use your face to test the stilettos on my boots. Beep.
Animosity was good, and he seriously hoped she maintained a tight grip on it, despite the fact that he’d had to move heaven and earth to get here. Heaven—phoning Paris and convincing the warrior to drop everything up there, have Lysander bring him home, and come with Strider. Earth—phoning Lucien and convincing the warrior to drop everything and use his flashing ability to get them from Budapest to Alaska in a mere blink of time. Neither of which had been an easy task.
In fact, he would rather have had his tongue removed with a dull, rusty butter knife. Both men had asked questions. Lots and lots of questions he hadn’t wanted to answer.
And yeah, Strider now owed the keeper of Death a favor, too. They were piling up, all because of the deceptively delicate-looking, utterly curvy stunner in front of him—who clearly wanted his head on a pike.
“Would have been nice if you’d given me some direction. Torin had to search every—” Strider stopped himself before he publicly admitted that Torin, the keeper of Disease, could hack into every database known to man. A skill like that was better kept under wraps. “He just had to search for you. Cost us some time.”
“So?”
“So. That’s all you have to say for your appalling behavior?” Thank gods she was doing as he’d hoped and holding tight to that animosity of hers. Yeah, thank gods. “You could have called Bianka. Word is, she’s here in Anchorage with you.” Not that she’d taken his call. “Instead, you waste my time with this shit.”
“So?”
Damn it! Would it have killed her to show him a little gratitude? He could have stayed home, left her rotting. Instead, she’d metaphorically batted her lashes at him and he’d jumped like a girl with a rope. Frustrating woman.
He’d done her wrong, yes, and unlike Haidee, she hadn’t deserved it. Thought you weren’t gonna ponder that. The memories came, anyway.
A group of Hunters had been riding his tail for days, but he’d been too wrapped up in his pity party over losing Haidee to Amun to notice or care. Kaia had stepped in and saved the day, preventing a disastrous ambush. And gods almighty, she was sexy when she fought.
He hadn’t seen that particular fight, but he’d seen several before it—and the one after it—and had even practiced battle-moves with her. He could very well imagine the lethal dance she’d performed that night.
Then had come the battle after, when she’d challenged him to a round of Who Can Slaughter More Hunters. He’d been royally pissed because one, she could slaughter more Hunters, no question, and two, he’d had other things to do. Like take his first vacation in centuries. Still, the challenge had been issued, his demon had accepted, and Strider’d had to drop everything or suffer a loss.
To his shock, she had let him win. Harpy that she was, she could rip through an entire army in seconds—all without breaking a sweat or a nail—but rather than render the final blows, she’d piled up her still-breathing conquests and given them to Strider. Then she’d taken off.
He hadn’t heard from her again until she’d left that message.
Yeah, he needed to apologize.
“Not to point out how lame you are or anything,” Kaia said to him, buffing her nails on her shirt, “but I once had to bail Bianka out of jail twelve times in one day. I didn’t complain a single time.”
Not amused, he reminded himself. “Have I ever told you how much I hate when people exaggerate?”
“I swear!” She stomped her foot. “I honestly didn’t complain.”
Really not amused. I won’t laugh. “Not what I was calling you on.”
“Oh, well.” The indignation drained from her. “I never exaggerate. Ever.”
His throat got tight as he swallowed back a laugh—of exasperation, not amusement, he assured himself. “You’re exaggerating now.”
“And you’re still whining, you crybaby!”
Gods, she was lovely when she was pissed. Her eyes glittered more gold than gray, as if flames danced through her irises, and her cheeks flushed the color of a rare, exotic rose. That glorious mane of red hair practically lifted from her scalp, as if she’d stuck her finger into a socket. Energy crackled around her.
“Wow,” Paris said, glancing around. “This is a lot of fun.”
“Have I ever told you how much I hate sarcasm?” Strider asked him.
Kaia drew in a measured breath, her gaze remaining on Strider. “Lookit, all your crybaby bawling aside, I’m not paying you back and I’m not showing up for my hearing.” Her chin flew into the air, all snotty attitude and refusal to forgive. “So there.”
Goodbye, non-amusement. Screw an apology. Defeat was humming now, gearing up to fight, intimidated by her or not. Strider popped his jaw but didn’t say another word. He just turned on his heel and stomped out of the building before things got ugly, forcing Paris and Kaia to follow. Together. Maybe they’d do him a solid and hold hands.
He heard them clomping behind him, chattering steadily, and jerked his sunglasses from his jacket pocket. He slid the metal frames up his nose. Despite the chill in the air, the sun was bright, glaring. Down the steps he stomped, then he stopped, whipped around.
No hand-holding, but definite we’ve-seen-each-other-naked sparks. Their heads were pressed together, their tones low, intimate. They were probably reminiscing about the thousands of orgasms they’d shared.
This was exactly what he’d wanted, needed. A reminder.
A reminder that Paris had once ripped the clothes from Kaia’s body. Had once tossed her down on his bed, watching her lush breasts jiggle as she bounced. Had grabbed her knees and pried them apart. Had stared into the hottest, wettest slice of heaven ever to grace the earth. Had bent his head, licked, tasted, feasted, hearing feminine cries of surrender and passion ringing in his ears, soft yet firm legs pressing into his back. Maybe even stilettos. And then, when the hunger had become too much for him, Paris had surged up and sunk into a core so tight, so exquisite, he would never be the same.
Kaia had wrapped herself around the warrior. Had screamed his name. Had scratched him and bitten him and begged him for more.
Paris’s face suddenly morphed into Strider’s, and it was Strider who slammed into that lithe little body, in and out, over and over again. Hard and fast as he grunted and groaned, desperate for more.
Fantasy … overload …
His hands curled into fists. Damn this, and damn Paris and Kaia. Because, if he were being honest, he was as furious with Paris as he was aroused by Kaia. And he was so damn aroused just then he had to fit his T-shirt over the waist of his slacks to hide the growing evidence. Paris should have resisted Kaia; he desired someone else, and Kaia deserved better than to be second place.
Why couldn’t Kaia see that?
Any moment now, Strider would stop wanting to rip them apart, stop wanting to grind Paris’s face into the concrete and afterward, suck the air right out of Kaia’s lungs. Any moment,
