“Me too.”
She laughed. Parted lips and the tease of her tongue allowed him to escape actually saying the words
He lost himself in kissing her, in the scent of her, conversational intentions sidetracked, his will further eroded by the scrape of her nails across his chest to zero in on his nipples.
He managed to leave her mouth but didn’t go far. “I swung by to see my father afterward, to tell him I meant to marry you.”
“How’d he take it?”
“He offered to get rid of Eamon as a wedding gift.”
“I’ll just assume you declined.”
“I was tempted, for a split second.”
“It wouldn’t go well for your dad. Does this mean Eamon is no longer a banned topic?”
His mouth slammed down on hers in answer, his tongue thrusting, rubbing against hers in sensual prelude as he rolled her onto her back, his thighs parting hers, his cock entering her, Etain’s muffled laugh and eager willingness making his heart sing.
The dense fog was shades lighter than Eamon’s mood after a sleepless night. He’d lost control of the situation with Etain,
Eamon grimaced. He was not a man to engage in whimsy or to purposely delude himself. When Liam had called to report Etain’s nearly dying at the hospital, it had taken everything in him not to rush to Cathal’s home and demand entry. He’d refrained, barely, and only because there was wisdom in Etain’s so-called breathing room.
Today he intended no such restraint. He had no recourse other than to join Etain in her folly, despite the risk to all of them if his presence caused her existence to be discovered by Elven spies or other supernaturals.
He’d given them a night together. A night to calm and consider the things he’d revealed though he harbored no illusions they’d return to his estate unless the situation were truly dire.
He closed his eyes against the pain that thought brought with it, stabbing him with the rejection implied by her actions. She was important, not just to him personally but to those he ruled.
The wet embrace of fog against his skin as the speedboat moved through the dense gray of seeming nothingness soothed him. Courtship was not a seamless dance even among Elves.
He would see to this task and then he would go to Etain. He’d erred, numerous times, but there had also been hours of enjoyment in each other’s company, unparalleled pleasure as well. He began hardening in anticipation of being with her, fantasy assuaging the ache in his chest caused by the emotional distance between Etain and him.
The reprieve lasted until reality intruded with a deeply drawn breath, the scent of ocean and fish and diesel causing him to open his eyes. Seconds later voices sounded in the fog and the outline of a fishing vessel came into view.
In the driver’s seat Heath adjusted their course, the deep red of his aura a strike of bold color against the unrelenting grayness. “It’s a fifty-six-footer by the look of her. That’d make the captain Garret.”
Familiar tension filled Eamon. Of all his duties, this one, monitoring and passing judgment on those who were changeling, was the one that left him feeling powerless despite having immense power.
Fear for Etain clawed its way into his heart again and he fought against curling his fingers into fists, though he would gladly use them to strike out physically at any danger that couldn’t be battled with knowledge or magic. Had she started hearing voices? Or would magic’s will simply manifest as it had when she’d lost control of her limbs, the eyes on her palms seeking Parker’s bare skin to feed on memories that would increase the appetite for them rather than sate it? Or would magic strike as it had done in that moment of weakness at orgasm, when she’d grabbed at his power without any awareness of it?
Thoughts of the damage she might do prior to his reaching her, and worse, the guilt she’d feel because of it, flooded his veins with ice, nearly paralyzing him with one of water’s deadly aspects. He combatted it with fiery determination. He could do nothing until he saw to this responsibility, and then he would go to Etain and remain with her.
He stood as Heath maneuvered the speedboat to the rear of the fishing vessel, easing alongside a ladder extending down to the water. When they were close enough, Myk, his fourth, standing guard in Liam’s place, climbed upward, his waist-length hair the same dark color of ancient trees.
Impatient to get to Etain, Eamon followed, though he knew Myk would have preferred him to wait until he could verify there was no threat. The boat’s captain waited, offering a slight bow of his head when Eamon stepped onto the fishing vessel, murmuring, “Lord,” in greeting.
“The ocean is treating you well today, Garret?”
“I believe it will be a satisfied group that’ll step onto the dock when we get back.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Eamon scanned the deck. There were easily thirty men, women, and children onboard, no small number of them watching, curious about the arrival of visitors.
He needed no permission, but he asked anyway. “May I move about the vessel and speak to your guests and crew?”
Worry filtered into Garret’s expression. He glanced toward the opposite end of the boat, where his changeling son, Farrell, worked at a bait bar.
“Of course, Lord,” he said, knowing Eamon was there to judge how well Farrell was dealing with the magic.
Eamon didn’t go directly to the changeling. Those brief moments at yesterday’s fund-raising event notwithstanding, it was rare for him be out among humans who were ignorant of the supernatural world. While it was true that en masse he had no love for them, individually they weren’t objectionable. Over the course of his life he had even found some of them to be interesting.
Amusement rippled through him. Cathal might yet fall into that category.
Eamon paused at a family group with five children, the youngest little more than six. “Did you catch anything?”
The girl ducked her head shyly. Her older sister answered, “She caught a striped bass but it was too small so we threw it back. I caught a halibut that’s twenty-six inches long.”
Their three brothers chimed in, bragging about their catches and softening Eamon’s smile. It was hard not to react to the young. Among Elves, children weren’t easily conceived, making each of them a treasure.
He felt a tug in the vicinity of his heart as one of the boys excitedly began reeling in a fish. It would please him to have a son—or a daughter. A small copy of Etain—or completely differing in looks, it wouldn’t matter.
He moved on, stopping next to an elderly couple. The woman was bundled up but shivering, the rod in her hand shaking.
“Can I have the captain get you a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked, placing his fingertips lightly on her shoulder and subtly tracing the sigils of a warming spell.
Her trembling stilled. She sighed in relief. “I’m fine, thank you. That’s the trouble with getting old, the cold creeps up on you more often and bites harder.”
Eamon looked at her age-lined face and suppressed a shiver of his own. Humans might breed easily, but their lives passed quickly and at the end they were often reduced to the helplessness of their first years.
He didn’t envy them, despite their control of this world.
He continued on, aware Farrell watched his approach though he pretended not to. The boy was twelve, small for his age but wiry, and like all changelings at the beginning of the process, the aura surrounding him was