They were left waiting at the motel for a couple of hours before Grant called with the green light to get back on the jet. The air on the plane on the way home from Colorado was much lighter than its initial voyage. Marcus scrolled through his phone after finding a seat, reading through breaking news headlines.
"Do I even want to know?" James asked, sitting in the seat across from him.
"Know what?" Marcus didn't look up from his phone, but he was certain he could hear his brother-in-law roll his eyes.
"Callie is going to kill me." James mumbled over the click of his seatbelt.
Marcus' eyes flicked up as the final two passengers boarded. Ophelia paused between Marcus and James as if she were considering taking the seat beside him, despite the private jet's ability to comfortably fit fifteen.
"Good morning, James." She said, though her tired eyes met Marcus' before walking toward the back of the plane with Reynolds, who was already complaining about oncoming turbulence.
"Good morning," James called out as she left before narrowing his glare on him. "Seriously?" He hissed across the aisle.
"What?" Marcus finally looked over, feigning exasperation. "I didn't do anything."
James adjusted his glasses and sighed. "I'm a dead man." He muttered as he scooted down in his seat to try to get comfortable. "I'm a dead man, and you are over here making goo-goo eyes at Ophelia Harris."
"Goo-goo?" Marcus screwed up his face but glanced over his shoulder in her direction, anyway. "What are you...five?" he asked, situating himself in his own seat.
Wheels went up, and they were on their way. According to reports, sole credit for the attack was being taken by a group called "Children of the Grove." One of their members was arrested at the site, the rest able to flee. Thankfully, there was no mention of any casualties, but the estimated dollar amount of damages nearly made him choke on his own saliva.
Two and a half billion USD.
Billion. With a fucking "B."
Surely that couldn't be right.
The plane touched down in Knoxville a few hours later. Ready to get home and get some hard earned sleep, Marcus grabbed his bag and took the steps down two at a time only to freeze at the bottom. The parking lot was a couple hundred yards off, but it was vacant aside from their cars. Or...it had been. He was supposed to give James a ride home. His sister, perched on the hood of his truck, said that would no longer be the case, and even from this distance he could feel her rage.
A pang of guilt fell over him as James stepped up to his side. "She looks pissed." He whispered, as if she were going to hear him from the base of the stairs.
"Nothing happened." Marcus shrugged, though they both knew it was horseshit. James hadn't been involved at all, though, so he genuinely had an out. "She can't be mad at you for nothing."
James just raised an eyebrow at him, smirking.
"Alright, fair." He sighed and jerked his head. "Come on, I'll take the first bullet. Maybe she'll be too tired to ream you."
"Good man." James patted his back.
Calliope lurched off the hood of his truck, slender finger pointed off to the side at her car. "You! Get in the car!" She snapped at her husband, who did exactly as he was told. "And you." She snarled at Marcus, hands shaking as she clenched them into fists. "You told me you weren't going to do anything stupid."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Marcus lied, brushing bright red hair from his forehead.
She stomped toward him at a truly frightening pace. Her heavy breathing, tensed muscles, and refusal to break eye contact were all glaring red flags. His keeper instinct said to run, but he stood his ground, refusing to recoil. Tears formed in her bright emerald eyes, and her bottom lip and chin started to quiver. Suddenly, and without warning, she was pounding on his chest, fighting back sobs as she growled out words between strikes.
"You! Stupid! Fucking! Boy!"
Marcus swallowed hard, but stepped into the thrashing. He slowly wrapped his arms around his sister. He deserved her rage, and that landed harder than any punch she could muster could. There was some regret for having to lie to her, but none for what he'd done.
Eventually, she stopped trying to hit him, satisfied with sobbing into his chest. They stood there in the center of the parking lot for a while. Marcus didn't speak. There was nothing he could say. Trying to explain himself would just implicate her.
"Before you go home, you need to go see Mama." She whispered against his chest. "She's been frantic since she saw the news this morning."
"I will." He whispered against the top of her head. "Take it easy on James, okay? He didn't do anything."
"Not another word." She glared up at him before stepping back out of his arms. "I love you, you big stupid fucking Neanderthal."
"I love you too, Callie." He said with a chuckle. He watched her duck into her car, slamming the door shut. Muffled yelling sounded off. 'You were supposed to be watching him!' Marcus shook his head, tossed his bag into the bed of his truck, and climbed in.
He arrived at his childhood home a little before three o'clock. His father met him on the front deck, a baking sheet full of lemon bars in his hand.
"You alright, son?"
Marcus nodded, giving his dad a sheepish grin. "Yeah, I'm good." He wrapped his dad in a hug, the man's powerful fingers gripping his back.
"I'm proud of you, kid." His father whispered in his ear before kissing his cheek and letting him go. "Your mom's been baking for nine hours."
"Oh, good." Marcus ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. His mother had been someone who buried herself in work when she was worried or stressed. Having retired from the military in the capacity that she and his father had, neither of them would ever have to work again. This meant all that nervous energy had to go somewhere, and, since he was a kid, it had been baking.
Marcus stepped into the house and could smell the diabetes. The scent was like Christmas got roped into an orgy with Halloween and Valentine's Day, but didn't emerge until Easter morning. When his father closed the door behind them, his mother poked her head out of the kitchen, looking like a woman gone mad.
"Marcus Atticus Tenneson!" She snapped at him. Her hair was up in a bun, but wild black curls flew in various directions as she literally flew at him. She wasn't a large woman, but with all her body weight several inches off the ground barreling at him like a magic projectile, she nearly took him off his feet.
He caught her in his arms, and she squeezed him with enough force for a plume of powdered sugar to shoot off her apron between them up into his face. "I'm alright, Mama."
"I was worried sick." She smacked him in his chest after holding him for a few more seconds. "You weren't near that place when it got attacked, were you?"
"No, Mama." He felt his stomach drop out from under him, but did his best to keep it together. "We were at the hotel."
"Good, good. Get in here and eat some of this food."
Three hours, two full pies, a handful of cookies, and four attempts to leave later, he was finally allowed free of his mother's arms and out the door. He'd considered staying there for the night, he was so tired, but the thought of his own bed was something he couldn't pass up. The last vestiges of light hung over the mountains as he pulled into his spot at the apartment complex and ascended the stairs where what had become a familiar voice through the day was sounding at the top of the outdoor stairwell.
"After what authorities are calling an eco-terrorist attack, Arcanex is reporting potential losses beyond two billion dollars in equipment and materials. As a result, stock prices for the leading American magi-tech company have plummeted more than twenty percent in just eight hours of trading.."
The sound of the anchorwoman's voice rang through the air. He'd heard the report from his phone on the plane home, and if that hadn't been enough, his mother had the news playing round the clock in the background.
Marcus stopped at the top of the stairs. Leaning against the wall beside his door, Victoria stared down at her phone, watching the report from earlier that day. Long hair up in a high ponytail fell opposite the shaved side of her head as she slowly drew her gaze from the phone to him.
"You have antimagic locks."
"Keeps tricky witches from breaking into my apartment." Marcus replied from the edge of the stairs. His mind replayed her scathing words from their last meeting as his eyes fell on her shoulder, where a tattooed wing extended from beneath her shirt and down her biceps.
A tense silence fell over them long enough for the video on her phone to loop back to the beginning. She broke eye contact for a split second to turn the screen to face him. "This you?"
"That's Channel 9's Tricia Banks." His eyebrows bounced up and down once, and he gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Don't be a smart ass."
Marcus drug his bottom lip through his teeth nervously and slowly shook his head. "Didn't know about it until this morning."
She stared at him for a long time, one prominent eyebrow raised as she studied him. The tension caused an uncomfortable sensation in his gut that made him want to bolt. Finally, she tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and moved toward him with a fluid grace he would expect from a predator stalking prey. She stopped just inches away, her eyes locked with his still. Marcus swallowed hard, his mouth long gone dry. She lifted just slightly on her toes, enough that they were the same height.
"Invite me in." As she spoke, her lips grazed his with feather-like movements.
Marcus had never been risk averse. Despite having been told his entire life that his lack of natural magical ability would keep him from accomplishing the sort of things his siblings could do, Marcus had faced down dragons. He'd danced with lava spitting drakes. Rode a howler like a bull. Never in his twenty-seven years had he been more terrified than this moment. His mouth opened just slightly, in theory to speak, but words didn't form.
Instead, his bag dropped to the floor, and his hands took her by the hips. Gently at first, he pressed his lips to hers, hands pulling her flush against his body. For a single agonizing second he braced for rejection, perhaps mockery, but her body melded to his and her lips returned the gentle massage. Some unspoken barrier snapped between them in that moment and overwhelmed him with a sharp and staggering need.
She'd spun him and slammed him up against the stucco wall. Their lips met with wild collisions, fast and messy. Hands fumbling over two longing bodies that didn't care about rhythm or finesse. Only contact. More. Now. Between heavy breaths and teeth scraping along lips, she'd managed to get out two words. "The door."
Marcus dug into his pockets, phone and cigarettes being tossed aside without a care in his ransacking of his own person.
"Dammit," he cursed against her skin as he realized they were in his bag. In a selfish attempt to keep her as closed to him as possible for as long as possible, Marcus wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her up. Her long, powerful legs wrapped around and rested on his hips as he scooped up the bag and hurried to his door. Lips, teeth, and tongue claimed territory from his collarbone to his earlobe as he pressed her against the door and dug through the bag for his keys.
It flew open, bouncing off the doorstop within. Leather, denim, and cotton fell behind them like casualties. This was not sex. At least not like any sex he'd ever had. This was overwhelming desire disguised as combat.
They clashed.
He sat her on the countertop.
She pushed him into the couch.
He rolled her onto the floor.
Every motion, a challenge. Each of them conditioned to stand in front of the world's most dangerous beasts, and neither of them willing to give up any ground.
Skin met skin, and the war raged on. Grinding. Twisting. Pinning. Gasping.
Her legs locked around his hips, thighs threatening to break bone. He pinned her wrists above her head. She lifted her hips to try to roll him over, but he drove down with enough force to keep her there. It was not gentle, but when he finally thrust inside her, it forced a guttural, animalistic moan from them both.
Neither of them won the battle. Not really. Each still moved like they were still trying to break the other. Between the gasps and moans, Marcus heard something he was certain he'd never heard before.
She laughed.
His gut instinct was absolute horror, but this laugh was different. It was a dark and satisfied sound. Like she'd released something she'd been holding onto for far too long. The battle finally closed, and they both collapsed in a breathless, trembling stalemate.
He woke early the next morning to the sun blasting into his living room through the still slightly ajar door. The scratchy feeling of cheap carpet on his bare back and ass met with sudden emptiness.
She was gone.
The remnants of the previous night clung to him like smoke: powerful, tenacious, and beautiful. He could feel her scars beneath his fingers. Still smell the sweat mixed with sandalwood. Yet, were it not for his clothes strewn about the place, there was no trace of it ever happening.
He pulled on a pair of shorts to check outside. He hadn't noticed her car in the lot when he pulled in last night, but it definitely wasn't there now. Snagging the cigarettes and phone off the landing outside his door, he popped one in his mouth and lit it. Smoke filled his lungs, and for a moment, his body relaxed for the first time in what felt like days. He let the smoke eke from his lips, inhaling it back in again through his nose before unlocking his phone to see a single missed message from about an hour ago.
Sorry