonely.

  But Nicolai was here. In her bedroom.

  In…her…bedroom.

  Suspicion wormed its way past elation. Her smile faded as the stain of doubt expanded like an ink blot across paper. How was it possible he’d strode straight out of her dreams? And why now? Her gaze shifted to the window. Her thoughts strayed to the backyard and what she’d seen crouched on the grass.

  No. That’s crazy.

  But the last two days had been the epitome of bizarre. A man had changed into a monster before her eyes. Her friend had been ripped to shreds by the same man-beast. And now the winged warrior who had existed only in her imagination stood in front of her.

  Her breath snagged in her throat. Images from her dreams of magnificent wings extended high and wide flashed in her head. She swore she could feel their feathered gentleness as they closed around her, sheltering her as securely as his muscled arms.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  Nicolai didn’t say anything, his expression closed, as inscrutable as the unblinking stare studying her. Her unease ratcheted up a notch and her grip tightened on the poker once more.

  A corner of his mouth twitched as if he’d noticed her defensive action.

  “You know who I am,” he said and she shivered under the sensual power of that low midnight rumble. The seductive drawl too was the same. “I think your question is what am I?”

  Yes, that question had taunted her. Yet even as she’d thought it, the answer had risen to her mind, swift and certain.

  “Hippogryph,” she blurted.

  Surprise flared in his eyes—eyes she knew were the exact hue of the most perfect violet—before his lashes lowered, his inspection of her becoming hooded, appraising. Blood heated, coursed through her veins, transporting desire along the vascular highways until it pooled in her sex, pounded in her clit. Between her thighs, her folds swelled, moistened. He stepped closer and the moonlight caressed him like a doting lover, illuminating the striking planes of his face, emphasizing the wide shoulders.

  She shook her head, dumbfounded. She should have been frightened by his calculated scrutiny, not turned on.

  “And how did you come by this knowledge?” he asked, the tone soft but containing a hint of danger that warned her to tread carefully.

  Common sense returned and fear crept up and overtook lust.

  “Harry Potter,” she replied, breathless. Her feet took over and shuffled backward, placing more space between them even as she babbled, “The Prisoner of Azkaban. Buckbeak.”

  Confusion, then what appeared to be chagrin, crossed his features. His lips twisted into a humorless smile that bordered on a grimace. “Of course.” He paused. “Buckbeak.”

  Again, her gaze darted to the window. “That was you outside?” Tamar hesitated and for a second her throat closed around the question. She was almost afraid of the answer. When he maintained his silence, she continued in the same halting voice. “You’re like the man from last night.”

  His face underwent a transformation from wry annoyance to grave sobriety. He nodded tersely. “But not the one who killed your friend.”

  Terror swept through her, its power weakening her knees. Her shoulder smacked the wall and pain radiated from the socket down her arm. The poker fell from her hand and dropped to the floor with a solid thump. Nicolai shifted forward and she uttered a small cry, scooting along the wall until she trembled in the corner again. She held up a hand, palm out.

  “Tamar,” he said, ignoring her warning, and eliminated more of the distance between them.

  “No,” she rasped.

  She didn’t want to be afraid of him, didn’t want to believe the man who’d caressed and kissed her with such passion was capable of the carnage she’d witnessed last night. But in the last twenty-four hours her life had gone from blessed normality to an episode of Supernatural. Her initial delight and shock in coming face-to-face with Nicolai may have held off the fear, but now it overwhelmed her, threatened to drag her under its cold obsidian undertow. “Please, can you turn the lamp on?”

  Nicolai halted, his chest mere inches from her palm. The heat of his body called out to her like a siren’s wail and she dropped her arm. She pressed her hand to her thigh and rubbed as if she could erase the tingle from the almost-touch. Nothing could get rid of her fierce yearning to stroke the hard wall of muscle though.

  His eyes narrowed at her request, but after a long moment he complied. He leaned to the side and snagged the chain that looked ridiculously delicate in his big hand. A sharp tug and a circle of soft light filled the room. Tamar exhaled, the claustrophobic suffocation easing from her chest and loosening its grip on her throat.

  Nicolai should have appeared less threatening in the light.

  Not.

  The muted glow emphasized his large frame that had been partly hidden in shadow. Wide shoulders, enormous chest, slim hips and long legs with thighs that could have no doubt cracked walnuts. A warrior’s body. He wouldn’t have been out of place in ancient Sparta, bearing armor, a spear and shield. Yet the black t-shirt and pants he wore were just as intimidating as any soldier’s regalia.

  His gaze settled back on her and, for the first time since he’d entered the room, she could clearly see the color. Lavender, just as she’d remembered. Except in her dreams, his eyes had burned with desire.

  Now as he studied her with all the warmth of a bug under a microscope, they were twin chips of violet ice.

  “H-how?” She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows. A chill skated over her body and she tightened her embrace. “How is this—”

  “Possible?” He mimicked her pose, except with his thick legs spread shoulder-width apart his posture exuded confidence and strength while hers reeked of fear. “I can answer part of it. The other,” he lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, “I honestly don’t know.”

  That reply did little to comfort her.

  “Come here,” he commanded. And when he extended his arm, palm up, she almost slid her hand into his. Almost. It seemed natural to unfold her arms and reach for him, but reason intruded, ruled. At the last second, she tensed, jerked back and edged past him, ignoring the hand that had brought her such immense pleasure she’d writhed and erupted under it.

  Avoiding his stare, she perched on the mattress and waited. Slowly, his arm lowered and Nicolai turned toward her, his expression as unreadable as the Sphinx. He slid his hands in the front pockets of his pants.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Tamar,” he began. “You are right. We—my people—are called the hippogryph. We’ve lived beside humans as long as they have existed, but sometimes, like last night, the secrecy of our world is threatened.”

  “Last night. The other monst—uh…hippogryph,” she said with a blush. God, for some reason calling him a “monster” felt like a racist slur. “That was you?”

  He nodded, overlooking her blunder. “I tracked Evander to your town and found him before he could attack you.” A moment of silence passed between them. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Resa flashed across her mind. Tamar shook her hea
d as if she could knock the painful image loose. “Evander?”

  “The one who came after you,” he explained and for the first time a hint of emotion entered his voice. Anger. “He’s what my people call a rogue, a traitor. I’ve been on his trail four months now. Though I’ve caught up with him a few times, he’s managed to elude me. Like last night.” From the grim set of his mouth, Tamar assumed his failure to capture this Evander rankled. She imagined to a man like Nicolai, defeat didn’t sit well.

  Whoa, wait. Caught up with him…

  She sucked in a deep breath. Flicked her gaze up toward him. Examined the harsh planes of his beautiful face before skimming down his chin and neck to his shoulder. The shoulder that, in her dreams, had carried a scar.

  Time slowed to the pace of a snail on Ambien.

  As if from a distance, she watched herself stand and approach him. She stopped in front of him and neither of them moved. That broad chest rose and fell and she fought the temptation to lay her head on it. Or lift his shirt, place her lips on the golden flesh, open her mouth and taste him. God, just to nibble on that intoxicating blend of honey, cinnamon and skin.

  With trembling fingers, she pinched the hem of his short sleeve and lifted until the black material cleared the slope of his shoulder.

  A couple of nights ago, the scar had appeared several weeks old. Tonight it seemed even older, having a shiny, flattened look that would be smooth to the touch. She traced the curved mark with a fingertip.

  “I dreamed of you,” she murmured, remembering how she’d kissed the wound. How she’d climbed on top of his lap, been penetrated and impaled by his beautiful cock as he’d taken her mouth in a kiss that had left her empty and filled at the same time. “And you’d received this in battle.”