“I was abducted, actually,” Ash blurted. “Dragged into another world. Race came after me—rescued me from a cave, high up in a mountain. I’m fairly certain it was near a volcano, what with the bloody heat. Couldn’t see much, though…” She frowned. “It was the middle of the night.”
Race’s lips twitched. “And there you have it, in a nutshell. Time differences and all that—it’s why weeks have passed here.”
“Where?” Michael asked. Then he shook his head and answered himself. “Lemuria.”
“Your old world?” The blue-haired guy asked Race, his brow creasing.
“Yeah.”
“Ash, honey,” Kira called out. “Race will fill them in on everything. Since you’ve already lived through it, would you like to shower and change in the meantime?”
Ash didn’t want to leave him, but a hot shower and the chance to wash off days of grime sounded wonderful.
“Oh, yes, please. I’d appreciate that, actually.” She grabbed her pack, shot to her feet, gave Race one last quick look, and could feel his stare as she followed Kira out.
The study door shut behind Ash, and Race exhaled deeply. Heat roiled within him, coiling him tighter and tighter, and he knew why. Damn mating fever.
Every one of his fellow Guardians’ heads turned toward him as they mentally dried themselves off—their stares like annoying barbs. Nosy assholes.
Before they opened their mouths and started on him, he said to Michael, “I did text you about Ash before her abduction.”
The archangel shook his head. “Got nothing.”
“I can’t verify it, anyway. My cell’s gone—probably lost in the scramble fighting those damn dragon guards.”
“We have replacements,” Aethan said, retying his blue hair into a ponytail. “I’ll get you one in a moment. So, what happened?”
“A whole damn lot.” Race lowered into Ash’s seat, every muscle dragging. “I need some time off, Michael, to go back to Lemuria. I have to help them. The world I once knew is being torn apart. That bastard Malcarion has turned it into a wasteland. He’s enslaving non-shifters, dragging children deep into the mines for whatever the fuck he needs. It’s a slaughter.
“And the biggest threat?” he growled. “One of his soldiers, a fucking Talon-Marshal, knows about Ash. He scented her. In Lemuria, she’s what they call a Storm Summoner—rare and sought after. If he tracks her here, he’ll send hunters after her. I can’t let that happen. And, I have a score to settle with that fucker, Malcarion.”
“You need help,” Aethan said. “Ask, and you’ll have it.”
“Thanks.” Race’s mouth tightened. “But I won’t be alone. The Resistance is waiting.”
Michael shifted in his chair, the thing creaking under his weight. “You’ve never shown an interest before in setting foot back in Lemuria.”
“True.” But he wasn’t about to spill his millennia-old anger at his brothers. “My first thought was to find Ash and leave. But then I saw more.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the despair. “I have to help.”
Michael didn’t respond, and the silence in the room crackled with tension. He picked up a pen, flipping it between his fingers.“Very well, I’ll speak with Gaia. And yes, Ashaya is definitely psionic. It feels like Calenai’s powers. She has his eyes, anyway.”
“Indeed,” Lore said, lounging against the bookshelf, his arms folded over his chest. The former angel’s tone carried a quiet weight. He likely knew Ash’s angelic ancestor.
“So…” Blaéz’s blue eyes gleamed as he settled into the chair opposite Race, looking ready to start shit. “The male who swore a mate wasn’t in the cards for him now can’t seem to stop watching one particular female.”
“Is that what’s so important?” Race growled. “Because I kept someone who happened to be a psi safe?”
“The bullshitting ain’t gonna cut it, man,” Týr snorted, spinning the damn ball again. “You forget every one of us in this room has already been down that road. Denial? Nope, it ain’t a river in Egypt. So, spill.”
He wasn’t admitting to anything, not when he didn’t know if he could actually claim her. But with this mating fever garroting him, everything damn messed with his mind.
Blaéz bent down and picked up something that flashed blue from the carpet. “Yours?”
He blinked. “Ash’s. It must have fallen from her backpack.”
Race took themorvaenstone, fingers brushing Blaéz’s. The warrior grasped his wrist, his eyes going dark and swirly.
Fuuuck. He liked the male—hell, knew him for millennia—but the precog shit? Nope! “Don’t want to hear it, Celt.”
