Spell Cat by Tara Lain Page 0,13
hands, hit the wall, and cracked the mirror in the entry. The handcuffs simply dropped from Killian’s wrists. No fuss. He rubbed his wrists.
“What the bloody hell…?”
He flicked his fingers toward Moran. For good measure, asshole. The handcuffs flew through the air and hit the man on the head. “I wanted sex, you idiot, not some masochistic torture.” He rubbed his wrists. “Let’s go home, Al.” He wrapped his cat more comfortably around his shoulders and headed for the door.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I just misunderstood.”
Killian looked back at Moran, who was lying in a heap against the other chair, with the handcuffs at his feet. Killian raised his hand, and the belt rose, flew through the air, and wrapped around Moran’s wrist. “There are a lot of things you don’t understand, Mr. Inglesby. Like what would have happened to you if I had really been pissed.” Many an errant witch and human had benefited from Killian’s generally amiable nature. This fool was getting off scot-free.
He turned sharply and left the hotel room behind. He petted the furry head as he walked to the elevator. Dear gods, what’s wrong with me? I have to choose between a sadistic asshole and a flaming human who’ll steal my power and leave me in cinders. Of course, those lips, that tongue in his mouth, the flare of electricity up his spine—cinders sounded pretty good right now. “Don’t seem to be having any luck with men, Al. Guess I better take my chances with a female.”
Chapter Five
“They make a lovely couple.” Evangeline Barth smiled at the picture made by Killian’s fairness next to the brunette beauty of Lavender Karonoff, standing amid the dinner guests about to enter the dining room.
“If we overlook certain obvious discrepancies.”
Damn the man. Nicholas Karonoff towered over her, his white hair and bushy white eyebrows bristling. He’d conceived of this betrothal and now cast aspersions on it? The bastard. “If you wish to call off the marriage, I’m sure neither of the young people will object, Nicholas.” She was bluffing, and he knew it. The marriage benefited her as much as him and the rest of the council.
He scowled. “We’ve come too far. People are convinced of the importance of this union and its role in undoing the damage done by human and witch intermarriage. We can’t go back.”
“Then stop acting like I disappointed you in some way by birthing the greatest male witch of all time.”
“Hardly that long, and what good is his power if he won’t use it? He’s a wimp, your son.”
Yes, he was, and she knew why. She shrugged. “Let’s hope for all our sakes he stays that way.” She slipped her arm through his. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
Lavender Karonoff was as pretty as a witch could be. Even he could see that. Tall and willowy, probably five feet nine, dark-haired, with huge, deep pansy-blue eyes and pale golden skin. He didn’t have to be het to see she was gorgeous. She also seemed as nice as she was pretty. Why couldn’t he just like girls? That would make this whole thing so damned simple.
They sat side by side at the head table, receiving the endless congratulations and well-wishes of over one hundred witches. Gods, these witches had no romance in their souls. He never got to talk to Lavender. Even if he’d been seriously invested in this betrothal—and liked women—this event would have killed the deal. He couldn’t be angry with Lavender, though. It was no more her fault than it was his.
Killian glanced down the table. His mother sat next to him on his right, and next to Lavender, on her left, sat her father, Nicholas Karonoff, a tall, lean, white-haired witch with handsome features and the aura of certainty possessed by men who are seldom crossed. It was true. As the head of the council, he had huge control over all of them, even Killian.
Other members of their respective clans fanned out on either side, enjoying the status of being so close to the seats of power, as well as wallowing in Evangeline’s excellent champagne. After the seventeenth toast with that champagne, however, Killian finally turned his attention to his now betrothed. “Would you like to go for a walk?”
She smiled gratefully. “Love to, thanks.” She had no Russian accent. More British and American. Probably the schooling.
He raised a hand to the person about to stand for another toast. “Excuse us, please, Master Maronovsky. Lavender and I both need a little air.”