Soul Fire(5)

By: Juliette Cross



I glimpsed his best friend Mikal over one shoulder. A grim line replaced the light-hearted smile Mikal usually wore.

Demetrius ground out his words in anger. “You do not have permission to be in a Morgon club. Ever.”

My brother had the same chocolate-brown eyes and black hair as mine. If he didn’t look like he wanted to bite something all the time, he’d be gorgeous. Lately, we were always fighting. Possibly because he was becoming more and more like our father every day. He gripped my arm tighter.

Protective brother was one thing, but dominant jailer was another. Anger flared in my gut. “How come you have the right to be here, but I don’t?”

“Because you’re a woman. You don’t know what you’re doing, what Morgon men want from you.”

Um, the same thing human men wanted? Hypocrite.

Sorcha stepped up. “You are such an asshole.”

He ignored her, yanking my arm. “You’re leaving. Now!”

“No, I’m not.” I jerked free of his hold.

Slade sidled in beside me. “The lady doesn’t want to leave with you, dude. Let her go.” Corbin and Conn were there two seconds later, hovering behind him.

“She’s my sister, you fucker!”

An electric charge snapped in the air, resonating around the Morgon guys. Having read about their extraordinary dragon senses in a book, and feeling them electrify my skin into gooseflesh, were two totally different experiences. Slade’s wings opened partway, a distinct stance increasing his size to scary proportions. The cold, fixed gaze of Conn and Corbin made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

I raised my hands in a calming gesture, hoping to crush the rising tension before they came to blows. Restrained violence rippled around the Morgon men in a tangible wave. Then Aron’s dumb ass stepped forward and opened his mouth.

“Back off, boys.” He looked ridiculous and out of place in pristine jeans and a cream-colored sweater. What an idiot. Calling Slade and his friends “boys” was exactly the wrong thing to say. Leave it to Aron.

“And who the hell are you?” Slade asked, a head taller than Aron.

“I’m her fiancé.” He gestured toward me.

I rolled my eyes. “No. You’re not, Aron. How many times do we have to go over this?”

He moved closer, his chin jutting out at an arrogant angle, making me want to punch him in his aristocratic face. “Yes, Jessen. We are engaged to be married, and I won’t have my fiancé in a place of ill repute.”

“A place of ill repute? Does this look like a brothel to you? It’s a club, Aron. That’s all. I’m watching one of my closest friends play in his band, or trying to watch. Until you showed up.”

“This is no place for my future wife.” His words grated out through clenched teeth.

“Perfect. Because I’m not your future wife.”

He grabbed me by the arm and all hell broke loose. Slade’s wings flared wide. Demetrius launched himself fist-first through the air. Corbin tossed Sorcha out of the way, slamming a fist into Mikal’s head, which snapped back with the force. I ducked and shoved through the sweaty bodies and swinging punches. Glancing back, I saw Conn slam an elbow, then his head, into some guy I’d never seen before, scooping Ella off the floor and carrying her out of the mayhem. Before I could slip out of the way, someone shoved and pinned me to the wall by my shoulders. A body pressed against mine. Aron. Anger burned darkly in his cold eyes.

“You are mine, Jessen.” He glared down, his tone possessive and furious. “And I won’t have you here for these creatures to leer at.”

“Let—me—go.”

“No. You’re coming with me.”

I struggled to free myself. He gripped harder, then started dragging me to the door. I feared what confrontation awaited me in the parking lot. Or worse, back at his place. He’d tried to corner me alone at my parents’ house more than once, but I was always wary of him. I never liked the look in his eyes, especially when my parents mentioned a possible wedding in the near future. He might have my parents’ blessing for this archaic-as-shit arranged marriage, but he didn’t have mine. And never would.

“Let me go!”

Aron opened his mouth to say something. He froze, eyes glazed, then hit the floor.

Decked in black with midnight wings and eyes of blue-fire, a Morgon man towered before me like an angel of death. A fitted shirt outlined his broad chest and powerful frame, filling my vision. My breath caught in my throat. While chaos whirled, he wrapped vise-like arms around my waist, crushing me against a wall of steel in a rough embrace. I opened my mouth to scream. No sound came out. He bent his knees a fraction before two beats of vast, black wings lifted us with a jolt. I clung to his muscular shoulders for fear of falling, the masculine scent of him wrapping my senses into a tight knot.

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