He chuckled against her mouth. “I like it too, Bit. So very much.”

Eamon held her head in his hands and devoured her mouth with his own as he eased her back. Lu slid a hand down his firm chest and grasped his c**k again. He grunted into her mouth, and then his hands were clutching her thighs, spreading them wider as he kissed her.

The head of his c**k moved through her slickness. “Now,” she said against his lips.

It was better than before. All that hard thickness pushing into her without pain. She took him deep, tilting her hips.

“I love this part,” he said as he gave a small thrust. And then he grinned.

Looking up into his face, she grinned back. “Let us do it every day.”

They grinned at each other like fools before Eamon’s gaze turned smoky and he began to go at her with deep, assured thrusts. She arched her back, her br**sts pressing into his slick chest.

“I love it,” she said on a gasp. Her skin prickled, fire nipping at her br**sts, down the backs of her thighs. “Oh, God, Eamon, I love it hard.” She almost laughed for the joy of it; they could be anything they wanted to be, do anything they wanted to do here.

He shuddered, and his grip on her bottom grew tight, nearly painful, as he hauled her closer. “Shall I f**k you harder, Lu?”

It was her turn to shudder. The words. They were even better illicit yet direct. And her sex clamped down on him. “Yes, Eamon.”

He shoved back into her with a grunt, and then he did as asked, thrusting so hard that the bones cradling her sex ached. The table rocked back and forth with squeaks of protest. Something clattered to the floor. Lu wrapped her legs about Eamon’s waist and held on.

Every thrust drove her higher, drew her tighter. Pleasure was illusive and overwhelming all at once. She dug her nails into his moving muscles, spurring him on. “Eamon, Eamon.” Her sight went dim.

They flew apart together, Eamon releasing with a disjointed bellow that drowned out her cry.

He collapsed against her, and for a moment, they simply panted as one, their bodies slick with sweat. But then he moved, hauling her and the gown up. He swathed them in it as he sank to the floor and cradled her against him. Weakly, she rested a hand upon his chest and felt the hard beat of his heart.

Eamon pressed his lips to her temple then peppered her face with soft, searching kisses. His care sent warmth flooding through her.

“I love you, Lucinda Jones,” he said. “You weren’t meant to be mine. But I love you just the same, and I am never giving you up.”

Lu cupped his cheek. “Fate meant for me to belong to you, and you to me. I think you know that. I think we’ve both known all along.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against hers and simply breathed. “I shall thank fate for the rest of my days.”

They were silent, their limbs entwined as they held each other in gratitude, when a thought occurred to her. “Eamon,” she said in growing despair, “Arnold was correct, you realize. We aren’t truly married. I am not Luella. If someone were to find out—”

Eamon kissed her. “I’ll make it right, Bit.”

“But how?”

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Do you trust me?”

Lu sank into him on a sigh. “Always and forever.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lucinda spoke the truth when she said she trusted her husband. And one bright Sunday morning, he walked into their private sitting room and gave her a copy of their marriage contract. Frowning in confusion, she read it, and her mouth opened in shock.

“It says Eamon Hollis Evernight and Lucinda Jones.”

Eamon grinned. “And it says the same in the village church registry.”

“But how?” She found herself grinning back at him. “How did you do it?”

Eamon gave a light laugh, and with the very strength that had always made her marvel, he scooped her up and sat back down with her upon his lap. Lucinda snuggled in as he kissed his way up her neck. “Did I ever tell you about my Scottish cousins?”

“Mmm… No, I don’t think you have.”

He caught her earlobe in his lips. “Well”—he gave her a nip—“if you think I am strange… Let us just say that that branch of the family can perform a variety of miracles.”

“I’ll have to thank them,” she said faintly, for his hands were busy elsewhere.

Eamon hummed in agreement. “You’ll have your chance sooner than you think.”

The next day they went to Scotland and were handfasted so that they could say their vows anew. She called herself Lucinda in the ceremony, but she was always Eamon’s Lu.

* * *

Some forty years into their happy marriage, one of Eamon’s Scottish cousins came to him. Though he knew her as Mary Margaret, she called herself Moira Darling. She brought with her a man named Isley.

And while Eamon’s inquisitive little granddaughter Holly checked the mathematics on a set of schematics they were working on, the man asked him a question.

“Tell me, Mr. Evernight,” said the man, “have you one of those splendid mechanical arms of yours available for purchase?”

Mary Chase has been assigned to help Jack Talent find a vicious killer in the streets of Darkest London.

But her prime suspect is Jack Talent himself.

See the next page for a preview of SHADOWDANCE.

It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.

Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that score. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?

One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the only certain and good thing in Jack’s life.

At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.

“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”

He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—

Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.

His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.

“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their toes.

Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. Mary Chase sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.

* * *

Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.

He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year, Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his stubborn will.

With a sullen pout, Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”

Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”

Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.

Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”

He paused for a moment, his brows raising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper form of address, but some things burned for her too.

His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded her.

He loved that she had to call him “Master.” In their first year in training, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all male regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.

His annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…

“Now that we have our forms of address clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation? Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”

“Pray continue. If Chase can manage to refrain from straying off track, that is.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Never react. She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”

Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed ahead.

“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had already memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong, blunt features not revealing any hint that he might have personal knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s most recent kill.

One powerful arm rested upon the table, and the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep. Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the last victim.

“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. The sole difference in this victim is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts a law-abiding citizen of London.”

Mary glanced at the photo, featuring a young man stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.

Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and she was inclined to believe that he was surprised. Then again, he had always been a fine actor. In the beginning of his association with the SOS, Talent had made a name for himself by successfully tricking a powerful primus demon into believing he was Poppy Lane. Of course, being able to shift to look exactly like Poppy had been part of it, but it was his mimicking of her character to the letter that had made the difference between success and catastrophe.

How could a man who had nearly died defending others be a murderer? But Mary feared she understood all too well. Although he was arrogant, obnoxious, and a general ass, he’d survived an ordeal that would break most men. Was he irrevocably broken?

“Do you recognize the victim, Master Talent?”

Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.

Talent’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”

The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”

Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.

After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing its mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as it could by offering them new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden. But it was a constant battle, for the Nex, an organization dedicated to seeing supernaturals rule the world over humans, was resourceful and ruthless.