The Warlord Gena Showalter (primary phonics TXT) 📖

clasped her nape and flashed her to the master bathroom. “I’ll find you someone else to eat.” Another male who would feel the softness of her mouth.

Hot blood rushed to Roc’s muscles, stardust singeing his palms.

“Don’t worry, Roc.” She pushed at him. “I have no interest in you as food. I like my meals with a little less hypocrisy. Beggars can be choosers.”

A lie. The woman was starved. If he wanted her to eat from him, she would eat from him. But he didn’t, so the point was moot. “Explain how I’m a hypocrite.”

Shrug. “You judge me for eating souls, yet every five hundred years, you snuff one out.”

He huffed a breath. “Better a hypocrite than a phantom.” How did she remain so intelligent? So lucid?

“Are you kidding? There’s nothing worse than a hypocrite.”

Her disdain wouldn’t affect him.

It wouldn’t.

Appearing to stand by force of her will alone, she cast her gaze around the spacious enclosure. Planning her escape?

He inspected the room for anything she might use against him. The former General had obviously adored over-the-top luxury. Gold dragon scales covered the walls. Every faucet and knob boasted an array of precious gems. A beast-skin rug draped the marble floor in front of a claw-foot tub. The shower stall possessed multiple showerheads, a marble bench, a circular glass partition.

Taliyah could use everything as a weapon in a thousand different ways. He’d have to remain on guard.

“You may bathe.” He turned the knobs in the shower, hot water raining from different spouts. Steam quickly filled the stall.

He removed the pinner, and she sighed with relief, rolling her shoulders and flapping those delicate wings.

Chest clenching, he explained, “I won’t shower with you, but I also won’t leave you unattended. When I said you’d stay within my sight, I meant it.” The phantom couldn’t be trusted.

She shrugged and pulled her shirt overhead. “You want to perv out while I shower. No need to explain.” With a flirty smile, she tossed the garment at him.

Roc bit his tongue, catching the item while keeping his gaze on her face. Do not look down. A single glance at her nipple piercing or the tuft of pale curls between her legs might be his undoing.

“I’ll give you a temporary reprieve from your belt.” More eager than he would ever admit, he lifted the key from his head and removed her belt. “Don’t even think about attempting to seduce me.”

“Uh, I love to break it to you, Roc, but that ship has sailed. Why would I bother seducing you, anyway? I already proved I could. You’re a sure thing.”

He pursed his lips. “That was before I knew what you were.”

Something akin to hurt flickered in her eyes, there and gone. Her usual irreverence showed up, and she smirked. “You should probably pass the memo on to your penis. You’re Roc-blocking it.”

Hurt? A phantom? No. “Bodies can be tamed. They just take a little longer than minds.”

“Sure, sure.” She held her palms up in a gesture of innocence, then stepped into the stall and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I promise to do my very best not to tempt you beyond reason. Do your best to resist.” As she entered the water, droplets cascaded down her incomparable form.

As he watched her through the fogging glass, she leaned against the wall and washed her hair, her body. Her weakness displeased him. He had duties; in this state, she wouldn’t be able to keep up.

He knew harpies used blood as medicine. Before he could talk himself out of it, he bit into his finger. Blood welled as he extended his arm into the stall.

“Drink,” he commanded.

She looked at the finger, then his face. Finger. Face. She wanted to refuse, as evidenced by her glower. But she snapped, “Why?”

He knew what she asked. “I might not like what you are, but I won’t leave you in pain.”

Glaring, she marched over. With a firm clasp of his wrist, she brought his finger to her lips and...softly licked. The sight of her tongue inspired a string of internal curses.

Her eyes closed as she savored, a little color returning to her cheeks. When she fit her lips over the healing wound and sucked, satisfaction joined forces with possessiveness, and he nearly roared at the rightness. Providing for his wife. Nourishing her.

When the wound closed, she nicked him with a fang. As she sucked a little more and swallowed, he trembled and scowled. He...wanted.

Once she finished, she lifted her head. He almost protested. She’d taken a mere handful of drops.

“I won’t thank you.” She turned to finish bathing. Weakness gave way to sensuality, every move she made meant to rouse a tide of lust. The way the suds sluiced down her curves, her hands following...

He panted. He couldn’t look away.

She bent over to soap her calves, and he swallowed a groan. Those legs. Those curves. The elegant line of her spine. Those spectacular wings, fluttering in invitation.

He shifted his gaze to her nape, where an elaborate brand snagged his interest.

Brand? He’d felt the scars when he’d handled her, but he’d assumed the raised tissue came from a childhood injury, before her immortality took root.

Curious, he stepped into the stall. He even entered the water to clasp her arms and press her against cool tile. He smoothed her hair out of the way, dragging his knuckles over her damp flesh more slowly than he’d intended, saying, “Why do you have the brand of a deity on your nape?”

She didn’t fight him—yet. “A deity? What deity?”

He grazed his thumb over the raised flesh, those possessive instincts threatening to engulf him. She should wear my brand. “This symbol is the mark of a god or goddess. Not one I recognize.” And he knew every faction of royals, from the Titans to the Egyptians, and everything in between.

“And?”

“And brands give another person access to you in lifesaving and dangerous ways.” Roc carried the one for Chaos, as well as his own personal mark, and one for each of his warlords.