Mysteria Nights

“Can I tell him?” Evie asked her.

Why not? “Sure. He’s almost family, and I’ve seen his goods.”

“She’s a novelist,” Evie threw over her shoulder, “best known for bringing her heroes to their knees. Not always because they fall in love, but mostly because the villains always jack them up with a hammer to the tibia.”

“Dear God,” Hunter mumbled. “This is bad. Real bad.”

Glory rubbed her hands together. Yes, it was. Falon the bastard was about to fall. Hard-core!

Two

Anticipation hummed through Glory for the rest of the night and the following day, possibilities rolling continually through her mind. She’d hoped Hunter would tell Falon what was going on, Falon would rush to her and beg her to forgive him, and she would get to slam a door in his face, causing him to toss and turn for hours in fear.

But he never showed up.

So when the sun finally descended on the second day, she padded to her bedroom, wading through clothes, shoes, and donut wrappers, grabbed a notebook, and climbed onto the bed.

It was time to test the pen’s powers.

Ever since Falon had—Do not think about that right now! You know better. Already, with that tiny half thought, her pulse had kicked into overdrive, and her stomach had clenched, sickness churning inside of it.

Think about your revenge. For this to work, she needed to be strong, unemotional. Otherwise, she’d do something mean, Falon would look at her with those otherworldly violet eyes of his, and she’d cave. Maybe even apologize. He deserves to suffer.

How best to torture him?

She thought about what she knew about him. She’d never slept with him, but she knew what he looked like when he experienced ultimate pleasure. She knew how he tensed, knew his voice dripped harsh and raspy. Knew he roared with the last spasm, pounding his big, hard body into his lover’s.

Uh, not helping. Breath burned in her lungs, and fire rushed through her veins, but she couldn’t stop her mind from traveling that road. One night she’d stumbled upon Falon in the woods, making love to one of his many women. Or, as Glory liked to call them, one of his many hookers. Anyhoodles, she’d been unable to walk away. He’d been unnaturally beautiful and darkly seductive, whispering the most erotic nothings in the hooker’s ear.

Glory had suddenly understood why Falon could fight vampires and demons for hours and hours without breaking a sweat. He was total strength, inexorable stamina. Nothing tired him.

That night, she’d developed a tiny—enormous—crush on him. Even though he was way out of her league. Glory was a wee bit on the pudgy side, while Falon personified perfection. She exercised by riding her bike into town to buy a bag of Doritos; he worked out slaying his enemies without thought or hesitation. Men ignored her; women flocked to him. She spent hours in front of a computer, living life in her mind; he actually lived. Inside other people’s pants, but whatever.

Rumor was he knew what a female craved before even she knew, and anyone who experienced the bliss of his sometimes gentle, usually savage touch was never the same again. Watching him, Glory had begun to believe that.

She’d fallen completely under his spell, haunted for days by his mesmerizing image. She’d yearned to have him in her bed. In her shower. On her floor. Wherever. She hadn’t been picky. She’d just wanted him. Desperately and unequivocally. She’d wanted him naked, slipping and sliding into her, no one else, wrapped around her, cherishing her. She’d wanted her name on his lips, his taste in her mouth. Until . . .

Her hands clenched into fists. You aren’t supposed to think about this!

The memories flooded her, anyway. A few months ago, she’d overhead him tell Hunter that one woman was the same as any other, and love was for idiots. Since they shared the same mind-set—love sucked giant elephant balls!—and he didn’t care who he slept with, she’d decided to go for it and throw herself at him.

Pleasure was seriously lacking in her life, and she would have given all of her powers—well, rather, all of Evie’s powers—to have him look at her with desire. Just once. That’s all she’d needed, all she’d wanted.

So she’d gone to his house in nothing but a trench coat and heels. And yeah, she’d flashed him.

He’d taken one look at her and laughed. Laughed!

“Go home, little girl,” he’d said. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“I’m twenty-three, not jailbait, and I’m anything but little, as you can clearly see. I’m here for a few hours of fun, that’s all.”

“Okay, let me put this another way. Get lost. You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m—I’m not your type, then,” she’d stammered, mortified to her very soul. In that moment, she’d understood. Even though he’d said any woman would do, he’d meant any pretty woman would do.

His gaze had become hard as it perused her. “No, you’re not my type.”

He could have spared the remaining tatters of her feminine pride, but another woman had walked up behind Glory. Kaycee, a girl who had graduated a few years ahead of Glory, had obviously craved the same thing as Glory, despite the fact that she’d come with a basket of fruit to “sell.” Just as she’d been in school, Kaycee had been tall and thin and pretty. And Falon had allowed that pink-skinned married fairy hooker inside before shutting the door in Glory’s red-hot face.

Remembering, Glory gnashed her teeth together. “I will destroy his male pride,” she said, determined. “I will teach him what it’s like to feel unwanted and ugly.”

But she spent the next hour staring at the notebook, mind blank. Shit! How did a girl teach a man that kind of lesson?

Just write something. Anything! Pretend this is one of your novels and test the pen’s powers. Let’s see, let’s see. Roman solider? No. Falon didn’t deserve to carry a sword. But she saw all kinds of possibilities in that time period. Gladiator? Oh, yes, yes, yes. Gladiators were slaves, and she really liked the idea of Falon in chains.

Closing her eyes, she pictured Falon pacing the dirt floors of a barred cell, sweat rolling down the sculpted muscles of his bronzed stomach, pooling in his navel and dipping lower. Fresh from fighting, blood splattered him.

Licking her lips, Glory shifted against the covers. The scene continued to open up in her mind, painting her thoughts with its descriptions. She sucked in a deep breath and forced her hand to write what she saw . . .

Falon was lying in bed, cool, dry, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom one moment and inside a dirt-laden cell the next, pacing back and forth, sweat pouring from him. Shocked at the sudden change, he tried to stop. His feet kept moving as though they were no longer connected to his brain.

What the hell?

Moonlight slithered around him as he passed a crudely crafted bed, then an equally crude bench, kicking dirt with his sandals. Sandals? There was a metallic tang in air. The rustle of chains could be heard beyond the cell, as could moans of . . . injured men? Pleasured men?

Confusion slithered through him.

“Yo. Falon.”

Hearing the husky female voice, he spun and faced the cell’s farthest set of bars. A lone woman stood behind them, shadows covering her face. Glistening white cloth draped her, and gold flowers glinted from her left shoulder and hem. A chain belt circled her waist, cinching the drape around her and revealing slender curves. The scent of pampered, eager woman and desire drifted from her, sweet and exotic.

His body hardened in hated desire. Hated, because only one woman had that effect on him lately.