Sweet Ruin (6 page)

The blonde whimpered, shaking her head. The other women gazed at him as if he were a god.

Jo’s plan to ask him stuff grew less appetizing by the second. Would he make her beg for information, or toy with her? But she stayed. She wanted to see him get off. To watch as he lost his iron control.

To see him vulnerable.

Her gaze returned to that pulse point. Would his blood truly be black? She fantasized about it coursing through his veins, all over that gorgeous body.

Her fangs sharpened. Her heart began to thud, her spectral breaths shallowing. She struggled for control. As ever, heightened emotions affected her ghosting, making it harder to stay intangible. If she materialized even a little, these freaks might be able to sense her presence.

Her body started to float downward like a weighted balloon.
No, not yet.
He probably wouldn’t be keen to talk if he discovered she’d spied on his orgy. She’d have to leave before she materialized, then “run into” him later.

The blonde began screaming in ecstasy. Though Rune was pummeling her, and she was orgasming all over him, he smiled and calmly purred, “I’m coming.”

The woman gazed up at him in moaning awe.

He briefly froze. Then his hips pistoned.
Thrust, thrust, thrust, THRUST, THRUST.

With a smirk, he stilled. He was done? He’d just come! Jo had risked staying for that? If she’d blinked, she might’ve missed it.

When her gaze dipped to his ass and her breaths shallowed even more, she made for the exit. Over her shoulder, she took one last glance at his pulse point.

Its beat had never sped up.

FIVE

M
eadowberries mixed with warm rain.

Another female was nearby—and, gods almighty, her sweet scent was mouthwatering.

Rune had just finished securing his last informant and was already envisioning the search for his Valkyrie target. Yet when he detected the new female’s scent, he found himself stiffening once more inside the nymph.

She believed his reaction was for her and cast him a smug smile.

Unacceptable. A male should never lose control of his body during sex. He pulled out abruptly, making her gasp, then set her down. While he dressed, she stumbled over to join her friends. They would likely carry on without him.

And there they go.
What male could leave a tangle of wanton nymphs?

He could. This was a nightly occurrence for him.

Besides, the faceless meadowberry female awaited investigation. He could tell she’d been
in
the courtyard—a voyeur?—but she’d put distance between them.

If she looked half as good as she smelled . . .

He fastened his heavy belt. Without glancing back, he told the nymphs, “I’m off, doves. Contact me as soon as Nïx goes to ground. And keep an eye out for a lock of hair.”

Between moans, one nymph asked, “Why are you wanting past the wraiths?”

Those ghastly beings defended Val Hall, the Valkyries’ lair, with a guard that was impenetrable, even for a Møriør like him. But tonight he’d learned—through swiving—that there was a key of sorts; if one tendered Valkyrie hair to the wraiths, those creatures would allow entry.

The nymphs would be on the lookout for a lock. In the meantime, they would conceal themselves in Val Hall’s oaks to spy, alerting Rune when Nïx returned.

Until then, he would search the streets for the soothsayer.
After
he tracked this scent.

Another nymph asked him, “You wouldn’t hurt Nïxie, right?”

She’ll never feel a thing.
He turned to smile at his bevy. His grin, he well knew, was as crooked as his morals, and held a hint of snide; females creamed when they saw it.

Another question for the ages.

“Hurt Nïx?” he scoffed. “I merely want to make a conquest. What male doesn’t want to lay a Valkyrie?”

He already had, of course. Huge disappointment. She’d clung afterward, and the pointed ears—such a feylike feature—had been a turnoff. He despised the fey, hating that his own ears were pointed as well. The nymphs had them too, but at least they were up for a good time with no strings attached.

Conquest
was something the nymphs understood. The first one he’d pleasured tonight said, “Nïx might be out in the Quarter even now. At least until sunrise. Good luck!”

He left them sighing at his grin as he stormed from the courtyard. He needed to be scouring this city for his target. So why was he hurrying after the voyeur?

Out on the street, drunken pedestrians milled around him. Bleary-eyed females regarded him with desire.

Though half fey/half demon, he could pass for a—very large—human. His hair concealed his ears, and he’d etched runes into the bow and quiver he wore to camouflage them from mortal eyes.

Among the humans were other immortals. Most mistook him for a rough-around-the-edges fey—as long as he didn’t bare the fangs he’d inherited from his demon mother.

Though his sense of smell wasn’t nearly as keen as Darach’s, Rune was able to lock on the voyeur some distance ahead. His gaze zoomed in on a short black miniskirt and an impossibly hot ass.

Her thighs were shapely but taut. Made to close around a male’s waist.
Or his pointed ears.

Not that a poisonous male like Rune could pleasure her in such a manner.

A long mane of dark brown curls swayed down her back, looking as silky as mink. Her cropped black tank top revealed a tiny waist. She wore combat boots, and she knew how to walk in them.

If her tits were as gravity-defying as that pert ass . . . As though on command, she turned back in his direction, giving him a view of the front.

First thought:
I wish I could eat her up.

Her skin was the palest alabaster, her wide eyes hazel and heavily shaded with kohl. She had high cheekbones and a haunting airiness about her face. But her red lips were full and carnal.

She wore a strange necklace made of uneven hunks of metal. Appearing lost in thought, she rubbed one chunk across her chin.

His gaze dipped, and he nearly groaned.
Those tits.
They were generous; she was braless.
Good girl.
He watched those mounds rise and fall with her confident steps—a glorious sight.

Even better, her nipples were straining against her shirt. He’d bet his performance had caused that response.

He inhaled more deeply. Oh yes, he’d affected her. When he scented her arousal, his muscles tensed, his body strung tight as his bow.

Her navel was pierced, with a dainty chain dangling from a ring. He would nuzzle that. Without going farther south. If he tongued her, she’d know pleasure for an instant, then convulse with agony.

His bodily fluids were as toxic as his black blood. His fangs and claws as well.

The only thing he hated worse than the fey was his poison. If he killed another, it should be by his choice—not because of some anomaly of nature. . . .

He leaned against a lamppost, studying the female. Ghostly makeup, black clothes, combat boots. What did mortals term this style? Ah, she was a
Goth
. Why anyone would harken to that human age perplexed him.

But with ethereal looks like hers, she had to be an immortal. Perhaps another nymph? No, too edgy.

Maybe a succubus? If so, she would crave semen, which he couldn’t give, even if he weren’t poisonous. Still, not a deal killer. Rune had seduced his share of seed feeders, promising them a teeth-clattering ride. He’d always delivered.

Even those tarts had wanted more of him. After just one bedding, non-nymph females uniformly grew attached to him, becoming jealous and possessive.

Over his lifetime, thousands had sought monogamy from him. He shuddered. The concept was incomprehensible to him.

The voyeur possessed no secrets he wanted, and he risked her attachment. So why was he inhaling for more of her scent?

What is she?
He had a healthy measure of fey curiosity in him, and it demanded an answer.

Only twenty feet separated them.

If she was a halfling like him, then had he never in all his years and travels scented her combination? That didn’t make sense.

Ten feet away. He moved to block her.

She raised her face, blinking in surprise.

“Hello, dove. Were you wanting to join the party in the courtyard, then?” He backed her to a wall, and, naturally, she let him. “The nymphs would’ve been happy to share me. And there’s
plenty
to go around.”

Her surprise faded. She craned her head up to cast him a measured look.

“You were watching, no?” The thought of those spellbinding eyes taking in his action hardened his cock even more. Would she deny it?

“I did watch.” His voyeur’s voice was sultry, with not an ounce of shame.

Phenomenal looks. Sexy voice. Would she have curved or pointed ears? He prayed for the former. “I know you enjoyed the show.”

“You
know
, huh?” She tilted her head, sending glossy curls cascading over one shoulder. “You were passable.”

The scent of her hair struck him like a blow. Meadowberries. They’d grown in the highlands of his home world, far above the sweltering fens he’d worked as a half-starved young slave. Their scent had tantalized him to distraction.

Wait . . .
“Did you say
passable
? I assure you that word has never been applied to my performance.” He watched in fascination as her lips curled. The bottom one had a little dip in the center he wanted to tongue. But never could.

“ ‘Performance.’ ” Her vivid eyes flashed. “Exactly how I’d describe it.”

Damn it, what was she? Then his brows drew together at her comment. Over the last several millennia, he might have consolidated his sexual . . . repertoire. His poison limited his options. But
performance
? “I get zero complaints.”

She shrugged, and her breasts bobbed in her tank. He’d licked his lips before he caught himself.

“You want my honest opinion?”

As if he cared what she thought! Yet his mouth was saying, “Tell me.”

“You showed hints of game at times, but nothing I’d strip for.”

Game? “Then you didn’t watch the scene I partook in.”

She gave him an exaggerated frown. “My honesty hurt your feelings. It wasn’t
all
bad. How about this: there’s a live-sex club right around the corner—I bet you could place in their amateur-night competition.”

He leaned in. “Ah, dove, if you’re the expert to my novice, I’d appreciate any hands-on instruction.”

“Here’s a tip. Maybe settle in enough to take off your boots. Or, hey, how ’bout removing your bow and arrows?”

“Sound advice, but I never know when I might need my weapons. Even when I fuck, I still listen for enemies.”

“You must have a lot of them. What kind?”

“All kinds. Untold numbers of them. In any case, I’m leery of removing my bow; it was a priceless gift.” Ages ago, Orion had loosed Darach into a foreign realm with scant guidance:
Find the Darklight bow with a black moon and white sun etched above the hand grip.
A week later, Darach had returned, wild-eyed, bow in hand. Orion had given it to Rune, saying, “Your new weapon, archer. . . .”

“Priceless?” The voyeur’s gaze flickered over his bow with a touch too much interest. “Sure would hate for it to get stolen.”

“Never.” Why had he bragged to her about his weapon? Information flowed
to
him, not
from
him.

He could talk for hours and never say a meaningful thing.

Yet something about her had made him boast? He’d taken prettier women. He’d had demigoddesses beneath him. Why did he find her so captivating?

Maybe her disdain toward you, Rune?

“Are you a good archer?” she asked.

“I’m the best in all the worlds.” Crowing again? Though it was true.

Initially, Rune had resisted taking up a weapon favored by the fey. Orion’s answer:
Even when you’ll be more lethal with it than all of them combined?

“Worlds, is it? Where are you from?”

“Very, very far away.” He wondered what she’d think if he told her his primary home was in a dimension that moved. That he lived in a mystical castle filled with primordials and monsters.

“Who taught you to shoot?”

“I taught myself.” Determined to be worthy of Orion’s notice, Rune had practiced till his bowstring was stained black from his bleeding fingers.

“If your performance is gonna be predictable, at least you’re good at archery.” She nibbled that dip in her bottom lip, and his cock twitched in his pants.

She needed that mouth kissed until her vision went blurry. And he couldn’t be the male to do it! His hands fisted, and he grated, “You can talk all you like about my
performance
, but it got you wet. I can scent it.”

“You got a woodie; I got a wettie. Doesn’t mean mine was for yours.”

She was terse, borderline aggressive.
I want her.
“Are we going to do this or not? The courtyard awaits, and I’m on a clock.” He didn’t have time for this! His target might be roaming these very streets. “Or we can meet later.”

“No dice,” she told him. “I like a guy with passion. When you finished back there, I couldn’t tell if you’d gotten your nut or muffled a sneeze.”