by Kristie Cook
I frowned as I pulled away. “Sorry, but I can’t promise that. Considering the circumstances, I’d do it all over again, even if I knew the outcome would be different.”
Owen shook his head. “You like making my life difficult?”
“I thought I kept it interesting,” I teased.
“I don’t like that kind of interesting.”
“Well, I might have saved an innocent girl from a horrific ending.”
They both looked at me expectantly, so I gave them the whole story. I mentally shuddered at the thought of what would have happened to her if I hadn’t been driving by that particular alley when I did. Of course, those vampires had probably had their meal anyway, maybe not with her but with someone. My stomach rolled with that thought.
“If it’s the girl I think it was, she’s not so innocent,” Owen said.
“What do you mean? They were pushing her around, treating her like dinner. She was scared to death.”
“Oh, she was scared, all right. But she was one of them. They were pissed at her for . . .” Owen clamped his mouth shut, pursing his lips together. Then he shrugged and finished. “For whatever reason they think they have.”
“But she wasn’t a vampire.” I stopped to think about her, but now found it difficult to know for sure. After all, these things were still new to me. Maybe I hadn’t seen her as clearly as the others. “I don’t think, anyway.”
Owen shook his head. “No, not a bloodsucker. A Were.”
I inhaled sharply and blew the air out with an “Oh!” and then “Wow!”
“Yeah. That rampage they all went on—they took most of it out on her.”
I stared at him, blinking several times. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the girl now or not. I couldn’t believe the Daemoni would turn on their own kind, but then again, they were evil. How could I ever understand them or explain their actions?
“Just wait until you’ve changed before you try to be a hero again,” Owen said, his hand on the latch of the screen door. “For my sake.”
“I can promise you that. But I sure wish I’d known if I had any powers, like you think. I really would’ve loved flattening that vampire bitch against the wall after what she said about my mother.”
Owen still laughed as he walked out to the brush and disappeared.
Chapter 12
After Owen left, Tristan and I sat on the balcony while I caught him up on my life. I told him about being bedridden for several months while pregnant, and he asked about the delivery. I explained as best as I could. Dorian had been a preemie, arriving after a long, painful labor and birth—I passed out for part of it—followed by the heavy disappointment of no baby girl. Tristan pulled me into his lap and held me while I wept about it again.
I’d cried a lot today for someone who was supposed to be so happy now. My emotions ran wild, almost like Swirly still messed with me from a distance. At least I had an explanation now—the Ang’dora caused the havoc with my mind and my emotions.
Once the tears dried, I remained in his lap as we talked about my books—he said he’d read them all in the week he’d been back in the real world—and all the events that went along with them. I couldn’t tell him a whole lot because my recollection was hazy, but he asked questions to jog my memory.
“Your fans love you and the books. There are tons of sites on the Internet,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I guess. I haven’t paid much attention to them in a long time. Sometimes they were rude and insensitive, and I couldn’t take it. There was this one girl, though—her name is Sonya, if I remember right—and she was my ‘biggest fan.’” I wiggled my fingers to make air quotations. “She followed us to every signing, release party, and interview. I never had any particular bad vibes from her, but she worried my agent and publicist, so they took out a restraining order against her.”
His hand trailed up and down my leg. “I saw her posts online. She doesn’t hold it against you. She’s still very fond of you.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I always felt kind of bad about the whole thing.”
“Don’t feel too badly. She is a little . . . fanatic. Her posts greatly outnumber everyone else’s, which is why she stood out to me. And she’s determined your characters are real. She’s more fascinated with the lore than you are.”
I groaned. “I hope she doesn’t dig too deeply and find out just how right she is.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. People have been interested in vamps for centuries. The bloodsuckers tend to stay away from them.”
“Really? Why? I thought it would be the opposite—they’d want to get rid of the curious.”
He shrugged. “They can’t get rid of them all, and they tend to be friends with each other. So as soon as there are signs one has been the victim of a vampire, there are Normans out looking for them, either wanting to become one or wanting to kill them. They make life a little difficult for the vamps . . . the hunting is easier, but that brings more attention.”
“Oh. Well . . . I guess that’s good for Sonya.”
He nuzzled his face against my neck. “Can we change the subject back to you?”
I thought for a minute. “I don’t know what else to tell you. My memories are all pretty dim.”
“Then stop talking.” He kissed me on the mouth to make his point, his lips warm and delicious, and I responded immediately.
I moved around in his lap to straddle him, and he took my face in his hands and crushed his lips to mine. I opened my mouth to let his tongue in, tasting his deliciousness with my own. My pelvis ground against his as his hands made an electric path down my sides, to the bottom of my dress. He lifted it over my head and dropped it on the ground. His hands circled my breasts, gently squeezing while his thumbs rolled my hard nipples. He leaned down, and I arched my back as he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking a line of pleasure straight from my groin. I rocked my hips against his hardness, still imprisoned in his jeans. He finally stood and carried me inside.
We made love throughout the night, not able to get enough of each other. The first two times, earlier in the day, were just pressure relievers—letting us release pent-up energy by meeting our most primal needs before we both exploded. Now, with that edge off, we could truly get reacquainted. No, it was more than that. Having been newlyweds for only two weeks, we hadn’t even had a chance to really get to know each other in the first place, not intimately. We’d been allowed to smell the bouquet, to taste the flavor, even to enjoy a full glass, only to have the bottle taken away. Now, another bottle was brought out, same year and vintage, but with time and separation, the flavor tasted new, yet at least recognizable. And more intense . . . so much more intense.
We started slow, rediscovering places we’d been before but with new appreciation. Feeling at once familiar, yet unknown and exciting. It didn’t take long to become more comfortable, less inhibited. We quickly moved on to explore and discover and learn with and from each other. And we made every effort to make up for those missing years. Well, at least one or two of them.
Several times I had to tell Tristan how much I loved him when he seemed to be losing control. At one point, he downright frightened me.
Using his paralyzing power, he pinned me against the wall, a couple of feet off the floor. It was an exciting game to see how long I could let him touch me without being able to move or respond with anything but my eyes or mouth. We’d only tried this experiment once before because it was a dangerous game—he had to maintain control or his power could literally crush me to death. The risk made it all the more thrilling.
He placed his hands on each side of my head and started by kissing my lips, then my cheeks, then along my jaw, his loose hair trailing over my skin like a feather. His lips moved down my neck and, with his hands still flat against the wall, to my breasts. He kissed and sucked and rolled my nipples with his tongue. I could do nothing but let him. I desperately wanted to reach out and slide my hands over his perfect chest or pres
s my body against the full length of his. I shivered with the combined feeling of anticipation and helplessness as his hands finally caressed my body.
Starting at my shoulders, they moved slowly down my arms and back up again while his lips and tongue trailed along my collarbone. Then he slid them down my torso, over every curve and every indent. They explored my breasts and my tummy and my hips. They ran down the outside of my legs and trailed electricity back up the inside. One came back up to my neck, while the other stayed in between my legs and a finger slid inside me. I could only respond with a moan of pleasure.
Tristan’s mouth came back to mine again, and I looked into his eyes. They exploded with fire. A long, feral growl rumbled through him as he kissed and sucked on my neck, one hand squeezing my breast and the other still between my legs.
“Tristan,” I whispered breathily, “I love you, baby.”
He growled again in response. Then it seemed like his hands were suddenly everywhere, fervently rubbing all over my body. His lustful gropes became rough, not his usual, careful caresses. Every place his mouth landed, he sucked hard, as if trying to devour me. And then I felt his power intensifying, pressing in on me, squeezing me from the outside in. My heart, already racing with excitement, throbbed even harder, as I felt a loss of control. I was paralyzed—unable to reach out and grab his attention. The shivers changed to trembles of fear.
“Tristan, please,” I pleaded. “Look at me.”
He ignored me. He panted with desire as he yanked me off the wall and into his powerful arms, holding me firmly against his hard body. One hand gripped tightly at the back of my neck and the other pressed into the small of my back as he carried me to the bed. His power was released from me, but now he could have easily snapped my spine or neck with just one unintentional squeeze or twist, and I didn’t know if I could heal from such an injury. I normally wouldn’t have worried about him going so far, but I’d never seen him with such little control. His eyes burned brighter, and panic rose in my chest as my heart tried to pound through it.
I braced his head in my hands and forced him to stop and look at me.
“I love you, Tristan. Please, baby.” I sounded desperate, and I didn’t know if the distressed pleas would make the situation worse. But not knowing what else to do, I simply repeated the three-word sentence he’d been so eager to hear earlier and hoped it would get through to him before he did something rash.
I continued staring into his eyes as the fire finally died down, and his grip on me loosened. A look of horror spread across his face as he realized what he’d almost done, and his eyes darkened completely with regret as he sat on the bed with me still in his arms. He shook his head and opened his mouth to say something.
“Shh,” I said. “It’s okay. We’re both okay.”
He fell backward on the bed and closed his eyes. I leaned over him and kissed his mouth, pressing his arms to the bed with my hands.
“Just let me do it now,” I whispered.
I didn’t have the power to keep him still, but he lay there as if I did. His hands clawed at the bed—and only the bed—as I took over. I leaned down further, pressing my breasts against his chest, while I kissed his face. My mouth moved back to his, and I pushed my tongue inside, tasting his tangy-sweetness. I pulled on his lower lip with my teeth, then moved lower. I slid my hands and mouth over his neck and then his chest, kissing and licking and sucking. Continuing downward, I kissed and stroked every inch of him until he trembled with anticipation, just as he’d done to me. He didn’t move until I straddled his waist and sunk down onto him.
I was ripe and ready for him, and I moaned as he filled me completely. He finally lifted his hands and rubbed his palms against my hard nipples, then gently squeezed my breasts. I leaned over again and planted my mouth on his. His hands slid down, over my butt, then to my hips, and they gently rocked me, slow at first, getting into our rhythm, then faster and hotter and deeper. I cried out when that last stroke went deep, hitting just right. I squeezed him as every muscle in my body contracted, and I plunged into oblivion.
It had to be nearly dawn when we finally fell asleep from exhaustion. The end of my memory-dream played—the one that wasn’t a memory at all, just a figment of my semi-accurate imagination. Tristan in the desert mountains, writhing on the ground in front of the Daemoni. Then his face clearly filled my vision, the scars bright red and fire filling his eyes. He growled loudly and deeply and then dove for my throat.
OH! I sat up, gasping and wide-eyed. My breath came out raggedly as I looked around, trying to get my bearings. No desert. No mountains. Just a dream. I sat on the floor of the Caribbean room, wrapped in a sheet, the room completely destroyed. Tristan lay on the floor next to me, his hand tugging my arm, pulling me to him.
“You okay?” he mumbled, squinting at me in the bright morning light.
“Yeah,” I breathed, collapsing into his arms. “Nightmare.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzled my neck. “Want to tell me about it?”
The visions tried to come back into my mind. I shoved them out. “No. It was nothing.”
I relaxed into him, and we lay there lazily for a while.
“Why don’t you have nightmares?” I finally asked, rolling over to look at him. “I think if I were you, I’d be afraid to even sleep.”
He frowned. “It’s a practiced art, but I’ve learned to cut off that part of my mind.”
“Your subconscious? You can cut it off?” I asked with disbelief.
“Cut it off, close it down. It took a hundred years or so to learn how, but if I hadn’t, you’re right. I would have never made it this long.”
“So, you don’t dream at all?” I lifted an eyebrow.
“Only if I want to allow it . . . and when I do, I take the risk of reliving some horrors I’ve tried to forget. But while I was gone, I allowed it, hoping to dream of you. And I did, every night.”
My heart squeezed. “What did you dream about?”
He smiled as he swirled a finger in my hair. “Mostly our memories . . . the good times we had. But, sometimes, I got really lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
His grin grew. “I dreamt of times like last night.”
“You dreamt of dinner with Owen?”
He laughed, then nuzzled my neck again. “I think you know what I mean.”
“Wow . . . you did get lucky. I never had dreams like that. Well . . . actually, I did dream of our wedding night.”
“Yes, that would be one of them,” he murmured against my ear. Goose bumps rose on my arms. “One of my favorites.”
“But if you allowed those dreams, didn’t you open yourself up for the nightmares?”
He sighed. “Yes, but it was worth it.”
I sighed, too, remembering how I relished the memory-dreams, even the bad parts. “I know what you mean.”
His eyes changed quickly, from dark to sparkly, and he smiled. “But now I get to wake up to you by my side every morning.”
“Yeah . . . to all the beauty of my ratty hair and morning breath.”
He chuckled. “I love it.”
“I know you do. For now, anyway. After a hundred years or so, I’m sure you’ll get tired of it.”
His brows furrowed, as if he thought hard about this possibility, then he smiled again. “Nope. Don’t think so.”
He pulled me close to him, and we lay in each other’s arms again until I finally had to get up for the bathroom. My body burned, and I assumed it was healing itself. My skin looked purplish-green with partially healed bruises covering almost every inch. When I came out, Tristan just stood in the middle of the room with the white sheet wrapped around his waist, looking around with an amused expression. His torso was also covered in purple and green.
And our room . . . the poor Caribbean room. The white chaise lounge in the sitting area lay on its side, broken in two, cotton and spring intestines pushing through the torn upholstery, and its purple throw-pillow now just a pile of feathers. Splinte
red pieces of the wooden table lay strewn across the floor. The window treatments over the sliding glass doors barely hung from one corner, the jewel-toned fabric torn in several places. The bed stood as it should, but pillow-top stuffing exploded from the shredded mattress. Pieces of the headboard rested on the bed and surrounded the remains of a turquoise pillow. The walls looked like they’d been tattered by shrapnel, and chunks of drywall littered the carpet. The dresser seemed to be the only piece to survive, although the mirror hanging over it now looked to be a puzzle of jagged pieces.
“I think Hurricane Alexis hit our Caribbean island.” Tristan wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. “Did you have fun?”
I smiled. “Despite the results, yes. Last night was unbelievable.”
He chuckled. “I agree.”
“But it could have been Hurricane Tristan.”
“Nope, first of the season. It has to be Alexis.”
I tilted my head to look up at him. “So tonight will be Tristan?”
He grinned. “Can you handle it? Because it’ll be a category five.”
I laughed. “You already blew me away last night. I don’t know how much worse—or better—it can get.”
“Ah. I love a challenge.”
We showered together, too sore to do anything but shower. He sat outside with a cup of coffee by the time I dressed in one of the sundresses. Owen knocked on the front door as I came out of the bedroom. He followed me through the kitchen and family room as we headed for the balcony. I yanked the bedroom door shut, but not before Owen caught a glimpse of the mess. He pulled me to the side, and his eyes fell on the last of the bruises on my arms when I cringed from his grip.
“Are you sure you’re okay with him?” he whispered, as if Tristan couldn’t hear him anyway.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Alexis, I saw your room. And the bruises. Did he do that to you?” His eyes showed genuine concern.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s my job to worry about it. What happened? Did you two get in a fight?”
