Inked Destiny

“Yes.”

“You witnessed it?”

“Yes.”

Farrell began whimpering on the floor of the small boat where he lay bound by magic, dry now because of that same magic, after throwing himself into the ocean when Eamon finally caught up to him. Fear had driven the changeling to the act. Farrell’s own tie to the elements whispering sweet seduction, offering a watery embrace along with visions of gills and tail, if only he shed his humanity.

Worry gripped Eamon at wondering what promises had whispered through Etain’s mind. He caught Rhys’s glance at where Etain’s ink was hidden by clothing, though his second didn’t say what all of those close to him were thinking, that it might not be safe to allow Etain to live.

“Where is she?”

“She’s on her way to speak with the Cur, Anton.”

He could guess her intentions, but Rhys’s expression said this wasn’t the last of what had brought him here.

“Cathal?”

“There was an attack at his home by someone armed with a grenade launcher. Thankfully the garage door had closed far enough to make it plausible to witnesses that he’d gotten into the house and far enough away from the blast to survive it. He’ll be at the estate shortly.”

“Take Farrell. Confine him. Call me or have Liam do it when Etain arrives at her destination. It’s time I collect my intended.” Before she forced him to render judgment.

The order was given in the cool tones of a lord, though there was no hiding the truth of his emotions from his second. Pain blurred into anger, a deep hurt that made it feel as though his heart had been cleaved in two because apparently she still did not feel enough for him to care how her choices affected him, about the message that he might read into them, that his needs as man and lord weren’t important.

Pity and compassion warred in Rhys’s eyes. Efficiency, and the desire to let Eamon retain his pride, won out. “Yes, Lord.”

* * *

Quinn couldn’t shake the panic. For the first time since leaving law enforcement, he wished he’d made a sideways move instead of getting out, a move that would give him a light and a siren to cut through traffic and make San Francisco pedestrians get the hell out of the crosswalks.

He called Derrick’s cell again. Repeating the action a block later.

Something was wrong. One minute he’d been laughing, playing Uno with his family, working his way toward the big reveal, and the next…

He’d felt like his world was about to go dark. He couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough, couldn’t get back to the city as fast as his gut screamed for him to do it.

“Answer, damn it. Answer.”

Another call went straight to voicemail.

Close to Derrick’s apartment his instincts screamed Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Except this didn’t feel like where he needed to be and that made no fucking sense. Neither did Derrick’s leaving work after being adamant when they’d talked on the phone earlier that he was staying late at Stylin’ Ink so he could catch up on his artwork. Unless…

A low growl emanated without conscious thought. Mine!

Shit, not more of this. He tried to shake the weirdness off, the same way he’d finally managed to do about what had happened with the jewelry.

Just some kind of post-traumatic-stress thing going on. Five years undercover with the Aryan Brotherhood had been five years of living hell.

A parking place opened up and he claimed it, screeching to a halt, hand going to the ignition key. Stalling out there because everything inside him said going up to Derrick’s place was time he couldn’t afford to waste.

I’m going fucking nuts. He scrubbed his hands over his face before checking for traffic and jerking the steering wheel sideways to pull back onto the street. He headed in the direction his gut told him to go.

For a split second he thought about calling Sean as backup. Then dismissed it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, hating the truth that cut into his thoughts like a sharp knife. If this was about work, he’d call Sean in a heartbeat, no hesitation. He’d lived on his instincts for a lot of years. That’s what being behind bars reduced a man to, especially a cop undercover. And the times he wasn’t in prison, he’d been living a lie twenty-four seven, which was just another kind of incarceration.

All day long he’d had those flashes of possessiveness and battled the need to check in, see Derrick for himself, like some kind of school girl with a crush. They hadn’t made plans to see one another. Hadn’t made promises.

For all he knew Derrick was out with someone else. Maybe bar hopping. And that was a big part of why he didn’t call Sean.

Just go with it, he told himself, putting himself on autopilot, a part of him absolutely positive his instincts would lead him to Derrick.

* * *

Nice,” Etain said when they arrived at Greg’s place.

It was a tri-level town house. An end unit in a neighborhood where it was easy to imagine parents feeling safe as they walked with their kids to the park a block away, or the library a little bit farther, or to the lake down the road.

High ceilings gave the place an open, airy feeling. At the nursery room doorway, Greg stopped to introduce his obviously pregnant wife, Monique, and, DeAngelo, the toddler-aged boy she was reading to.

“You’re Captain Chevenier’s daughter,” Monique said.

The question produced the hollow twang of pulled heart strings. “You know him?”

“No. I’ve just been following the news about the Harlequin Rapist. I recognized your name.”

She shot her husband a look, momma bear not wanting any threat in her home. “I hope this means Anton is intending to do the right thing.”

“This way,” Greg said without offering a response, leading Etain into a living room with a built-in fireplace and a wall taken up by a big-screen TV.

Anton sat on the couch. He didn’t stand as Etain approached.

“I’m not seeing no drawing tablet. I ain’t seeing your kit either, the one I know for sure you have with you when you’re planning to lay down some ink.”

“I said when I called it was to talk.” She was close enough to extend her hand for the shake they usually exchanged.

He reached into the crevice between couch cushions and pulled a gun out instead.

The eyes on her palms blazed.

Greg threw his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, Anton. This is crazy. What are you doing, man?”

“I went by the funeral home,” Anton said, directing his answer at her. “Paid my respects to Kelvin’s mamma and heard about you visiting him at the hospital.”

His eyes flicked to her hands then back up to meet hers. His expression hardened. “Now you’re here, and I’m thinking it’s because you’re working for the cops, seeing as how my cousin picked you up not too far from where your daddy works.”

“Leave,” Greg said, muscling his way between her and Anton.

She didn’t know whether it was directed at her or his cousin, but sweat rolled down her back because she could now feel a hint of magic, as though Liam was about to emerge from shadow. She shivered at where that would lead.

“It’s okay,” she said, fingertips touching Greg’s back. “Anton and I understand each other. Maybe it’d be better if you weren’t in the room for this.”

“You sure?” Disbelief. Respect. Fear.

“I’m sure.”

Still he hesitated, as if torn between doing what felt right and what was important for his own family, his