Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,6

very pose before. The position of a defeated human. But unlike others in this situation, anger radiated from the man.

Not misery, or self-centered contemplation. Anger. Simmering, tangible anger.

Fred cocked an eyebrow, her sex squeezing in base appreciation. Who are you, Mr. Tall, Bronzed, and Brooding?

Stare locked on the increasingly intriguing man, she tapped into the List of the Living threaded into her very existence, seeking the answer.

But all that surfaced from the never-ending database was a name and date of birth.

She frowned. “That can’t be right. Where’s his date of death?”

From the moment of conception, the time and cause of death of every living creature with a soul was predetermined. The Order of Actuality demanded it. From the smallest baby to the leader of the free world, their lifespan was locked in a fixed time frame, imprinted on their very genetic fiber.

All, it seemed, except Patrick Anthony Watkins. She knew when he was born, knew he was currently thirty-six years old, but as for when and how he would die? Nada.

Which made him a…

She narrowed her eyes, regarding him across the busy beach.

The sun beat down on those around her, drawing moisture from their pores, turning the heavily populated strip of sand to a wavering shimmer of silver light and color, yet Patrick Watkins remained sharp in clarity.

Just Patrick. Filling her vision.

She studied him closely, pursing her lips.

“Okay,” she muttered, sensing his soul, “so he’s not a demon. Good.” His soul’s pure, spiritual presence poured from him, powerful and potent even from this distance: a blazing white essence of life and humanity so strong it made her blood sing and her skin tingle. “But if he’s got a soul…”

Frowning, she tilted her head to the side, looking at him through the darkness of her sunglasses. It didn’t make sense. Having a soul meant he should have a date of death. So why was she drawing a complete blank?

And why, in the name of the Deities, was she so damned turned on? Did the man’s ambiguity have anything to do with it? Or was it just because he was smolderingly sexy?

She shook her head again. She needed answers. And another closer look.

Because you want answers, or because you want to check him out again?

The unbidden and way-too-close-to-the-bone thought made her sex constrict in a firm, warm pulse of eager anticipation. She couldn’t touch him, but she could look. She could look a lot. She could take her visual fill of him because the living could not see her. No matter what her foolish mind insisted it saw.

A tense pressure welled in her chest and, turning away from the sight of Patrick kneeling beside the empty pedophile’s body, she released a long, dragged out sigh.

It was a sad fact of her existence she could no longer ignore. She, Death, the Grim Reaper, El Muerte, Cronus, Azrael, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, had become a Peeping freakin’ Tom.

Gritting her teeth, she stormed along the high-tide line, fighting like hell to ignore the damp tightness between her thighs. “Fantastic. Fucking fantastic.”

Two hundred tall, thick candles materialized into spontaneous existence, illuminating the dark, cavernous room with a cold, flickering light. It washed the black stone walls pale yellow, throwing writhing shadows against the hard surface and casting a weak glow over the slim man in a black business suit where he stood before a massive, bone-framed mirror.

He studied the room—his room—in the reflection of the glass. It suited him, this room. A room worthy of the First Horseman. An entity of the Highest Order could create whatever personal environment they desired within the Realm and his space was exactly how he desired it to be. A room of sick death and sick life. A room symbolizing his stature and premier position.

His bed took prominent position in the centre, constructed by over a thousand human bones torn from living bodies. Bones once white and raw, now blackened by eons of waxy smoke. He’d taken many a sacrificial virgin’s purity on that bed, all whimpering at his power and inescapable strength. He’d taken more than one demon slut as well. She-demons who knew who he was, who knew, unlike his disrespectful colleagues, how important he was. She-demons who recognized his potential and wanted to taste his seed and bear his spawn.

He slid his gaze from the bed to the towering throne standing on a raised dais under a large hanging candelabra, his prick growing stiff at the sight. Both throne and candelabra were made from human