Embrace the Mystery (The Blood Rose #3)(7)
Author: Caris Roane

“Date me.”

She laughed. “That’s not dating. That’s sex.”

“Then sex me. Use me. I can handle it.”

She tilted her head. “I want more and I know you can’t deliver what I want.”

He sat up, grabbed her arm and let some of his wicked vibration float over her skin. She shivered, a full body shake that made her gasp. “How do you do that?”

He released her and sank back down on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He looked so smug, so self-satisfied. “I’ve had lots and lots of practice. Now just imagine all that vibration, elsewhere, in conjunction with other things. I wouldn’t dismiss a purely sexual relationship, Batya, not one with me.” His dark eyes glittered.

She stood up and let her skirts fall where they may. “I’ve been trying to avoid exactly this kind of liaison since you first started sniffing around here. But we don’t need to settle anything right now. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

“You changed the subject again.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at it.”

She didn’t wait for him to make another suggestive remark but headed toward the door. But before moving into the hall she said he could use Lorelei’s shower, that she’d find him some clothes, and bring him her special crème rinse.”

“Thank you, Batya. I mean it. You saved my life.”

Her throat tightened as she nodded. “Anytime, mastyr. Anytime.”

As she moved into the hall, she drew a deep breath. The ancient fae had intruded in her world and right now she had no idea how long her siege would last, or if her life would ever return to normal.

Chapter Two

Quinlan showered, washing the mass of his hair twice then applying Batya’s crème rinse so that he’d have a half-way decent shot at getting the snarls out.

Using her blow dryer, he cursed as he watched his long, thick hair fly around. Why couldn’t a vampire, especially a Guardsman, have some kind of preternatural power to remove tangles and dry his hair without electricity?

“Want some coffee with your ‘shits’ and ‘damn-all-the-elf-lords-to-hell’?”

He met Batya’s reflection in the mirror, and saw a mug extended in his direction.

He shut the dryer off, turned around, and took the cup. “Guess I wasn’t holding back much.”

Batya chuckled. “No, you weren’t.”

She had dimples, two of them. Not deep, but they were definitely there. He’d never really noticed before, but on the other hand most of his seduction work had taken place at a distance.

But right now, he sipped his coffee and had a good, long look. Her large, hazel eyes had to be her best feature, although her straight nose and striking cheekbones took a powerful second-best. Her chin angled to a lovely fae point.

Her gaze flicked over his hair. “Turn around. I’ll work the back section.”

Since she reached past him and grabbed the brush, he decided to take her up on the offer. That he didn’t hesitate resonated in his brain as a serious warning of some kind, but he wasn’t sure in what way.

She picked up a thick section and started at the tips. He couldn’t even feel the tugs so he drank his coffee and released a sigh.

His thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Grochaire. “I need to get word to Rafe, my second-in-command, to warn him about what he might be up against. But my telepathy isn’t working through your shield and my phone got blasted by one of those wraith-pairs.”

“You can try my phone, but I can’t guarantee you’ll get through, not with the shield I have in place. I can reach my Lebanon people, but I doubt you’ll get through to any of the realms. And, sorry, but I’m not letting the shield down, not for nothing. Staying alive has priority here.”

He smiled because he couldn’t have agreed with her more.

She brushed through another long length, hit a snag and started working it. He could see her in the mirror, brow furrowed. He’d seen that look already, more than once just conversing with her. She had a seriousness about her that he approved of, maybe because it matched his own.

He sipped some more and watched her. She was a beautiful woman and tall, maybe just under six feet. He wouldn’t have to lean too far down to kiss her. She wore her hair loose with clips holding it away from her face.

He knew her ancestry, half-fae, half-troll, her genetics having fallen on the fae side. Realm-DNA did that when the species mixed. The offspring landed one way or another, the same if more than two lines made up the code. Genetics always picked a lane.

But perhaps above all, Batya was an artist.

“Have you ever done a self-portrait?”

She picked up another long hunk of his hair and once more started at the tips, working swiftly. “I don’t really do faces. I’ve always been into landscapes and the occasional still-life if the objects intrigue me enough.”

“Do you go out, snap photos of woodlands, that kind of thing?”

“Sometimes.” She stopped brushing and scratched her cheek with her thumb. “But more often than not I’ll get these rich images in my head and that’s what I’ll paint.”

“Sounds fae.”

She started brushing again, making quick work as he continued to sip his coffee. “Maybe. Probably. I don’t think about it. I just paint and let the spirit move me.”

He smiled. “The spirit, huh?”

“It’s a good earth-saying, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. So you really like being here on human earth.”

“I do. In fact, I love it. I didn’t know what happiness or freedom was until I moved here.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “And I don’t plan on ever returning to the Nine Realms. The day that we made our treaties with the US turned out to be the best day of my life.”

“You run a free clinic. I know that much. What else?”

She shrugged. “I have my gallery and I teach classes on assimilation for ex-pats, currency, lingo, that kind of thing. Most stop saying ‘sweet Goddess’ by the end of the first year and use the more typical ‘OMG’.”

“And you really don’t miss Grochaire? Not even a little?” He couldn’t imagine how anyone could feel like that. Grochaire lived in his bones.

“No.” Strident tone, too strident.

“So, what happened that set you against your own world?”

“I’m not set against Grochaire.” She ran the brush down his hair, top to bottom, one section at a time. “I think I’m done.”