Shit, he needed to get back to his life, to his numerous corporations, to his empire building. He could forget all about the woman if he no longer had to be around sniffing her and throwing wood one minute out of every two. Jesus. Four millennia and he might as well have been sixteen years old again.
As he took a seat two away from Kerrick so he wouldn’t be opposite him, he glanced at Endelle. She sat in a throne-like chair to emphasize her rank. He narrowed his eyes. Had she orchestrated this? All the centuries he’d been battling death vamps on her behalf, since the year 1997 BC, only one other warrior had ever found a true breh. Even Kerrick had admitted Helena hadn’t fallen into that category. Helena hadn’t been powerful enough, which had been one half of the problem, one half of the reason she had died. She hadn’t been able to sense the future, to get herself or her children out of harm’s way.
But those thoughts were a black hole and he wouldn’t go there. Otherwise he’d find some excuse to provoke Kerrick and once more beat the shit out of him, or at least try to.
He sucked in a breath. He just had to wait this evening out, maybe make war tonight if the pretty-boys showed up, then get permission to get the f**k out. He settled his shoulders back and as soon as the wait staff started pouring wine, he started drinking.
After two full glasses, he looked up to find Alison’s gaze on his. Compassion rested in those blue eyes of hers. Jesus H. Christ. So the bastard had told her what happened to Helena. Fuck. She inclined her head then looked away, thank God.
He caught a waiter’s eye, lifted his glass, and watched the white wine climb up the bowl.
He still couldn’t believe the Third Earth powers she’d demonstrated while fighting Leto. Jesus, talk about power. She had all of Second’s abilities, like Endelle on her ascension, plus a few of Third’s. That was one boatload of ability. Hell, maybe she’d stay alive for the bastard.
A nerve on his cheek twitched. He sucked back more of the white wine. So Alison Wells was Kerrick’s breh, when Helena hadn’t been. A flood of expletives sloshed through his head all over again. And Alison was here and now, which meant Kerrick got to be happy, that goddamn motherfucker.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down all over again.
The salad arrived, which he ignored.
He kept drinking, wishing like hell he had Scotch to the rim instead of Sauvignon Blanc.
He felt a bump on his arm. Medichi lowered his head, “Hey. Pass the rolls, ass**le.”
Marcus took the damn basket then shoved it at Zach to his left. Unfortunately, somewhere in that movement, his gaze landed on Havily. He would have looked away but she met his gaze head-on. Her cheeks turned pink and a sudden wave of honeysuckle had him swallowing the white wine like he was dying of thirst.
* * *
Havily wished herself gone, long gone.
Being in the same room with Warrior Marcus had become a physical torture, the kind she craved and despised all at the same time.
The lovely beet and walnut salad, which she had been unable to touch, was removed and a savory entrée placed in front of her. But all she could do was pick at the sage and rosemary chicken breast, sautéed green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes. The tastes might have pleased her enormously had it not been for one thing—all she could smell was that ridiculous fennel scent, which now puffed at her in great clouds from across the table. She wished Warrior Marcus would stop doing whatever it was he was doing. Her nose was clogged with his smell, which in turn kept her achy deep into her abdomen.
She stretched her back.
She felt like she was ovulating and now she struggled to breathe. Her br**sts were swollen and her bra was way too tight. Luken, who towered over her, could see down the bodice of her dress and his gaze fell there often. He’d had a thing for her over the past few decades, since he’d served as her guardian. She wished she hadn’t sat beside him. He kept leaning close and asking her tender questions. Of course they were tender, he was Luken, the giant with the beautiful heart.
She just wasn’t interested in him, not romantically. She ought to be, though. He was sweet and kind and honorable. But that was always the difficulty with attraction, with love—the choice was not always the most sensible, rational, or realistic.
Not that she was choosing anyone! She wasn’t. She would never choose Warrior Marcus.
She was, however, grateful that after tonight, she wouldn’t be seeing any of the warriors for a good long while. They’d go back to making war, Marcus would undoubtedly return to Mortal Earth, and she would begin rebuilding her architectural rendering of the new military-admin complex.
She cut a slice of chicken, stacked it with a cut green bean, and bathed it in mashed potatoes—the perfect bite. She opened her mouth but all she could smell was fennel. Oh, for God’s sake. She glared at Marcus. Why wouldn’t he stop doing whatever it was he was doing? And why didn’t anyone else complain of the smell, the luscious, erotic fennel he kept casting at her as though he wanted her buried in the stuff.
His eyes narrowed as he met her gaze but he looked away then picked up his wineglass … again.
She had to do something to get her mind off of his absurd scent. She glanced at Santiago, who sat between Jean-Pierre and Medichi. “Anything new on the weapons front?” she asked. He was incredibly handsome in a Latin way, sensual lips, an interesting nose with a few traceable curves. Even his nose was sexy.
He nodded. “A woman after my own corazón. Now, why can’t I meet a woman who will talk metals with me?”
Jean-Pierre elbowed him. “You always bite first and never ask questions later, that’s why.”
“Fuck you, amigo,” Santiago responded.
Jean-Pierre laughed, his long elegant fingers pulling meat off a bone. Jean-Pierre had a faint French accent and very sexy, really beautiful hands.
Havily just shook her head and laughed. How would she ever get a straight answer when the warriors were in a group like this? They always cut one another down, in a friendly way, of course, like brothers.
She gave up on enjoying her dinner, picked up her wineglass, and leaned back in her seat. “Well, what are you working on right now? You always have something on the design table.”
He leaned forward, his brows together. He chewed in his slow measured way. He never seemed to do anything in haste. He showed care and thoroughness, even while eating. “Zach and I keep talking about how we want a weapon halfway between a sword and a dagger. Daggers are good. But I’d like something that throws like a dagger but is more effective, does more damage in a combat situation, something bigger.”