gorgeous, tanned chest and tight abs above well-fitted jeans. She couldn’t help herself, she sighed, because damn, he still had the whole
Her fingers twitched with the desire to touch that lovely skin, though in her defense it was a fantasy born in ink rather than a carnal one, not that she couldn’t appreciate a nice looking man despite having two stellar specimens of masculinity on either side of her.
Cathal hooked her with an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against him so their heads touched. “You remember you’re taken, right?”
She laughed. “
“I’m up for it.”
That had her attention dropping to the front of his pants. “So danger turns you on.”
“You turn me on.”
The huskiness of his voice changed the nature of the heat burning at her wrists and forearms, moving beyond the ink to settle in her nipples then sliding downward into her labia to become a liquid reflection of desire. Fierce need, not just for him, but for Eamon too, accompanied a hope that they’d overcome several hurdles in their relationship today.
Myk moved in front of them for the first time, with the clear intention of boarding first. Sean recognized him for what he was, a bodyguard, giving tacit permission with a quick upturn at one corner of his mouth, and a, “Knock yourself out, but don’t expect either Quinn or me to let you pat us down.”
Etain smiled at the mention of the man she’d added ink to several days earlier, hiding the Arian Brotherhood tattoos he’d collected while working undercover. She could see the Dragon she’d put on him in her mind’s eye.
Her smile widened, because satisfaction at a job well done wasn’t the only thing she thought of with respect to Quinn. Days ago he’d not only been coming up from undercover, but stepping out of the closet about his sexual orientation.
In a stroke of pure genius—if she did say so herself—she’d set him up with Derrick—a total win-win, though thinking about one of her best friends brought an ache of a different kind. She’d been away from the shop for days and she missed it. More than that, she needed the connection to other people. She needed to create her art, to make it come to life on canvases of skin.
She opened and closed her hands, opened and closed them, the eyes flashing as though they winked. She couldn’t return to Stylin’ Ink to work now, she understood that, but at some point she’d get control of her gift again. And then she would. She had to. When she’d accepted Eamon and Cathal’s importance in her life, she’d known it would necessitate change, but their relationship couldn’t define the entirety of how she lived.
She glanced at Cathal then at Eamon, who turned his head as if he felt her attention, maybe even the nature of her thoughts. Their eyes met, held, his unreadable until he smiled.
She felt the impact of it shudder through her. He was both dangerous and desirable, an erotic combination that apparently enthralled rather than repelled her. It was more than just like to like, otherwise she’d feel drawn to Rhys or Liam or Myk.
Myk reappeared on the boat’s deck, a signal he was satisfied no supernatural enemies waited below. They boarded, amusement obvious in Sean’s expression with the introduction of Eamon. To Cathal he said, “I’m glad to see you took my very expensive advice.”
“Don’t go there.”
Sean grinned. “Still working out kinks?”
He waved them toward the cabin doorway, the one Myk now lounged next to, reminding Etain of Liam. She moved toward it, heart rabbiting in her chest at the phantom sensation of coils tightening around her, as if the ink at her wrists and up her arms had become living vines expanding into some kind of protective cocoon—or a strangling one.
The imagery changed when she entered the cabin and saw Quinn. The ink she wore became the hot burn of fire, the smooth feel of Dragon scales accompanied by a flare of magic and purring satisfaction. Of triumph.
Quinn stood, and though he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the Dragon she’d inked onto his skin filled her vision. He took a step toward her and in that instant control deserted her.
Her throat locked, preventing her from issuing a warning or call for help. Her legs froze midstride. She pitched forward, unable to stop from reaching out.
Quinn grabbed her at the forearms and she watched helplessly as her hands clamped at his wrists, palms locked to his skin in what she knew would be an unbreakable grip.
It was her last flicker of awareness.
Eamon felt the surge of magic. If it had an analogy at all, he would liken it to a power line set free in a wild, whipping storm that smelled of primordial forests, of wind and water and fire that felt so old it could only be of Elfhome.
Cathal leapt forward, going immediately to his knees. And Eamon followed, fear like ice sliding through his veins at the violence of the seizure gripping Etain. He’d seen changes marked this way, but not like this.
She lay on her back, her hands white against the human she grasped, her spine bowing to the point he imagined the sound of it cracking and splintering like a tree in a hurricane, as if she was caught in the eye of it, but rather than a calm center, magic poured into her, forcing its way into every cell with pounding fury.
He tried to counter it as he’d done with Farrell, by grabbing her arms and casting a spell that would insulate her, but he felt his own magic burn away as if having taken his measure the last time, the magic that was hers could now defend against him.
If he’d felt fear in that taste and pull in the aftermath of orgasm, he now felt something well beyond it, desperation bordering on the frantic, an unmitigated agony at the prospect he’d have to pass judgment this very day, and that judgment would be a death sentence.
He’d worried his use of magic at the shelter would draw the attention of any supernatural within miles, but this was like a continuous, jagged lightning strike, where each bolt of it landed in the same spot.
Close to so much water, he’d thought its origins lay there, but as her skin heated and grew slick beneath his hands, he recognized the pour of fire, his own element, though he found nothing of what burned in her that he could either grasp or cool.
“Do something,” Cathal said, his body now partially covering hers, his weight across her ribs and abdomen, though even then her back arched, pressing him upward.
In the presence of the unknown humans, Eamon did not bother to respond, but pulled one spell after another from his vast repertoire of them, trying to find a chink in the armor surrounding her, some way of cutting off the flow of magic.
He found none. Perhaps if he wore her ink as Cathal did…
Maybe that’s where his opening lay.
“She’s burning up,” Quinn said, drawing Eamon’s attention to the press of Etain’s palms against Quinn’s skin. She didn’t seem to be doing him any obvious damage, to Cathal either for that matter.
It might have relieved some of Eamon’s worry except another seizure gripped her, a violent heaving and twisting that created enough of a distraction so the humans didn’t see him trace the glyphs of a sleep spell directed at Etain over the tattoos on Cathal’s forearm.
She continued to seize, to burn, ratcheting up his fear until it became a wild clawing inside him, a primal reminder of his own transition, though his battle had been unlike this one.
Her shirt clung to her, but instead of sweat he smelled fire and water and the scent of ancient forests not of this world. She thrashed, finally breaking the silence of her internal torment with a sharp, harsh cry, and with it, a release from the magic gripping her, though she tumbled immediately into a spell-induced sleep.
“Christ,” Cathal said, gathering her up in his arms and holding her tightly to his body, his cheek touched to her forehead as he remained in a crouch, relief only barely winning out over continued fear. “She’s cooling down.”
“You need to get her to a hospital,” Sean said. “The paramedics would already be here if this asshole hadn’t
