Nightbloom (4 page)

“What did you just do?” Conn peered down into the iron cage that circled the Pit.

My hands tightened on the bars, heartbeat fluttering. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”

He shook his head. “Too pretty for your own good.”

I ignored him, watching Braden pace along one side of the circular arena, scuffing up dirt with his boots. Paxon stood opposite him, calm and still, wearing black slacks, his charming smile, and nothing else. I tried to swallow, but there was no saliva in my throat.

“Now you’ve got men fighting over you.”

“What are you talking about? They’re not fighting over me. They’re fighting to fight, to spill a little blood.”

I scowled, wondering why Paxon was doing this—to keep Braden from winning the “prize” or because he wanted to win it for himself. Heat crawled up my cheeks at the thought. At the hope.

“Hmph. Braden, maybe. But not Pax. He wouldn’t step foot in that ring if he didn’t feel like he had to.”

In stoic silence, Paxon stared down his opponent, who huffed and puffed across the ring like a bull. I cleared my throat. “What do you mean? Paxon doesn’t fight in these things?”

“Paxon Nightwing fought one blood match. Only one. Four years ago in the Obsidian Games, he represented the Nightwing clan as a contender and for his own rite of passage.”

“He didn’t win?”

Conn made a snorting noise. “Didn’t win? He annihilated his opponent. Nearly killed the guy who was an undefeated champion. Pax walked out without a scratch, and the other guy ended up in a Morgon healing center for a month. When we asked Pax when he’d fight again, he said ‘never.’ Since then, he hasn’t been in a Pit. Not in these underground blood matches, not in the Obsidian Games. Not anywhere.”

My pulse pounded a frantic rhythm. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Not until you’re up for stakes.”

A bitter note rang in Conn’s tone.

“Why are you upset?”

His reddish-brown eyes matched both his hair and wings, all bronzed a deeper shade in the low light. “Because Pax is my friend, and I’m afraid he might get hurt.”

“But you said he was a good fighter. Surely, Braden couldn’t hurt him that bad. Could he?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Seconds passed as he held my gaze, waiting for me to figure something out. Was he talking about me? Why would I hurt Paxon? How? Thankfully, a hush fell in the room, the club music silenced, and all eyes were on the ring.

I tore my gaze from Conn, finding a familiar figure in the Pit with Braden and Paxon—a silver-winged, broad-chested Morgon.

“Hey. Doesn’t he work at
The Torch
?”

He carried two unsheathed broadswords.

“Yeah. That’s Kraven. He works for Nightwing Security, so wherever they need him, he goes.”

Sorcha fell in love with the guy the first night we stepped into a Morgon club. Well, fell in lust with him, anyway. Kraven stepped to the center of the arena.

“What’s he doing with the swords?”

Before Conn could answer, Kraven bellowed over the crowd.

“The pledge of the Obsidian Games applies! Fight until one yields!”

Kraven threw the first sword. It spun in the air and fell blade-first into the dirt floor at Paxon’s feet. He sent the second flying, landing in front of Braden. Giving a sharp nod to both Morgons, he beat his wings twice, stepped back out of the barred gate, and closed the door with a clang.

“Wait a minute. Isn’t he going to referee or something?”

“There is no referee in a blood match.”

“But…what if one of them does something illegal?”

“Ella, there is nothing illegal going on here. Not in the Pit.”

“But what if neither of them surrenders? How long will it go on?”

“It goes on until one yields or falls unconscious. Or worse. Those are the only rules.”

Clenching the bars, I held my breath as Braden hefted his sword from the earth. He stalked across the Pit toward Paxon, who appeared relaxed. Too relaxed. Arms at his sides, he took one step forward and lightly took his sword in hand.

Mirroring each other, they made a half-circle when Braden lunged, swinging the sword over his head. Paxon rebuffed the strike, metal clanking and sliding along steel edges. The whole time I watched them swivel around the ring, I marveled at how Paxon moved—with calm and purpose. His wings lifted him to avoid a blow, his body lithe and agile, daring his opponent to make even a scratch. And how I prayed not one mark would be made on that beautiful body.

What had come over me? I had a boyfriend. Somehow, that made no difference whatsoever to my ogling eyes and my swift-beating heart.

After long, agonizing minutes of swinging steel and near-misses, Paxon stood his ground, sword at his side.

Braden circled, chest heaving. Feet apart, shoulders relaxed, back straight, only his eyes following his opponent, Paxon seemed more at ease than anyone in or around the arena. My nerves fractured. My knuckles drained white on the bars. Braden inhaled sharply and blew out a line of flame that would’ve burned Paxon’s face off if he hadn’t leapt into the air with the aid of his wings. He slammed a hard kick directly into the side of Braden’s skull as he came down. The big guy fell backward, crumbling to the ground before Paxon could land another.

In another bout of swift moves, Braden attacked with ferocity. Paxon dodged with ease. Braden’s face contorted with fury, veins bulging at the temples as he launched himself full-force, swinging his sword high and wide toward Paxon’s head. But he wasn’t fast enough. Paxon stepped to the side. Braden’s sword missed and embedded in the dirt floor. His mistake cost him. Paxon sliced across his shoulder to the bone.

“Oooh,” went the crowd.

Not a superficial wound. It bled profusely down Braden’s bare chest and back. He might look relaxed, but Paxon wasn’t playing. Braden swung through the air again with more effort.

Clank, clank, clank!

They swung and circled, swords colliding over and over.

Sweat beaded on Paxon’s brow and body, his jet-black hair, usually well-groomed and in its proper place, fell across his eyes. I feared for him. I begged the heavens to spare him any harm. And I barely knew him. I’d never been so transfixed, so lured, not even by Clayton.

Clayton! I scanned behind me and found him hanging back with Corbin and Slade, watching from some elevated benches. Clayton had his arm around the shoulders of some Morgon chick with silver wings. He whispered in her ear, leaning in close and swaying in his seat. She removed his arm, then stood up and took a seat one bench below next to a group of Morgon girls. What a drunken idiot. I could handle his flirting, but making a fool out of himself infuriated me.

“Daaamn!”

I jerked my attention back to the ring. Paxon had sliced Braden down the center of his back, right between his wings.

“That’s a warning,” muttered Conn.

“What do you mean?”

“He could’ve sliced his wing, but he didn’t. He was letting Braden know the next time, he’ll take it off. He’s demanding surrender in his own subtle way.”

“Subtle? Are you kidding me?”

Conn chuckled. “Ella. You’re too sweet and innocent for this place. You sure you want to watch this?”

“Yes,” I bit out between clenched teeth.

Paxon stalked around Braden, who had crumpled to his knees. He tried to stand to his feet, but wobbled before falling back down.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark god with a sword, calmly toying with his enemy. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the dip between his pectorals and the indentation of his abdomen. I didn’t feel so sweet and innocent, my eyes casting wayward thoughts to my imagination.

Oh, God!

I sucked in a sharp breath. Paxon’s gaze left Braden, searing across the Pit, straight to me. One corner of his mouth ticked up, as if he knew what I was thinking, as if he could read my thoughts.

Just as Braden leaned on one leg to stand, Paxon spun behind him, sword at his throat, other hand on the arch of his wing, bending it unnaturally.

The crowd “ooohed” again. One Morgon girl squealed and hid her face. Apparently, the breaking of wings was a serious offense. It was what made them who they were. I’d heard that some broken wings never healed right, leaving the injured Morgon altered and lame.

Paxon leaned down, bending Braden’s wing to breaking, forcing him to bow forward on his knees. Paxon whispered something in his ear. After a long, suffering ten seconds, the Pike nodded. “Yield!”

Paxon released him. The crowd went up in a roar of cheers and applause. He tossed the sword into the dirt, having eyes only for me. With the squeak of the Pit gate, Paxon beat his wings and exited. Two Pikes flew down to help their teammate.

Conn smirked at me. “Hmph. Looks like he gets that kiss.”

My stomach flip-flopped. Sweat dampened my skin. I wet my lips and fidgeted with my sweater sleeve, suddenly finding a frayed thread that needed plucking.

Paxon forced his way through a congratulating crowd. Men pounded his naked back and shoulder as he passed. One Morgon girl even slid her palm across the nape of his neck and giggled to her friend when he’d moved on, as if she’d touched a rock star. I guess none of them had seen the dapper owner engage on their level before. He flashed a charming smile in my direction as if he’d just won a card game, strolling straight for me. I didn’t move.

The club music pumped once more. The crowd, livened by violence and victory, started to move. I was suddenly aware how small I was amidst this group. Glancing to the side, a Morgon girl was sucking on a guy’s neck. Conn mingled in the throng, laughing with a tall Morgon I didn’t know. I shifted nervously.

When Paxon’s eyes found mine, they remained fixed and focused as he pushed past the last few people to get to me. He stood close in all of his masculine glory—sweat-soaked skin, tight muscles, tilted smile. I wasn’t a heavy drinker. I was barely a light drinker. But, heaven help me, I was intoxicated by his mere presence, dizzy from his heat and heady scent.

Instead of making some smartass comment about my obvious enraptured state, he leaned down and said, “Have you had enough fun for one evening, Ella? If so, I’d be happy to escort you to your car.” Before I could form a response, he took me by the hand and pulled me through the crowd.

Finding Clayton slumped on the bench, totally passed out, he gave me a piercing look.

“Um. I can drive, but I, uh, need help getting him to the car.”

Without a word, Paxon lifted Clayton, threw him over his shoulder like a sack, and turned to me. “Lead the way.”

I hurried in front of him, aware of the sensual heat cranking up in the place. I avoided the bodies pressing together and headed back up the flights of stairs to the stadium. I thought the weight of Clayton would slow him down, but Paxon was right behind me, urging me forward all the way up.

Leaving the stadium, I zipped up my brown leather jacket. No snow, but the starless sky threatened a cold, brisk night. I led him to Clayton’s car, one of the few still left in the parking lot. Reaching it, I rifled in Clayton’s jacket pocket, hanging upside down across Paxon’s back.

“Um, wait a second. Yeah, here they are.”

After I unlocked the passenger side, Paxon dropped him none-too-gently in the seat and slammed the door shut.

He stood before me with hands on his hips, saying nothing. This wasn’t like him. Quiet and brooding wasn’t his style. He was usually a stream of wit and charm.

“Um, aren’t you cold?” I glanced at his bare chest, glistening by the few street lamps in the lot.

He shook his head. “You’ll be safe getting home? How will you get him into his place?”

“One of his servants will help me. I’ll just take his car home and return it tomorrow.”

For some reason, I wanted Paxon to know that I wouldn’t be spending the night with him.

“Good.”

He still stood there, just looking down at me. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in nervous anticipation, hoping he waited for what I thought he was waiting for. After another minute of silence, I could contain myself no longer. “Do you, um…” I licked my dry lips and fidgeted with the zipper on my jacket. “Do you want…?”

“Do I want what, Ella?”

I took a deep breath and asked, “Do you still want your prize?”

His expression shifted to something dangerous. When he spoke, his voice could’ve seduced an angel. “Yes, Ella. I want my prize.”

Losing courage, my gaze fell to the pavement. I couldn’t look at him anymore. My heart was thrumming like a bird’s wings. “Where do you…uh…”

I couldn’t say it, couldn’t ask him, hoping he’d put me out of my misery. His hand lifted my chin, tilting it upward. Though his hair was still tousled from the rough fight and carrying my dumb, drunk boyfriend to the car, he wore the expression I knew best. The one that told the world he was in charge.

“I’ll take the lips.”

The fingers of one hand threaded into my hair, curling around the base of my skull. His other hand slid around my waist, underneath my jacket and blouse, flattening against naked skin at the small of my back. His lips hadn’t even touched me, and I was on fire.

Angling my head back, he swept his mouth over mine. Grazing. Teasing. Tasting, he trailed his tongue along my lower lip. I braced my hands on his forearms, then slid them up around his neck, one twining into his hair. He whispered my name.

Instant desire lacerated me. Heat pooled between my legs. It was like…like my body belonged to him.

And he knew it.

I wanted to be bold and brazen, not the quiet, timid girl who lost her wits when a man spoke to her. I parted my lips, meeting his tongue when he swept in. Salty and masculine. His body hardened. Mine softened. Gentle became rough. Coaxing became probing. Teasing became desperate. His grip on my neck and back tightened, pulling me against the firmness of his body and bare skin. My softer curves crushed against the hard planes of his body. Rather than frighten me as it had in the past, I wanted more. So much more. For the first time in my life, I truly wanted a man.

He pulled back and slid wet lips over mine, whispering, “You taste so good.” He sucked my lower lip, then licked into my mouth once more.