Light

  Light

  Bolt Saga: Volume Six

  Angel Payne

  This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba

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  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  To the two who have given up more than anyone for this to happen:

  Thomas and Jessica,

  you are my heroes, my heart, my home, my fire,my everlasting lights, my eternal inspirations.

  You are my Excelsior.

  Contents

  Part 16

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 17

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 18

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  Also by Angel Payne

  Acknowledgments

  About Angel Payne

  Chapter One

  Reece

  “Someone’s been keeping a secret.”

  Faline Garand flings the singsong words at me with an insolent toss of her head. My human reaction of rage mixes with the inhuman energy of my blood, nearly driving me to stretch out my fingers until lightning ropes unfurl from their tips. I envision the lassos whipping around her bony neck. Searing into her ghost-white skin. Wrapping so tight, her coy nod becomes a prelude for the fast snap that will end her life.

  That will end her command over my life.

  One cinch. One yank. One twist. And then she’s done.

  Not going to happen.

  Because I won’t do it.

  I can’t do it.

  Not when the bitch has my baby boy cradled in one arm and my woman’s neck in a vise grip with the other.

  Not when a simple snap ignited by her superpowers could end their lives before I have the chance to blink.

  No. Jesus God. No!

  Terror burns my gut and my veins, transforming them into impotent fury. “If you hurt one fucking hair on either of them…” I dissolve the rest of the sentiment into a growl, because truthfully, the growl is all I have. The bitch with the slicked black hair and the cutting feline eyes knows it too. The slow curve at the corner of her mouth tells me so. As her insolence intensifies, Emma’s breathing quickens—and my heart screams louder.

  Emmalina.

  My flare. My light. My love.

  My goddess has been shoved to her knees and is held by her hair, stark blue terror in her eyes and trembling rage across her lips. Her composure crumples as Faline twists her hair tighter. The bitch tsks smoothly into the murky, foggy air.

  What the fuck is going on? Is all of this even real? I consider the questions harder while peering around, fighting to pierce the murk with fingers I’ve fired into light sticks. But the brighter I amp them, the thicker the fog gets. Where the hell are we? And do I really care? My only focus—the only reason I continue to breathe—is getting my little boy and my heart’s beloved away from this witch and her sick addiction to my agony. Especially if she’s the one causing it.

  “Oh, all of their precious hairs are just fine, cariño,” the woman soothes. “Most especially, this sweet little one’s…” She brushes her bloodred lips across my baby’s forehead—gashing deeper into my soul with every inch she covers. The edges of my vision turn a matching shade of red but are quickly taken over by blinding flashes of hot silver.

  A harsh growl pours from me. I lurch forward but check my momentum when the bitch wrenches Emma’s hair. Though my wife grits back the scream that clearly rises in her throat, tears seep from the corners of her huge eyes.

  “Such a beautiful boy. Such a magnificent miracle.”

  Despite Faline’s abject reverence, Emma bares her teeth and hisses through them before spewing, “If you hurt him, I swear to God, I’ll—”

  “Hurt him?” The witch eclipses her adoration with an insulted huff. “Hurt him?” She turns the huff into a snarl and sends a burst of electricity to her hand. At once, small puffs of smoke erupt from Emma’s hair—and then undoubtedly from her scalp—as Faline embosses her fingerprints along the top of my wife’s head. “For a puta smart enough to ensnare Reece Richards, you are truly a stupid peasant.” She releases Emma with a violent shove, only to secure her prisoner again by planting a boot against Emma’s throat. “Oh, I do not plan on hurting him, little idiota. You have my promise about that.” As she looks down again at my boy, her tone takes on the same fierce adoration that takes over her face. “He will know he is a miracle, enhanced and exquisite, every day of his life. He will know that because I will make sure of it.”

  I’m not sure what chills me deeper: the possessiveness in the bitch’s voice or the matching twines of it through her posture as she curls her upper body around the innocent form of my son.

  Who reaches a tiny hand up to her face.

  Who grabs at her cheek, as if recognizing her…and trusting her.

  Who smiles as another hand moves in and cups Faline’s face with the same open adoration.

  A hand that’s sneaked in from below. Belonging to my wife.

  Who now rises, slowly sliding herself up Faline’s form, her sweet smile lifting with every inch she climbs.

  A smile no longer meant for me.

  She’s beaming it into the bitch’s welcoming face. Trusting Faline exactly as my baby boy does. And finally, parting her lips to speak again.

  Aha. Here’s where she’ll make it right. Where she’ll tell that filthy harpy to get her goddamned hands off our son, and if she doesn’t—

  “She’ll make sure of it, Reece.” Without lowering her hand from Faline’s pale cheek, Emma tilts her head to capture my gaze with the splendor of her own. Except that turquoise glory is no longer saved for me. Or even focused on me. Her dazzling blues are shrouded in unseeing mists. She stares right through me despite how she keeps speaking to me. “You heard her, didn’t you? She’s got this, baby. She’ll make sure our bean is safe, okay? She’ll make sure all is well.”

  “There, now.” Faline’s lips flow with a wider smirk. “It is all settled. You will have no more worries about this, my darling.”

  “I’m not your fucking darling,” I seethe. “And this is not all settled! Emma. Emma.” But while I keep reaching to my wife, she doesn’t respond. Her gaze becomes more vacant. More and more, she slips into a trance like the one her mother was in after Faline kidnapped the woman and then returned her to us eight hours later as a new member of the “Faline is Goddess of all” cult. Jesus. No. Emma would gash her wrists before signing up to drink that bitch’s Kool-Aid. “Damn it! Emma, wake the hell up! She wants to take our boy! Our son!”

  “And hers too.” Emma weaves her head through the air as if following the sway of a tree in the wind. “He’s special, Reece. He needs her special care and guidance.”

  “He needs our care and guidance!” My senses seize and blaze before exploding and th
en freezing. My terror is so immense, my body doesn’t know what to do about its force. I don’t give a shit. The implosion of my soul is all-consuming—and beyond devastating. How can Faline be doing this? How can Emmalina be letting her? What the living fuck is going on? “Emma, listen to what you’re saying. This isn’t right. Wake up!”

  “Hmmm.” She rocks her head again—before stopping her motions to pin me with the blue tranquility of her gaze. “I’m afraid not.”

  I plummet to my knees. “Jesus.” Then utter beneath my breath, “No.” Then whisper down at my clenched fists, “No!”

  “You’re the one who needs to wake up, baby.” Her voice is also just a rasp. Soft but husky, like moss growing on a rusty gate that she’s locked up tight and refuses to open. “Reece. Reece. Wake up…”

  I can barely hear her.

  Though she’s standing right there, with her mist-covered gaze and her sweet swaying form, it sounds as if she’s run off to an enchanted glade and is playing hide-and-seek in the trees with my addled psyche.

  “Reece. Oh, baby. Wake up.”

  But I stand my ground. Root myself in with the remaining strength left in my bones. “No, goddamnit. I’m not going to let you do this. I’m not going to let her do it!”

  “Her who?”

  “Huh?” Why is she fucking with me like this? She’s pawing at Faline like a smitten disciple, and she dares ask me that? What the hell is wrong with her? What the hell has that bitch done to her?

  “Reece. Hey. Zeus Man. Come on, now. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Open my—

  What the fuck? My eyes are open. Aren’t they?

  I funnel all my efforts toward my face, consciously blinking my eyes. Well, holy shit.

  Faline is nowhere in sight.

  What I do see are the familiar outlines of furniture in the master bedroom of the Newport Beach safe house in which Emmalina and I have been living for a little over two months. Though to get technical, I’m not sure the word “safe” will ever fully apply to my existence—or that the word “house” can really stand in for the oceanfront complex I secured in case we ever needed to really vanish from the Consortium’s radar. All right, so it’s an oxymoron—“disappearing” in a three-story Craftsman with a dozen bedrooms and panoramic ocean views—but the new digs and our Bohemian disguises have so far accomplished the trick.

  Now if my subconscious would only read that memo. And believe it.

  A cause my conscious mind has a few choice opinions about.

  “Fuck.” I swallow the end of the utterance while gathering Emma’s hand tighter against my sweat-covered chest. “I…I was…”

  “Dreaming.” She soothes the word into the plane of my pectoral before trailing her lips up to the side of my neck, brushing her cool breath into my system along the way. “Just a dream, my love.”

  No. A nightmare.

  But I keep the words to myself, not wanting to burden her with the disturbing shit that just dominated my mind. It’s enough for me that none of it is true. That she’s right here, free from that mist in her eyes, gazing at me with clarity and love, the sweet curves of her face defined by the perfect midnight glow filtering in through the windows.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.” The answer spills out way too fast and much too urgently—and neither tidbit escapes her attention.

  “You sure?” she prods. “Baby, this is the third night in a row now, and—”

  “I can count, Emma.” At once regretting my snarl, I sift my fingers into her hair and gently rub her scalp. “It’s really nothing, okay?” I shift a little, coaxing her body closer while dipping my lips toward hers. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t.” Her smile is forgiving. “Well, not really, because your son already did the job.” While guiding my hand across the prominence of her belly, she adds, “He’s been playing ‘Team Bolt Supersonic Obstacle Course’ in there all night.”

  The second a robust little kick thuds against my palm, I chuckle. “No shit.”

  “Maybe you’re just on the same wavelength with him again.”

  I mellow my laugh into a proud smile. “You think?”

  Her expression turns enigmatic. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Papa Richards. The bean is already very fond of his daddy.”

  Cynical chuff. “Or maybe it’s the enchilada you had for dinner.”

  “It was a freaking fine enchilada.”

  Another chuff—though I’m darker about it this time. “Ohhhh, hell.” And I weather her answering giggle in return, knowing that she knows the conclusion I’ve already jumped to.

  “Awwww, come on!” she protests. “Can I help it if everything goes better with supersized pregnancy hormones?”

  And damn, does the woman mean everything. Including garlic ice cream and Cheez-It toppings, classic Krispy Kremes dipped in cottage cheese, and pepperoni pizza slathered in squeeze-style frosting. Fortunately, I’ve got all of those stocked in the house by now—but the woman’s been throwing some craving curve balls at me lately.

  “All right,” I finally grumble. “I might as well just get this over with.” And then push up to one elbow, gently clearing some stray strands away from her cheek. “What’ll it be for tonight’s midnight snack, m’lady?”

  At first, she just pulls her bottom lip in under her top teeth—but the impish glints in her eyes already warn me to expect the curve ball. “All I want is a giant dose of you, my lord.”

  Well, that is a curve ball.

  One I’m completely ready to turn into a home run.

  Yeah, despite the disturbing nightmare. Probably because of the damn thing. What would wash away Faline’s stink from my mind better than burying my cock inside the sugar-and-cream goodness of my wife?

  The possibility is so damn good, I have to reconfirm it. “Are you really saying you don’t want any of the odd but awesome snacks I’ve stocked downstairs for you?”

  “Oh, I want odd but awesome.” Her touch is as steady as her gleaming, confident gaze—as she rolls to her side and reaches for the flesh that’s already jumping between my legs. As she skims over my lower abs and then rubs me through my sleep pants, the friction of the fabric only stokes the energy of my arousal that much faster. Holy fuck, that’s good. So damn good. “But my ‘snack’ of preference isn’t downstairs.”

  I attempt to summon a glib comeback to my lips—but that shit isn’t happening for my head, let alone my mouth. Instead, I tell her what she needs to know via the breath I finally let out, as staticky as it is, while the temptress of my dreams heats her palm enough to fry away the crotch of my sleep pants.

  For a second, I’m too astonished to speak. Who the hell am I kidding? I’m not shocked; I’m turned way the fuck on. Just the idea of what damage she could’ve dealt to my cock with her tactile flare gun—but didn’t—injects my bloodstream with the same demented sensation I get before taking down criminals. I guess it’s true what they say. Danger and fear are a heady aphrodisiac.

  I regain enough composure to glance down. Sure enough, the blackened threads of my sleep pants mingle with the copious precome seeping along the length of my throbbing cock. I’m already swollen with need but getting bigger and harder by the second. The sight of Emma’s huge baby bump, even beneath her roomy sleep shirt, only adds to the lust transforming my erection into a glowing blue sex toy.

  “Holy…shit,” I grate.

  “Sorry,” Emma rushes out in a rough rasp. “About the…pants.”

  I glower with deliberate darkness. “No, you’re not.”

  “All right, I’m not.” She jogs her chin up. Goddamnit, the woman is breathtaking when she’s feisty. “I’m just too hungry for my snack.”

  I tug at the hem of her shirt. Lift it until I can view the fullness of our baby beneath her naked skin. She hasn’t bothered to put on panties with the ensemble. Yesssss.

  I lean in, caressing her stomach with my fingers and her throat with my mouth. “You’re too hungry…
for me?” I snarl softly into her ear.

  She trembles from head to toe, and I feel every perfect tremor of it. “Yes.” Her whisper is a wobble on the air, instantly surging my senses with the heady knowledge of my power over her. I love doing this to her. Unleashing the force of my electric field on the air and knowing what I’m doing to her with it. And anticipating everything I’m about to do, as well…

  “What part is starving more, sweet bunny?” I roll my touch upward until I’m palming the fullness of her right breast. And then tugging and rolling at her nipple. And then reveling in the urgent gasp of need she gives in return. “Your wet, perfect pussy…or your hot, succulent mouth?”

  She gulps hard. I almost give her a little reassurance. There’s really no wrong answer here…

  “My…my mouth.”

  But that definitely feels like the more right answer at this moment.

  My perverted mind takes the idea and runs like hell with it. My willing dick is dragged along for the sprint. At once, my cockhead is drenched with scalding drops, and my pulse jacks to a marathon-level cadence. I’m so fucking ready for this. To burn away the revulsion from my dream with the fire of my beautiful Flare. To forget what her mouth declared in my subconscious by rendering her incapable of words. With my cock consuming her mouth—and then with the climax I’ll rock her with from the inside out. That’s always the best part: watching as my essence pours down through her, taking over every part of her until she can’t stand the fire and finally gives in to the exquisite implosion.

  Holy hell.