He wrapped his lips around the head of Patrick’s cock, sucking at it, enjoying the heady, musky taste that hit his tongue. Patrick groaned softly, tipping his head back when Jono took more of him into his mouth. His hands clenched at the duvet as Jono swallowed him down in a slow glide, taking his time.
The weight of Patrick’s cock in his mouth was familiar and wanted, a growing thickness that Jono worshipped while on his knees. Tension filled Patrick’s body, legs tightening over Jono’s shoulders. Jono undid his own trousers, freeing his half-hard cock to stroke it, indulging his own desire.
“Jono,” Patrick breathed out, hips coming off the bed as he thrust lightly into Jono’s mouth.
He drew Patrick deeper, encouraging him not to stop with a hum that made Patrick swear. The sound of his heartbeat in Jono’s ears, the deepening scent of desire that filled his nose, the soulbond twisting tight between them all saidhomewithout either of them saying anything at all.
Jono drew out their pleasure with slow strokes, ceaseless wet heat, and hard swallows until it ended with Patrick coming down his throat on a ragged moan, both hands tangled in Jono’s hair. Jono came five strokes later, still sucking on Patrick’s cock until they were both finished.
When he finally pulled his mouth away, Patrick was lying flat on the bed, trying to catch his breath, lazily running his fingers through Jono’s hair. Jono turned his head to press a sticky kiss to the inside of Patrick’s left thigh before getting off his knees. He undressed in seconds, using his shirt to wipe himself clean. Then Jono hauled Patrick farther onto the bed, holding him close in the fading sunlight.
The shadows had grown deeper before Patrick finally spoke.
“I think it took a memory.” Patrick sighed, pressing his face against Jono’s chest. “A prayer. Twisted it intosomething.”
Jono thought about what the Morrígan’s staff was, what it had done in Paris, and the cost that came with praying to gods.
How all it took was one person’s faith to keep them alive for eternity.
“It’s not your kind of magic.”
“I don’t think it mattered with Srecha’s blessing burned into my skin.”
Jono buried his nose in Patrick’s hair and dug his fingers into Patrick’s hip, wishing he could keep him safe. “No matter what happens, you know I love you.”
“I know,” Patrick said after a moment, a promise in the second of silence that had come before.
Jono closed his eyes and never let go.
29
Patrick stoodin front of Setsuna’s altar in her DC home, staring at the fine coating of sand strewn over the bone and shallow dish there.
He swallowed very, very carefully so as not to puke.
“You’ll need to return here next week,” Setsuna said from behind him where she sat on the couch. “Congress will have questions. I have it on good authority subpoenas will be issued if you don’t.”
“Closed-door session?” Patrick asked.
“I’ve been told the president will require it.”
“Guess I can’t say no.”
He turned away from the altar in favor of the wet bar, pouring himself a nearly full glass of whiskey. Setsuna only arched an eyebrow when she took in the amount, but said nothing about how he chose to self-medicate tonight. His flight had already been delayed, and he was waiting out the extra hours at Setsuna’s home.
A week and a half since summer solstice, and Patrick had spent only half that time on US soil. It’d been ten long days of meetings with government officials in two different countries, and his ability to be diplomatic had died well before he even made it back to Washington, DC. Dealing with the aftermath of a zombie invasion in a foreign city caused by a weapon only a handful of people in power knew belonged to a god was the stuff of political nightmares.
Patrick was better at making fires rather than putting them out, and Paris was only further proof of that.
The attack had made international news once Paris’ electric grid was back up and running again. While no video existed of the walking dead wreaking havoc on the populace, the number of dead bodies Paris was still grappling with how to bury was proof enough. Photos and video of the Eiffel Tower burning with black magic had been captured by people living in outlier suburbs, but none of them showcased the horror of that day.
Some had even caught blurry, distant shots of a dragon hanging off the monument and flying through the air. At least no one in the French government was disclosing Wade’s identity.
Thehowandwhyof it all was getting twisted by the powers-that-be. Blame was being laid at the feet of Ilya Nazarov and the Orthodox Church of the Dead, the latter of which was being labeled a terrorist group by multiple countries.
Patrick was pretty damn certain the Morrígan’s staff had eaten Peklabog in exchange for raising the dead on a mass scale. He didn’t know if the god could return how Odin had. Patrick had broken the staff after all, and maybe that would free Peklabog’s godhead. Patrick didn’t know. He could only hope that because the staff was broken, it wouldn’t be capable of wielding its full power anymore, but who the hell knew when it came to gods and their weapons.
The carved raven was packed at the bottom of his suitcase. Patrick had reported back to Setsuna, Franklin, and Reed that he’d broken the staff, but not that he’dkeptpart of it. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but he knew he didn’t trust any government on Earth to keep it safe.
