Warrior Enflamed: Alien Warrior Science Fiction Romance (Archans of Ailaut Book 2) Read online

  Warrior Enflamed

  Archan’s of Ailaut #2

  S.A. Ravel

  Emma Alisyn

  Starr Huntress

  Contents

  Claim your FREE romance

  Are YOU a Starr Huntress?

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The Music of Warrior Enflamed

  Claim your FREE romance

  Warrior Awakening: Chapter One

  Alpha Unmasked: Chapter One

  Warrior’s Bond: Chapter One

  Emma Alisyn Paranormal Romance

  Are YOU a Starr Huntress?

  About S.A. Ravel

  About Emma Alisyn

  Copyright © 2017 by Danae Ashe & Dreamkeeper Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design Emma Alisyn

  Editing by Sue Soares, SJS Editorial Services

  Created with Vellum

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  Sneak Peek

  “I’m curious about something,” Davingelo said.

  Perrine sucked in a breath, eyes caught by his, the twin gold orbs glowing. “I don’t think I’m interested in whatever makes you curious. Let me go.”

  “In time, in time. I have a theory.” His free hand reached for a strand of her hair, curling a lock around his fingers. Perrine tried to jerk her head away, but his grip, and a look, halted her. A second later, the look was gone, and she hoped she’d imagined things. A dilettante she could deal with. An Archan would crush her if she offended him. “We met earlier. I wanted you then, but…” He shrugged, looking briefly sour. “We don’t always get what we want, when we want it. Even an Archan.”

  The casual admission of lust floored her. It was so different than the studied phrases or the crude propositions she often received. It was matter of fact, in a chilling way, because concealed within the plain words was a certainty that because he wanted her, he would have her.

  “But you came to me.”

  Perrine inhaled sharply to protest. “I didn’t come to you. I was in the area.”

  “Hmm. You came to me. And we made magic together, as boorishly trite as that sounds. I wonder if the best way to replicate what happened—”

  “Replicate?”

  “Is to take you to my bed. Sex is a powerful source of—”

  Perrine jerked away, curling her hands into fists and pushing against his chest for leverage. His eyes flashed, and she couldn’t move an inch.

  “Be still,” he said, voice soothing—but edged. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “You just said—”

  “I know what I said, Perrine. I’m not actually insane.” His hand threaded through her hair at her nape as his head lowered, mouth hovering over hers. “I want to taste you. I always get what I want. I’m spoiled.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  1

  Perrine arched her back as she flipped hair over her shoulder, long waves providing the perfect ornament for her curvaceous frame. Her assistant, Jerica, adjusted the light sensors in the room until a dim, warm-glow suffused the air. She stood on the small stage in Club Parodie, facing an empty room that would soon fill with men and women looking for respite from the hum-drum reality of their lives. The wait staff dashed around the room setting silverware and straightening candles.

  Nearly an hour had passed since the blazing Ailaut sun set over the horizon. Soon the people of the city—human and Aikalah—would be on the prowl for a good time. The veteran staff knew that Perrine demanded perfection for their customers. New staff got the message quickly, or found themselves beating the pavement again for a job. Even in paradise, people needed credits to fill their bellies.

  Attention to detail was a vital step in making a good impression, and in the city of Nevhana, a good appearance was as valuable as money. Perrine’s shimmering bronze skin and perfectly manicured nails were designed for one purpose—advertisement. She looked a woman who liked to have a good time, and she was more than willing to share her knowledge… for a price.

  She smiled, and snapped her fingers, a sound that rang out clearly through the quiet room. The rich purple and silver-accented walls glowed, tuxedo-clad bartenders came to attention. The staff gathered in front of the stage with its heavy velvet drapes and gleaming wood floors. Dancers sashayed out from the backstage area and joined Perrine on stage, automatically taking their places at her side as if they were about to do a show, the fantastic peacock feathers of sparkling costumes a foil for her slick, simple gown. Perrine’s star Aikalaan dancers, were decked in full costume and makeup, but several human dancers were still draped in their satin robes. She glanced at the face of the communicator on her wrist and made a mental note to have a conversation with the ones who weren’t ready.

  But for the moment, Perrine had other things to deal with. Her eyes swept over the assembled group, smile unwavering. Every night before the doors opened, she gave a short speech to the staff and dancers, informing them of the evening’s VIPs, what wine and spirits to recommend if they valued their lives, and reminded them of their stake in the club’s success. The nightly pep talk was a tradition, and everyone knew they could speak to Perrine at any time if she wasn’t on the floor engaging customers. One must not disturb the show, after all—and the Mistress of the Club touring the floor was a show. A kiss here, a smile there, a breathy laugh or special look to ensure Monsieur So and So felt special—and spent more money to maintain the illusion of his unique manliness, especially when Perrine watched. And smiled. And flashed just a little thigh—accidentally, of course.

  Before Perrine opened her mouth to speak, Jerica climbed onto the stage, her sweet face twisted with concern. “Narcisse is waiting for you in the office,” she whispered, as Perrine covered the mouth of the old-fashioned microphone with her hand.

  Merde.

  Perrine ran the variables in her head. The bouncers would open doors in ten minutes. Longer than the meeting in her office could wait. Her father never bothered her during business hours unless it was important.

  She pulled Jerica into a side hug and smiled at her employees. “Pardon, my lovelies. The Big Man is present. Jerica, please take over the briefing.”

  Jerica nodded, and almost managed to hide the confusion from her face. When the staff turned to wonder among themselves what Narcisse was doing on the property, Perrine leaned down and whispered in her assistant's ear. “Tell them to push the melon wine. I don’t wish a rotting case of it on my hands because the sommelier allowed himself to be swindled by a salesgirl with a pretty smile. Imbécile.”

  “Will you be gone long?”

  “You’ll be fine. Just give them the instructions I told you and the place will practically run its
elf. Oh, and tell them I’m not to be disturbed until they see me on the floor.”

  In her dreams, maybe. Between fielding random questions, sending security after customers who caused trouble, and buttering up the ones who didn’t so they would come back, Perrine spent most of the night jogging around the club in five-inch heels. But the whole thing would take more than a couple of hours to come crashing down.

  She left the stage and went up the back staircase that led to her office. Normally, she had an open-door policy with her employees. Her father taught her that most fires could be extinguished or avoided altogether by just giving a damn about people’s stories. But for once, she had to make an exception. She couldn't risk anyone overhearing whatever her father had come to say to her.

  Later that night, Jerica would probably give a breathless account of how hectic those few hours had been. Perrine would praise the girl for coping so well, and bolster her confidence for the next time she was left in charge.

  Davingelo wondered- if he murdered Karina right there on the ballroom floor in front of witnesses- could he blame it on artistic temperament?

  “Are you listening to me, Davin?”

  “Of course not, darling. Why would I do that to myself? As fragile as I am.”

  His wings fluttered from his shudder before he locked them tightly against his back, defense against the passing female who gave him a suggestive glance and a sultry smile. He scowled, and flicked a finger for her not to trouble him, as if swatting a particularly persistent wasp. Well, this was the third time that evening she’d tried to catch his eye, so she was, in a certain sense, a wasp. That shade of yellow gown was highly unfortunate with her sallow skin and harshly treated hair.

  Had humans no eye for color? Ghastly creatures. But no more ghastly than Karina blathering on about funding.

  “I’m bored,” he said. “I should be painting, not playing politics.”

  “That’s the point,” she snapped, narrow face tight. “You haven’t painted anything new in three years.”

  He examined the elaborate gilded ceiling tiles. “This city bores me. Stifles my energy. I’m quite famished for inspiration.”

  “You want inspiration?” she asked in her pleasant-soon-to-morph-into-a-ripe-bitch tone. The tone he’d once painted in shades of puce and green, represented by a gargoyle. Then he’d burned the painting before anyone saw it and his reputation was destroyed forever. “Let’s try this, shall we? If we do not receive an influx—a generous, outstandingly awesome influx—of donations this evening, then we must make slashing cuts to the budget. And, my dear, those cuts will not start with the salaries of the Board.”

  He snorted, picking an imaginary bit of dried paint off his black jacket. Of course, they wouldn’t. The Board would never slash their salaries in favor of continuing the orphan’s fund his art maintained… used to maintain… for providing free lessons to disadvantaged children. The public often forgot the Art Institute of Nevhana-Ailaut had been founded primarily as a home for talented children, a public amusement second. He didn’t forget. AINA supported an entire dormitory of youth with even a glimmer of talent, and no where else to go.

  There was nothing better than discovering new talent than discovering it while it was young enough, and poor enough, to sign a blissfully well-crafted contract to Davingelo’s benefit. Oh, his children always made money—he ensured they were taken care of. But Davingelo certainly ensured his own feathers were also well groomed. After all, one couldn’t expect an artist to fly with clipped wings. Which meant he needed rich food, plenty of fine wine, and a steady bevy of scantily clad ladies. Usually in that order, since the ladies were becoming more and more boring of late.

  How long had it been since something delectable had caught his attention? He stared into the glittering throng, mournful. Far too long.

  “What do you want me to do, Karina?”

  She lifted a hand, exasperated. “They are here to see you, to rub elbows with you. They don’t know you at all, so you are still quite the mystery, especially with the women.” She paused, eyed him as if uncertain what his appeal was.

  Davingelo frowned at her. He was very well formed, had posed for a famous sculptor when young. The statue still graced the largest park in the city, Davingelo’s leanly crafted muscles sleek and poetic in the sunlight, romantic and dangerous in the moonlight. His golden hair, kept long enough to please any woman and no few men, was a natural sun-kissed shade, palest at the ends and slowly darkening to a burnished ash at the roots. He’d recited plenty of poems written to his eyes, their blue green brilliance deeper than a still mountain lake. Poems he hadn’t even written himself. So, Davin knew for a fact he was beautiful, and desirable. Once again, he wondered how a woman with such a poor eye for aesthetics was head of an Arts foundation.

  “I would kiss you, and show you what my appeal is,” he said. “But I’m afraid your venom would do me in right on the spot.”

  She sighed. “Flirt, Davin. Play the eccentric artiste. Cozen some of those old, rich ladies into transferring credits. I don’t care if you have to go down on some fat crone or let her son suck your cock—go make us some goddamn money.”

  Davin sniffed. He’d engaged in one and all of those activities before—and quite often in groups. But certainly not for anything as crass as money. Only for the sheer pleasure of it, like any self-respecting artist.

  “Whatever, Karina.” He flapped a wing at her. “Go, woman. Bore someone else.”

  And he stalked into the glittering throng, the jewel and silk-clad sycophants there to worship at his feet. As he barreled gracefully through the crowd, posing in the middle of the ballroom, people scattered and cleared room for him.

  His wings spread to their full, electric length, and Davingelo struck his famous pose—the one from the statue, and declared, “Let there be music! Let us drink wine!”

  She wanted a show? He would give them a show that would have the gossip blogs boggling for months.

  He was Davingelo, the greatest living Aikalah artist, and the only Archan ever who had not claimed a Skyhall. He didn’t do anything by half measure.

  2

  Perrine entered her office to find Narcisse standing behind her desk, running his thumb over a data pad. His lips moved as his eyes scanned the screen, but no sound came from them.

  “Double checking my paperwork, Père?” she asked.

  Her father’s eyes lit up when he looked at her, almost making her forget her concern for his visit. A dangerously charming man, he’d fooled her mother into marriage and his daughter into eternal adoration—no matter how much of a rogue he was. He moved out from behind the desk, arms wide open to pull her into a hug. His slicked-back Billy Dee curls brushed the edge of his suited shoulders. Her father always wore a suit with a properly coordinated tie, pocket square, and bar pin.

  “There’s my baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Why are you always so cynical, bebe? Cannot an old man visit his only child?”

  She smiled and allowed herself to melt into her father’s arms for just a second. When she was a little girl, the only place in the world Perrine felt safe was in those arms. Now, as a grown woman, she knew there was no such thing as a place safe from trouble. Not for Narcisse Despre, and certainly not for his only daughter.

  “Of course, you can, but you wouldn’t unless you had really good news or really bad news. So, which is it?”

  Narcisse’s mouth turned down at the corners as the trademark smile slipped ever so slightly from his lips. That wasn’t a good sign. Throughout her childhood, he instilled one lesson, one outlook on life he felt the need to pass on. The world was a dark, swirling pool of people’s worst natures. It was true of Earth, or so her parents said, and it was just as true of Ailaut. The only way to survive was to use whatever gifts one had to stay above the tide.

  Her father’s best gift had always been his smile, and he’d never been afraid to use it, even on his own daughter... unless he thought it wouldn’t work.


  Narcisse slid his hands into his pockets, a gesture that seemed too meek for his usually dashing self. “The till’s a little dry this month, cher.”

  That was it. No apologies, no excuses. She paid him the same courtesy. “Mine, too, Papa.”

  If it had been her mother coming to tell Perrine money was tight, there would have been a long monologue about the Waking and how closing for repairs had put a dent in their savings, before the golden beauty charmed her way into a loan from her only daughter. But Papa just got straight to the point. Her parents were swindlers, but she’d done her fair share of… maneuvering in return over the years. None of them had perfectly clean hands.

  Lots of money flowed through the island, most of it diverted to higher-profile businesses, the flashy ones near the dock and in the city heart. The Despre salon on Archan Ishaiq’s island depended on the locals as their customer base but after the Waking, most were too busy or too broke to book a haircut or facial. So, money was scarce. Perrine was insulated from the fallout as Club Parodie was in the heart of the downtown district on the mainland, but her mother was affected, so that affected the entire family.

  Not Narcisse. He didn’t see the point in wasting time commiserating, when what they needed was a plan. Lans Madson knew about Club Parodie’s money troubles. As the enforcer for their district, he had to know everything that happened in it. The problem was he wouldn’t care.

  Perrine took her father’s place behind her desk. She sat down in the leather seat and pressed a button on her desk. A hidden chamber slid forward from the side, revealing a bottle of whiskey.

  Her father raised an eyebrow and set his hands on his hips. “Whiskey? Really, bebe?”

  She shrugged as she poured two glasses of the perfectly chilled amber liquid. “Doesn’t go with the image, I know. That’s why I keep it here.” Kicking off her heels, she leaned back to put her bare feet up on the desk. If she was going to spend part of the evening coming up with a plan, she was for damn sure going to be comfortable while doing it.