backdrop.
The ring flew, winged by the woman’s ire, then landed in the middle of the folly’s pond, rippling out a small splash across its murky waters.
The water wasn’t the only thing that rippled when the ring struck the pond. Something dark flowed up out of the disturbed waters, a malingering otherness that spread over the garden and smacked Tristan full in his face. Next to him, Boris whined, hunching over and tucking his head into the back of Tristan’s legs, trying to bury his muzzle into Tristan’s knees. Mara gasped and clenched the balcony’s railing, her knuckles white as she tried to stay on her feet. Buckling, she held on, riding out the forceful undulations as the rings grew outward, spreading a thin, dusky veil over the grounds and the manor behind them.
Anything Matt or Gidget might have said after that was buried under the roar of thunder ripping out from the growling cloud banks above them and flickers of lightning spitting across the sky, pushing back the shadows for a brief instance before the grounds were consumed again. The storm moved in quickly, spreading its coal-dust front much faster than Tristan could imagine. In seconds, the rain began, its enormous drops hot and painful where it struck his skin.
“Get inside, Mara,” he growled, bending over to hoist Boris to his feet. The dog whimpered and cowered, but he hefted him up, cradling Boris in his arms. “Get out of this.”
They ran the short distance from the end of the wide pavilion to the house, but the rain had already done its damage. Soaked through, Tristan gently placed Boris on the floor as soon as he crossed the threshold, not trusting his balance on the polished wood.
“What the fuck was that?” He turned to Mara, not caring about the puddle he was making on the parquet. “What the hell just happened out there? What did we just see?”
“I don’t know, Tristan love.” Mara turned and stared out of the french doors at the rain and hail pounding the Grange’s sturdy walls. “I really don’t know.”
I T WAS a bad time for the children to have a spat. Not that any time was a good one, but Wolf had just wrestled the crates a courier service dropped off for them and sent back what they’d broken during their stay at the Grange. Hefting five bins across the long haul to the ballroom made his shoulders ache, and what he’d really wanted to do was hunt Tristan down and demand why the man was avoiding him. He’d spent the last few days playing cat and mouse with the blond, only pinning him down long enough to ask if they could stay longer, but when Wolf tried to talk about their single kiss, Tristan was like smoke in the wind.
“You’d think he was a damned ghost here,” Wolf muttered, shoving yet another crate under a table. “Where the fuck are those two?”
It was past their normal lunchtime break… and that fucking kiss .
“Goddammit.” Wolf leaned his head back and pressed his hands against the small of his back, working out a kink. “Pryce, between your mouth and that damned ball, you keep fucking with my head. It’s got to stop.”
There was no denying the ball’s reappearance. He’d thrown it away several times, even knotting it into a plastic bag and dropping it into the trash, but the damned thing reappeared when he’d least expect it. At six in the morning before they shut down for the night, he’d thrown it out his bedroom window. He’d grabbed a new pair of underwear to put on after his shower and found the ball floating in the tub—in a hot bubble bath he’d not drawn before he went hunting for his briefs.
Wolf had grabbed the ball from the water, tossed his underwear on the counter, drained the tub, and said fuck it to the bath. He’d shower in the morning.
Since his dreams were full of a lean, naked Tristan rolling about on dark satin sheets, his shower was an extremely cold one.
“You should just fuck him, Kincaid.” He slumped down into a wing chair, flipping on the
The ring flew, winged by the woman’s ire, then landed in the middle of the folly’s pond, rippling out a small splash across its murky waters.
The water wasn’t the only thing that rippled when the ring struck the pond. Something dark flowed up out of the disturbed waters, a malingering otherness that spread over the garden and smacked Tristan full in his face. Next to him, Boris whined, hunching over and tucking his head into the back of Tristan’s legs, trying to bury his muzzle into Tristan’s knees. Mara gasped and clenched the balcony’s railing, her knuckles white as she tried to stay on her feet. Buckling, she held on, riding out the forceful undulations as the rings grew outward, spreading a thin, dusky veil over the grounds and the manor behind them.
Anything Matt or Gidget might have said after that was buried under the roar of thunder ripping out from the growling cloud banks above them and flickers of lightning spitting across the sky, pushing back the shadows for a brief instance before the grounds were consumed again. The storm moved in quickly, spreading its coal-dust front much faster than Tristan could imagine. In seconds, the rain began, its enormous drops hot and painful where it struck his skin.
“Get inside, Mara,” he growled, bending over to hoist Boris to his feet. The dog whimpered and cowered, but he hefted him up, cradling Boris in his arms. “Get out of this.”
They ran the short distance from the end of the wide pavilion to the house, but the rain had already done its damage. Soaked through, Tristan gently placed Boris on the floor as soon as he crossed the threshold, not trusting his balance on the polished wood.
“What the fuck was that?” He turned to Mara, not caring about the puddle he was making on the parquet. “What the hell just happened out there? What did we just see?”
“I don’t know, Tristan love.” Mara turned and stared out of the french doors at the rain and hail pounding the Grange’s sturdy walls. “I really don’t know.”
I T WAS a bad time for the children to have a spat. Not that any time was a good one, but Wolf had just wrestled the crates a courier service dropped off for them and sent back what they’d broken during their stay at the Grange. Hefting five bins across the long haul to the ballroom made his shoulders ache, and what he’d really wanted to do was hunt Tristan down and demand why the man was avoiding him. He’d spent the last few days playing cat and mouse with the blond, only pinning him down long enough to ask if they could stay longer, but when Wolf tried to talk about their single kiss, Tristan was like smoke in the wind.
“You’d think he was a damned ghost here,” Wolf muttered, shoving yet another crate under a table. “Where the fuck are those two?”
It was past their normal lunchtime break… and that fucking kiss .
“Goddammit.” Wolf leaned his head back and pressed his hands against the small of his back, working out a kink. “Pryce, between your mouth and that damned ball, you keep fucking with my head. It’s got to stop.”
There was no denying the ball’s reappearance. He’d thrown it away several times, even knotting it into a plastic bag and dropping it into the trash, but the damned thing reappeared when he’d least expect it. At six in the morning before they shut down for the night, he’d thrown it out his bedroom window. He’d grabbed a new pair of underwear to put on after his shower and found the ball floating in the tub—in a hot bubble bath he’d not drawn before he went hunting for his briefs.
Wolf had grabbed the ball from the water, tossed his underwear on the counter, drained the tub, and said fuck it to the bath. He’d shower in the morning.
Since his dreams were full of a lean, naked Tristan rolling about on dark satin sheets, his shower was an extremely cold one.
“You should just fuck him, Kincaid.” He slumped down into a wing chair, flipping on the
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