The Walls of Jericho

Welcome to Avernus

Channing’s POV

I should tell Jericho ‘no’. 

Not just 'no' but an absolute unequivocable vehement ‘no’ that brooks no refusal or disobedience.

That’s what I should do. Every rational thought in my head tells me that’s what I should do. 

Admittedly, there aren’t many thoughts left in my head, rational or otherwise. Particularly right now with my skin pressed against hers. With our bodies connected so intimately. Basking in an exceptionally fantastic afterglow, if I do say so myself. Which is how I know every cell in my body is telling me that ‘no’ to Jericho is the last thing that’s happening.

Not because she’s clearly my mate—obviously, since my own body’s provided incontrovertible evidence in the form of a mate tie. Not because I’m head over heels for her and have been for some time. Not even because it puts her in danger, since I now know the dragon’s found her in Crossroads.

That ‘no’ won’t be happening because whatever magic Jericho possesses responds to alpha compulsion—to the glow in my eyes and to the sound of my alpha voice.

Her magic responds powerfully.

The way her clove and molasses scent spikes with the irresistible spice of feminine desire when she’s aroused. All those breathy devastating little sounds she makes when what I’m doing makes her feel good. How her fantastic skin quivers and erupts into goosebumps. Even the erotic fluttery spasming of her warm wet channel when I’m giving her pleasure and she’s coming undone at the seams. Those are inspiring to a man for sure.

They’re nothing compared to the sheer addictiveness of feeling her magic—all that pure, raw energy she radiates—submit like a wolf to my alpha compulsion.

Narcissistic as it sounds, it’s sexy as all hell.

It also makes having her around a damn sight safer.

“I take your silence to mean ‘no’.”

Jericho’s voice salts of disappointment and bratty defiance. In a way that makes me want to spank her. On her bare bottom. Yeah, that thought has some deadly addictive appeal to my alpha.

“Actually, Jericho, that’s not what it means,” I reply without rising to her childishness. I’m Alpha, after all. Granted, she’s my alpha mate, but I think enough has happened to her in the last twenty-four hours that, for her own good, we should have that discussion at some other point. Much later in the future.

Beneath me, she wriggles with delight and, oh my God, my member inside her stirs, ready for the next round. We’re never getting out of this mate tie, I swear.

“Here’s the thing,” I explain gently. “I know you can feel that we’re still tied—.”

Her fine arched brows draw together. “Yeah. Why is that? You came, right?”

Jericho closes her eyes and I grunt as, around my waking member, her sweet sugar walls contract in slow pulses along the entire length of me. I squeeze my eyes shut, drawing a ragged breath as an intense shudder ripples over me. “I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

In the next second, a sharp pain shoots along my spine as her fingernails rake long lines along my side. Catching her wrist, I pin it over her head.

“Oh crap.” Her eyes flick between each of mine. “That didn’t work the way I intended.”

I exhale through my teeth. “No. It didn’t.”

“You’re into pain?”

Forcing myself to patience, I reply, “No. I’m a wolf. The same adrenaline that’s involved in anger arousal is involved in s****l arousal. Right now, it’s kind of physically confusing.”

Which is actually putting it mildly. Right now, absolutely every inch of my body is primed for s*x because I’ve found my mate. My drive to breed her is topping out somewhere in the stratosphere. The only reason I’m not pounding into her against every surface of this room is because I’ve just learned the most terrible way an unwitting partner can that she was a virgin. Plus she’s got three cracked ribs.

Her amber-colored eyes squint and she peers at me. “So because you’re a wolf, you can’t tell the difference?”

 the alpha portion of me contributes. Releasing her wrist, I dip my mouth towards the fine cherry tip of her breast, then hitch her knee up against my side again. It shifts our pelvises together in the best way, and she arches beneath me with a distracting moan. Yield and I’ll show you.>

Ravish me, Alpha.>

Jesus. She'll be the death of me for sure. With the pert delectable crest of her breast between my lips, I murmur, “Let’s play.” 

**

Channing and I lay on the floor of the bathroom side by side, absolutely deliciously spent. The whole room smells of sweat—his salt ocean manly musk and my sugary female perfume—spiced hard with s*x. Strong as it is in here, it has to permeate the entirety of the subterranean levels of Avernus through the ducting. I untangle my sweat-drenched limbs from his and tip my head towards him.

He is undeniably a beautiful and sexy man. Purely for my own gratification, I really should have given him my phone number the first time he asked.

His powerful arm nearest me is laid over his eyes. Even relaxed it bulges, strong and well-defined with lean muscle and ropey blue veins. The exposed stretch of flesh along his side picks out the hard lines of his ribs and chiseled chest and those divine abs as they rise and fall with his regular breathing. Unable to resist, I caress with the backs of my fingers from his elbow to his narrow hips, then let my fingertips rest there.

It took another two orgasms.

Two. 

Not mine—because he’s dragging climaxes out of me at a rate of approximately two every few minutes—but two of his, before the mate tie released for the first time. Once we were able to separate, then things got a whole lot more comfortable with me on his lap or straddling his hips. In fact, much as I appreciate all that long lean muscled body of his, when his athleticism is reduced to short upward thrusts of his hips, then he’s dragging climaxes out of me about once per minute.

It’s all that gliding over my internal happy button. The mere notion is enough to make me debate stroking my finger in a lazy circle over the raised head of his now-flaccid member resting on his muscular thigh. Except I genuinely don’t have the strength. I’m thoroughly exhausted. It must be close to lunch time too, because right then, my stomach lurches and grumbles quietly.

“Jericho.” My name’s spoken softly but peppered with the faintest hint of warning.

Rolling towards me, Channing shifts his arm to pillow his head. His limp organ tumbles directly into my palm. As my welcoming fingers curl around it, it starts to stir. Again. Oh my God. The man is a s*x machine. “Mmmm?” I drowse, palming his soft length.

“Look at my face, babydoll.”

He gives me a smoldering look with those gorgeous blue eyes of his when my eyes lift from the hardening length of him in my hand to his face.

“I know you’re tired, Jericho. And you’re hungry,” he says gently. “So I’m going to remind you again. I am a wolf. Everything about wolves applies to me, including an acute sense of smell and a keen prey drive.”

“Prey drive? Did you just reduce me to fluffy bunny status?” The lights in the bathroom flicker. “I assure you—”

He grins, reaching over to rest his big warm paw on my hip. “Don’t get all bristly.” His hand slides up, over the flat of my stomach to cup what passes for my breast and squeeze the softened tip to a pebbled bead. “What I mean is: I can smell your arousal.” Channing pauses for the space of a breath. “It triggers my drive.”

My lips pull into an ‘O’, then into a seductive smile. I am definitely filing that away for later.

  his alpha voice drawls. 

“’Masochist’ has a much better ring to it,” I retort to his alpha commentary. “Besides, you know you like it.”

“You’re a naughty alpha.”

“You need off this floor. Help getting dressed and combing your hair. Then some food.” Channing’s glorious abs flex and he rolls to his knees, then scoops me up like a toy and deposits me on my feet. “After that, if you promise not to be snooping around and that you’ll take the IV pole without whining, then I’ll show you around a little.”

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. 

Jeez, Channing wasn’t kidding. 

While I may have lost time in the embrace of my now-lover, my hair did not. It’s dried like a bird’s nest and I can already tell there’ll be no salvaging it with a brush or comb. My best hope will be to get back in the shower.

Which I’m about to do when I spot Channing prowling towards me in the mirror.

The white-blue whorls orbiting around his pupils are back. In his reflection, he eyes me intently. Like I’m a snack. “Channing—.” I pivot as he prowls towards me, yanking the IV pole in between us as if it’s a protective barrier.

He scowls, grabbing the pole above my hand and jerking it out of the way, then invades my territorial bubble. “Let me look.”

“You ‘look’ with your eyes, not with your hands, Stark.”

“My eyes are involved. Trust me.” He reaches for my hips, then turns me. Drawing me back against him, he studies my diminutive body framed against his in the mirror with a lazy smile.

“There are roaming fees, you know.” Behind me, he’s giving off heat like a furnace.

“I want to buy up to the next plan.”

I swat at his hands as my stomach growls again, this time more insistently. “You’ve made promises. I’m holding you to them.”

Rolling his eyes, he sighs heavily, one hand slinking vaguely up my midline and the other snaking in a delirium-inducing beeline down. “I made suggestions.” Nuzzling the silky flesh behind my ear, he murmurs, “I have another one.”

When I pivot in his arms, the hand that was headed down my body lands on my bottom, perfectly cupping one cheek. I fix Channing with a bland stare and I’m rewarded with a quirk of that scarred brow and an upward curl of his mouth on the same side. 

“Feed. Me.” Rising on tiptoe, I plant a hard kiss on the smirking corner of his lips.

We war silently for another minute, then the argument’s terminated abruptly when his stomach rumbles.

“Fine. Where are the clothes I bought you?”

**

It’s not much of a tour from the hospital wing to the one that affords Channing his living quarters. Long cement hall. Ugly tile. Ugly fluorescent lighting.

We fork right and stop at a magnetically locked door. There’s a little keypad off to one side, its indicator light illuminates red, signaling the door is locked. As he steps in front of it to enter his code, I flick a glance that direction. With a soft click and the whistle of air around its unlocked perimeter, the door opens and the indicator light on the keypad turns from red to green.

Channing focuses on an invisible spot on the wall, heaves a deep breath and lets it out over a ten count. “You promised.” The reprimand is unmistakable.

“That wasn’t snooping.” I wheel my IV pole towards the door and grab the handle. It's heavier than I expected it to be. “We were going in here anyway.”

Catching its metal edge above my head, he holds the door for me. “Straight ahead. First door to your right.”

I stop at a crossroads in the hallways, look left, then right at the door-lined halls. “What’s down there?”

“That way,” he points to my right, “is where Damien and Ferdi keep rooms.”

My head swivels the other direction. “Ah. And that way?”

“My rooms.”

“Show me.” I start that direction and lurch to an abrupt halt as Channing grabs my hand.

He jerks his head. “That way to the kitchen.”

“You bullied your way into my bedroom,” I huff.

“Not until after you’d fed me dinner. Let’s go.”

**

In the end, I don’t wind up getting the promised—or suggested—tour.

Using ingredients he found in the fridge, Channing whipped up a delicious batch of chicken and rice with aromatic vegetables and seasoned with garlic and parsley. By the time I got done commending his mother on the culinary education she’d provided him, both of us were yawning.

Shortly after the dishes were cleared, we made our way to his private sanctuary—a dark-paneled bedroom, with a connected private bathroom. It's full of big cozy furniture, warm rugs and faux Tiffany lamps. A large impressionist naturescape painting of muted, soothing colors that reminds me vaguely of Monet’s Bassin aux Nymphéas, les Rosiers occupies the spot over the electric fireplace and matches the patterns in the lampshades.

“Not what I was expecting when you told me you lived with Ferdi.”

He shrugs, giving me a wink and quirking a brow at the neatly-made king-sized four-poster. “I guarantee you can bounce a quarter off that thing.”

“Doesn’t sound particularly nice to sleep in.”

“Come and find out.”

Channing dims the lights and using a remote at the bedside, turns on the electric fireplace. It floods the room with a soft flickering electric glow and the low rhythmic cycling noise of its faux flame display. I can’t help my snorting laugh as we stand on opposite sides of the monstrous bed staring at one another.

“How many people normally sleep in here?”

“It’s reserved for the Alpha and his mate, so no more than that.” He climbs onto the bed that makes him look little and rolls towards the center, then pats the spot beside him encouragingly. “It’s been kind of lonely with just me for the last eleven years.”

“You sure no one’s going to miss me in the infirmary?” It's a weak excuse and I know it.

Channing sees right through my mild protest and reclines, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles. “This bed has a memory foam mattress cushion and a quilted pillow top covered with a down comforter, but if you’d rather nap on that two-inch vinyl-wrapped cement slab in the hospital wing, I’ll take you back there.”

Sometimes, he's incorrigible.

“Shut up.” Untwisting my IV line connected to the pain management drip, I wheel the pole to the edge of the bed and climb in on my hands and knees. There’s no doubt this bed is a vast improvement in comfort over the one in my hospital room and snuggling up to Channing adds a luxurious level of coziness to the cloud-like bower.

Offering his bicep as a neck pillow, he curls around me, draping a heavy arm low across my hips then tangling his legs with mine. The fireplace provides a layer of soothing white noise and within minutes, I’m drowsing in the warm shelter of his body. Against my ear, his strong steady heartbeat and the regular rise and fall of his broad chest tell me that Channing’s already drifted into a coma-like slumber.

**

The second the banging on the door starts, Channing’s awake.

Startlingly and immediately. Faster than a pet owner who hears their pet is about to vomit.

Not bleary-eyed or groggy disturbed sleeper, but battle-ready soldier. With an outright savage growl, he lunges upwards into a protective crouch over me, scanning the entire room before his eyes settle on the door.

“Jesus, Channing. I know you’re in there. I’ve been looking all over for you. Open up the damn door,” a muffled voice calls over the pounding.

We both recognize Damien’s voice at the same time, but Channing’s response is an irritable snarl while I feel like I just received a generous bolus of hot spice through my IV.

I flush and scramble for the side of the bed, burning with embarrassment. Maybe I can hide in the bathroom. Before I get very far, a restraining paw catches me firmly around my middle.

“Just stay where you are. I’ll deal with him and be right back.”

Despite what he says, I untangle myself from the bedcover and throw my legs over the side just as Channing opens the door about six inches, blocking entrance to or view of the room with his body.

“Damien, I’m seriously going to deck you if you don’t quit doing that. What. Do you. Want?” he growls.

“Don’t give me that. Why aren’t you in your office or answering your cellphone? I've been trying to find you for fifteen minutes. We’ve got a problem. A big one.”

“It’s none of your damn business why I’m not in my office or answering my phone,” Channing bites back. “Me boss. You not. Got it, Damien?” He starts to close the door.

“Spare me the Alpha attitude. It’s—" Unexpectedly, Damien shoves at the door, pushing past Channing into the room. He freezes the instant his bespectacled eyes light on me.

Wide-eyed, I stare back, burning with shame. His nostrils flare, scenting the room, then his chin tips down so he can gape at me over the rim of his glasses.

“Hey.” I give him a weak wave with my wrist.

Without bothering to reply, Damien paces past Channing into the hall. “Jesus, Chan. Took you long enough.” From outside the door, he gestures an impatient ‘come on’. “If she’s your mate, best bring her along. She deserves to know what she’s getting into.”

Getting into? Oh, that doesn’t sound good. I scramble out of the bed. Grabbing the stupid IV pole, I drag it across the carpet and slip my free hand into Channing’s. “Where are we going?”

“Command Center,” Damien replies. “And for pity’s sake, will you two get the lead out of your asses?”

Channing and I trail behind, following the lanky computer geek through a confusing maze of similar hallways until we come to one with shaded glass windows in between all the doors. Damien opens the door immediately to the left with an engraved plate on the outside that says: ‘Mancave’.

Ugh. Guys are so stupid.

We follow him inside, stepping into an office that’s easily the envy of the best human intelligence and counter-intelligence agencies in the world .

Two half-circle desks abut the walls on opposite sides of the room with no less than four computers each evenly spaced around them, most with more than once huge monitor. Massive amounts of data pour into and process through this space, scrolling in images, video feeds, and line after line of complex  calculations, precision measurements and raw data.

A rolling executive chair sits between the two desks, and turning it, Damien flops down, wheeling himself over to a particular station. With a quick command, he selects and singles out a video feed.

“That’s Esteban’s.” I can scarcely believe what I’m seeing, but I’d recognize the crappy grainy ten-pixel video from the diner anywhere.

“Yeah,” Damien agrees. With another command, he digitally enhances the image and centers on a specific table. “But these folks—they’re not. They’re from the northside—I caught them on camera as they came in. And them being there is extremely deliberate.”

“What’s the issue?”

“This—.”

Before Damien can clarify further, I answer. “That man’s transmitting an embedded signal. He’s asking for sanctuary from Avernus. For he and his family. He’s brought something of value to exchange.”

The executive chair swivels to face me and Channing. “She’s handy. It took me almost three minutes to decrypt that.”

“You should be embarrassed, super genius.”

“Shut it, Jer. I’m a wolf, not a mage.” Moodily, he swivels his chair back to the keyboard. “I’ve been doing pretty damn good at this for a lot longer than you. Our interloper is Charles Daniels. He’s a KDS database architect recently promoted to the lead implementation specialist and project manager on the Heritage deployment.”

Jerking my IV pole from between us, Channing shuffles close and wraps his muscular arms around me in a warm hug from behind. “How’d he find us?”

“He’s the one I’ve been blocking most recently on their install.” Damien’s chair swivels to face us again. “He’s also the only one from that role who’s lived.”

I stare down at Damien’s lean boyish face in abject horror. “What? What do you mean ‘lived’?”

“The project’s way behind schedule and massively overbudget as a result. It’s costing KDS a million dollars every month for each month since the contracted go-live date was missed that they don’t get the database deployed. They’re five million in the hole as of today. This guy, Daniels—,” Damien thumbs over his shoulder towards the computer monitor, “—he’s the nineth person heading the project. His eight predecessors either quit or were fired, and all of them died within twenty-four hours afterwards.”

“That still doesn’t tell me how he found us. Are you implying there’s a trail?”

“We’re sabotaging the project from inside Heritage. The only person with the ability to find us is her.” Damien points to me.

“Send Ferdi with a team to collect the family and take them to a cage,” Channing orders. “Nobody talks to them until we’re sure they’re not bait.”

“A ‘cage’!?” I whirl on Channing. “You’re imprisoning them? They need your help!”

“Jericho,” he replies softly, “they’re getting our help. We can’t risk endangering ourselves though. They’ll be safe until we can determine if they’re bait.”

“What’s ‘bait’?” I demand.

“The dragon knows we’re here, but no one else should. Charles Daniels has done something no one else has managed to do.”

“You think he’s a spy?”

“No.” Channing shakes his head. “But he might be the dragon.”