She and Hers

6 - Windsor

Holden

Sam is hot-hot. I find him in the kitchen, buck-assed naked, not even a towel wrapped around his muscular, sexy hips. His skin is tinged red, looking better than before, but still a little sunburned. He's drinking water, his head tossed back as he drains the glass before setting it down on the counter and fixing those blue eyes on me.

I know Cort and Chiara are in the playroom together. Normally, I would join them, but not with Sam here. "I'm overdressed," I quip, thinking about it.

Sam grins and leans against the counter. Just for the record, his dick is gorgeous and hard. "We can remedy that," he offers with a wink.

Holy fucking gods, when did Solemn Saint Sam become so funny? That's hardly fair. He was perfect before. What's a word to describe a more perfect, perfect?

"The candles burned you," a dark, silky voice pours over Sam and me, breaking our heated staring contest.

"Cort," I turn and greet my husband stiffly. The two-decade-long deception he and Chiara pulled on me is screaming in my head.

"The candles?" Sam rasps. He and Cort hold each other's eyes, their gazes promising violence and something else. Hopefully, something delicious, although it may be too soon for that.

"Sam saw someone. A haunt, would be my guess," I say with a little too much sullenness to be mature.

"Fuck," Cort swears under his breath. The heated rage in his eyes banks as concern sharpens the red to an intense glow.

Sam relays his conversation, for once stumbling over his words as he fights to explain the haunt.

"It's not a haunt," Cort mutters. "That's a herald. An oracle. Fuck," he expels a breath with a puff of steam. "Fuck."

"What does it mean?" Sam asks more calmly.

I feel jittery and unsure. Hurt. Definitely hurt. And... don't think I don't notice how Cort is edging closer to me, side-eying me like he's about to pounce. Two hard, predatory males in such a confined space should make every dirty fantasy of mine come to life, but fuck that. Fuck Cort for lying to me.

"It means the beginning of more portents," Cort says to Sam grimly. "It means that the Morrigan is here, in the States."

"Who is the Morrigan?" Sam asks carefully. "The herald mentioned she was the mortal goddess of witches."

Cort is quiet for a while, his eyes flitting over to me before he looks at Sam and slowly says, "yes. You know that witches acknowledge many gods and goddesses? The Morrigan is special. Yes, she's mortal and she brings drastic, often catastrophic change to our world."

He shakes his head, and Sam frowns. "So, is she good? Evil?"

"Neither," Cort scoffs. "Magic ebbs and flows naturally. The Morrigan is powerful. Before she comes, magic often fades from the world. Then... she arrives and magic surges forth again." He rubs his hand over his face and takes another step toward me. "I don't remember much more, and Chaira is sleeping."

"Then let her sleep," Sam murmurs. The fresh wound bleeds a little. I want Sam to be angry on my behalf. Stupid. I'm a grown-fucking-man in a grown-fucking-relationship. I can sort my own shit.

Cort glares at him. "Fuck off, dog. You can run home, Lassie."

I tense but stay quiet. Cort is struggling, and that's fine with me.

Sam grins. Smiles like a gorgeous asshole. "Woof. Woof," he mocks Cort softly. "I'm staying." He moves quickly, two steps to my side, wrapping a beefy arm around my shoulders. It could be considered a bro-hug, nothing intimate, except he's still naked and hard.