And I just couldn’t let her go. But I have to tell her.
“I did something that is most likely going to piss you off,” I say keeping my eyes on my hands on her thighs.
“How do you know it’s going to make me angry?” she asks as she rubs her hands over mine.
“Because I should have asked you first. I should have told you what it meant before I did it,” I admit.
“Okay,” she says evenly. “What did you do?”
“I-I bit you,” I say finally meeting her eyes, reaching to the open neckline of the shirt she’s wearing to expose the already healed scar of my teeth marks on the meat of her shoulder. “I cemented the bond. I-I mated you, tied you to me. I knew. I knew what I was doing when I did it. I knew I should have asked you, explained what it meant, but—” I pause, and I can’t say any more.
“You were afraid I would say no?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, her eyes unreadable, and a cold finger of dread slices through me.
“I didn’t want you to run and me not be able to find you. I didn’t want to spend another day without you as my wife. I didn’t—” I break off.
“And there is no going back, is there? You made the biggest decision of my life for me, just like every single person has done my entire existence,” she chastises, and I feel the guilt now. I didn’t feel it before, and just like I vowed not to, I put her in a cage.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask, but I’m not sorry I did it,” I admit. “I just… I just didn’t want you to leave,” I confess and pray – just pray – she doesn’t leave my sorry ass.
“You should have asked. I would have said yes. Even though you are going to die soon. Even if I only got a few weeks of being your wife, I still would have said yes,” she says haltingly, her eyes filling.
“Only a few weeks? Do you know something I don’t?” I ask, cupping her face in my palms, rubbing the tears away with the pads of my thumbs.
“The King is dying, Ash. That hasn’t escaped your attention,” she hisses, all pretense of calmness gone. Her eyes are flashing amber, but she holds onto her Aegis for now.
“And he released me from my post before I ever came to you, Mena. I would never have tied myself to you if I knew I was going to die. That would make me the worst kind of man. I would never sentence you to death just so I didn’t die alone,” I murmur, hating that she would think that of me, but knowing I deserve it for my highhandedness.
“You’re not dying?” she asks, her body vibrating with either anxiety or fear or relief, and I can’t believe she has been with me for this long without asking. Then it dawns on me. She thought I was going to die, and she still would have said yes.
“No, Princess. I’m not dying,” I murmur against her lips and then kiss her for all I’m worth, cupping her ass in my palms and pulling her onto my lap. She doesn’t hesitate to kiss me back, her tongue meeting mine in a not-so-gentle glide. Her teeth nip at my bottom lip as she rasps her fingers in my close-cropped hair. I almost wish it were longer so I could feel her pull it. She’s shivering still, but I know it is her need for me making her vibrate. I fucking love it, and I love her, and if I were to die in the next five minutes, she needs to know how I feel.
“I love you, Mena. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t love you. I just want you to stay, please just stay with me,” I whisper, my voice clogged with worry and fear and love for this woman.
“I love you, Ash, and I’ll stay with you,” she returns, looking me right in the eye as she gives me the best gift I’ve ever received.
I couldn’t stop kissing her if I wanted to – which I don’t. I don’t ever want to stop kissing her. I band one arm under her ass and the other around her back and hoist her tighter to me before standing from my barstool in search of a flat surface – any flat surface. The bar is too tall, but the dining room table… now, that’ll do just fine.
I set her down on the dark walnut wood, loving that my bride is sitting her bare ass on a table I hand-carved. I pluck open the buttons of her shirt – my shirt – watching as each inch of her skin is exposed. I spread the fabric, revealing Mena’s beautiful body, her natural curves finally filling out now that she is properly fed. I rasp my hands up her thighs, circle her waist and ribs in my palms, and then thumb her taut nipples. Her shiver brings a feral growl from my lips, and I pull the shirt off her shoulders, loving the look of my mark on her. I tug the shirt from her arms, and then she’s done. With a ghost of a shy smile across her lips, she reaches in, and my cock is no longer trapped in my pajama bottoms. It is free and in her warm hand, and she’s stroking me like she knows my dick belongs to her.
I suppose it does.
I kiss her, stroking my tongue into her mouth, meeting hers before nipping her lips and moving down her neck over that lightning of a scar, over the crown of her shoulder. Tasting her mouth, her skin, moving to her nipples and her belly, gently pressing her so her back meets the cool, smooth wood. Her ragged pants just spur me on as I pull her ass to the edge of the table, notch my dick at her weeping pussy and slowly drive in to the root. My pants are still half on my ass, but all I care about is the soaking wet warmth on my dick and her pleading moans. She scrabbles for a hold on the edge of the table for a moment before abandoning it to sit up, gripping my chin and moving it out of her way to kiss and lick and bite with those perfect blunt teeth on my neck and shoulder.
I pick her up and turn us, pressing her to the closest wall, ramming into her hard enough to knock the painting or frame or whatever-the-fuck off the wall. The sharp crack of the glass breaking only barely filters into my consciousness before I’m pulled under again, lost in her moans and warmth and touch. I wanted to go slow, take my time, but I feel unbidden and unleashed, fucking up into her, stealing her breath.
She moans into my ear, “Please, God, please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop,” and it is my undoing. I reach between us, bowing my back just a little to make room for my hand; I thumb her clit with firm pressing circles. Her pussy squeezes, tight enough to almost hurt, and then she’s screaming my name.
Before I come, I do what I should have done the first time we made love.
“Mena, I want you to be my wife, my mate, my life. Do you accept me as yours?” I growl my question into her ear, making her shiver in aftershocks.
“Yes,” she whispers, and that is all I need to hear. My fangs lengthen just a bit before I strike, piercing her fragile flesh with my cutting teeth as I come unbidden of any guilt, harder than I ever have in my life.
She’s mine. All mine, I think as a smile stretches across my face. I am – for the first time in my life – at peace.
17
The Storm
ASHER
Her mouth finds me in the night, warm and wet on my dick, waking me from a dead sleep. I let her play for a few minutes, loving her gentle sucks mixed with harder, longer ones, groaning at her long licks until I’m about to lose it. I haul her up my body, flipping us until she’s pinned under me, and then I make her squirm.
I kiss all the spots I think could possibly elicit a moan from her, the delicate skin of her neck, the crown of her shoulder, the bottoms of her breasts, her ribs, her hipbone, before flipping her over to her belly and making my way up her back. I nibble at the gentle swell of her ass before running my tongue up her spine starting at the small of her back and ending at her hairline. Mena’s hips roll, fitting her perfect ass right up against my dick, and then I begin my slow torture as she does her best to break my concentration.
I rake my fangs against the delicate skin of her neck, pinning her to the mattress and winding my arm around her middle and down to find her wet and ready. Her legs spread on their own, and I guide my cock to her opening, sliding into the slickness. I move slowly and stay close against her beautiful back, gently fucking her from behind as our breaths mix and mingle in the quiet of the night.
It seems we never do get very much sleep.
The morning light streaming through the picture window brings me a slum
bering Mena, hair wild with sex and sleep, her back cuddled to my front. She is completely naked and even though I could wake her up again as I did many times last night, I don’t. I opt instead to slip from the warmth of the sheets and make my way to the master bath to take care of business, brush my teeth and take a quick shower.
I walk back into the bedroom with a wide white towel wrapped around my waist to find Mena sitting up in bed, the gray sheets clutched to her chest. Half of her face is creased from where she was lying on the rumpled sheet, hair shooting in every available direction, and she only has one eye open. And she is the most beautiful woman on the planet.
“Not a fan of mornings, Princess?” I chuckle.
“Nuh-uh,” she grumbles then yawns wide enough for her jaw to give a little pop. Her arms stretch high above her head, causing the sheet to drop, exposing her perfect pert breasts.
“I need a shower. I’m all… sticky. And I need coffee. And… hey! You already took a shower,” she accuses with a pout once both her eyes finally open.
“Yes, well, one of us should make the coffee, Princess,” I quip and her pout dissolves into a half smile just before I kiss her.
“That sounds terrific, Ash,” she says as she gives me a lingering kiss and slips from the bed to get cleaned up. Her ass gives a gentle sway as if she knows my eyes are glued to her backside, and it takes an enormous amount of willpower to not follow her. I throw on some jeans, half-buttoning them in my laziness and set out to give her another awesome meal.
* * *
After a day of lazy fucking on every single available surface – flat or not, horizontal or not – I get to the heart of her. How scared she was of exposure when she was a Gentry, how much she hated shunning Aurelia. How her father taught her how to hotwire cars ‘just in case.’ How she wishes she had more medical knowledge because ‘the medicine in the 1800s was atrocious.’ But mostly, I got to see her smile, hear her laugh, and fall more in love with my mate.
“You made all these pieces?” Mena asks amazed as she takes in my workshop nestled in the finished basement. I look at the sawdust-laden tables and the curls of shaved wood littering the floor beneath the carving table. The space is considerably less tidy than I normally keep it, but I left in a hurry the last time I was here. I’ve carved furniture for as long as I can remember. What started as a hobby as a child – anything to be outside – turned into my solace when my world went straight down the proverbial toilet.
Mena is staring at my most recent creation, a circular dining table with a tree of life carved into the walnut wood. The variation in the veining of the wood compliments the carved leaves, making them look like they are being ruffled by a soft breeze. I started it before Olivia fell ill, and it still sits unfinished.
“This reminds me of that gorgeous tree of life carving on the doors of the royal suite,” she says in awe, and I can’t hold back my chuckle as understanding dawns on her face. “You did the doors?” she asks in admiration.
“Yeah. Before life as I knew it shit the bed, I did much of the furniture for different Wraith families. Olivia likes my work, so she had me make the doors. This table was supposed to be a present from John for her breakfast nook,” I tell her, and a wave of sadness washes over me. Olivia and John have been such a big part of my life, I’m unsure of how I’m supposed to move on without them. Having Mena helps, and as if she can sense my swift change in mood, she wraps her arms around my waist and kisses the underside of my jaw.
Today has been one of the best days of my life. Just talking to her, getting to know her responses to the smallest of things, eases the burn in my chest at all the things she has been denied. Mena may not know what she used to like, but she seems to be making up her mind about things as she goes along. Cream and no sugar in her coffee, enough salt to start her own mine on her french fries, an unwavering thirst for orange juice. I can’t wait to see what she discovers she’ll like next.
Her kisses are turning sensual, the gentle rasp of her tongue against my pulse point sending all the blood to my dick when the lights abruptly go out. The once well-lit basement is black as pitch, the evening sky offering only slivers of moonlight through the narrow basement windows. Mena freezes, clutching my waist tighter before she tells me to hush. While a Phoenix cannot see in the blackness as a Wraith can, her ears are much better than mine.
“I think the power was cut,” she murmurs against my neck. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I phase without thought. I grab her close, ready to travel out of there when she stops me.
“Nicola told me this would happen,” she furiously whispers in my ear. “She told me that people would come for me. They would come for my power, ready to drain it as Iva did. Make me a slave all over again. It’s why I was going to run – on my own – to spare everyone, but if we run now, they will follow. I am too easy to find.” This information would have been good to know before assholes started storming my house, but I can’t yell at her. I really want to, though.
I would have run with her. Doesn’t she know that?
Through the slight green cast of my night vision, her face is pained – beseeching – begging me to understand.
“Do you suggest we fight in this blackness? I can, but how are you supposed to see? And how will you fight? Do you have any training? Or are you going to rely on the power they crave?” my questions pepper her, rapid fire. I am so pissed at her, but I need the facts.
“I’ve spent the last fifty years in the dark, I can see just fine. And if you think my father didn’t teach me to fight, you are sorely mistaken. The only reason they captured me the first time is because they caught me off guard. If they want me, they’re going to have to fight to get me this time,” she informs me, her spine straight, her eyes glowing in the dim. This is the strongest I’ve ever seen her, the fire that she has had banked for so long finally coming out to play, and fuck if it doesn’t make me love her more.
“Weapons?” she asks, and I walk to the west wall, pressing on the shelving just so to release the lock on the false wall revealing a small weapons cache. She immediately reaches for a katana, snatching it from its pegs and unsheathing it to check the blade. Satisfied, she sheaths it and unravels the attached back strap to throw it over her head before tightening the strap over the middle of her breasts.
“Got any handguns? I’m shit with a rifle.”
Who is this woman? I knew she was strong. I did not know she was this much of a badass.
I hand her a Sig and watch as she mutters, “Those bastards are ruining my honeymoon,” while she checks the magazine and chambers a round. She grabs an extra magazine and tucks it into her bra. She’s not wearing much, just a thin buttoned up Henley and short pajama shorts, and her feet are bare. I didn’t even want her in my workshop with bare feet, and now she has to fight that way. Fuck.
I grab a Glock, check the mag, and stuff it in the back of my jeans as a backup. I’m not wearing much either, just jeans and a flannel shirt and no shoes. Shit. I grab a pair of Kukris, testing the weight of the blades before stealing a quick kiss from her.
“You stay behind me and stay close,” I order, but I can tell she’s only staying at my back to humor me if the eye roll is any indication. We move together, up the hardwood stairs to the first floor. I notice that Mena barely makes a sound, the only noise I hear is her soft, steady breaths, and I only hear those because she is barely an inch from me. Her footsteps are silent, her movements economical, and she seems to know to step just where I do to avoid the creaks in the stairs.
The first strike comes when we reach the top of the stair leading into the kitchen. A Wraith I’ve never met nearly takes my head off with a saw-blade machete. I duck back just in time, and the blade gets stuck in the molding of the doorframe. I take his head quietly with one of my Kukris and Mena catches his body as it drops, gently laying him down out of our way.
“This is a bad man,” she whispers shuddering, and it takes me a moment to realize she is talking about his soul. I f
eel it too. This is not someone who has been brainwashed or coerced into this. This is a man who would relish the kidnapping and torture of an innocent woman.
“Look away,” I growl, not waiting to see if she complies as I grab the now headless corpse and feel my jaw unhinge as I consume his soul, siphoning it from what is left of his body, taking his blackness into me in a swirl of tar-like smoke. His body shrivels to a husk before it disintegrates to dust in my fingers.
I look back, and Mena’s eyes meet mine. I can tell she saw everything, even though I told her not to look. Her face gives away nothing, and real fear slams into me.
What if she is disgusted? What if she hates me?
“That was gross in an awesomely badass kind of way,” she quips, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If I didn’t need the strength, I wouldn’t have done it in front of her.
“I needed the juice,” I shrug and she nods as we move on. We clear the kitchen, the dining room and have just entered the living room when the gunshots start, exploding a glass-bowled lamp right in front of me. Mena doesn’t even flinch and pops off three rounds at the shooter on the stairs like she’s playing a fucking video game. All three shots hit their mark; two hitting his chest and one hitting him right between the eyes and he goes down instantly.
“They’re wearing body armor. I can hear it,” she murmurs distractedly. Her head cocks to the side as if she’s listening to the house.
“There are more. I can’t tell how many, but ‘a lot’ would be my guess,” she whispers, and then hell starts. It’s moments before we are pinned down behind the couch, caught between the freedom of the front door and certain oblivion by a veritable rain shower of bullets. I try to lay down cover fire, but I’m immediately clipped in the meat of my shoulder close to my neck.
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