by J. R. Ward
He came again. So violently, he bit into his own tongue.
Pumping against her, pumping into her, he went hard and wild--until his body took a short pause to recover. And that was when he felt the difference he'd made in her: She, too, was at a brief rest, the tension in her body uncoiling as if her very molecules were taking a deep breath.
But before he could congratulate himself, he sensed something else. Sorrow permeated the air, the sad spice of it stopping him and tilting his head down as if he could look her in the eyes.
"Don't cry," he said roughly. "Leelan, don't--"
"Why are you doing this?" she moaned. "Why ...?"
There was only one answer. For tonight ... and evermore: "Because I love you more than anything else."
More than himself. More than any future young.
Her trembling hand brushed his face. "Are you sure?"
He replied by beginning to move deep inside of her again, the rolling penetrations sliding him in and out of her slick sex. And her response? The sound she let out was part purr, part groan, her hormones cranking up again.
For some reason, he thought about Vishous's vision.
I see you standing in a field of white. White, white is all around you and you are talking to the face in the heavens.
Your future is in your hands.
Jesus Christ, he felt like the Fade was breathing down his neck, stalking him--and even though that was true of every living thing, he felt targeted, like his expiration date was around the next corner.
It didn't mean that Beth was going to survive him. Quite the contrary. The most likely cause of his own demise ... was going to be hers.
Dropping his head into her neck, he jacked his arms under her body and got serious about the fucking. Giving in, giving up, going with it was just like jumping off a cliff--the leap was the easy part because the free-falling didn't cost you shit.
It was the landing that was a killer.
THIRTY-THREE
Sola closed her eyes as she urged her body deeper into the belly of the tub. As the water level rose up to cover everything but her neck and head, its warmth made her realize how cold she had been, not on the surface of her skin, but down in her marrow.
Staring at her body in the dim light, she felt divorced from it, and she wasn't an idiot. Letting some thug grope her so that she could survive the night had created the separation--the thing now was ... how to get a connection back?
She knew one sure solution.
But he had left her up here alone.
Man, she was having a hard time taking Assail's very sound advice. Pretending those hours, that fear, the horror hadn't existed seemed just as challenging as getting through the experience itself. But what was her other option? She couldn't breathe the same air as her grandmother, with everything she had done and seen right in the forefront of her brain.
Looking down at herself again, she moved her legs. Through the undulating waves, the bandage on her thigh distorted and re-formed, distorted and re-formed. Reaching through the water, she pulled the thing off, the adhesive coming free easily. She knew she wasn't supposed to get the wound with its stitches wet--oops.
Where the hell had Assail taken her to be treated? That place had been big money, from that gating system to the medical facility to all those people. Her brain had been trying to make sense of it, and the only conclusion she still kept coming to was government.
Even though he'd laughed that off, she couldn't think of any other explanation.
But he hadn't arrested her.
Closing her eyes, she wondered how he'd known how to find her. And what exactly he'd done to Benloise. Shit, that image of blood on Assail's face, around his mouth ...
Who was going to be in charge of Caldwell now?
Duh.
Lifting a hand out of the water, she pushed her hair back. The wetness was wicking up the length of it, warming the base of her neck, making her perspire.
God, it was so quiet here.
She had lived in that house with her grandmother for almost a decade and she was used to the chatter of a neighborhood: cars driving by, dogs barking distantly, children yelping and yelling as they dribbled basketballs in driveways. Here? Only the water moving against the tub as she shifted her legs around--and she knew the silence wasn't just because there were no other houses immediately around them. This place had been built like a fortress, and it had tricks. High-level tricks.
She thought back to that night she had first come here at Benloise's request. Her mission had been to spy on Assail and his castle--and what she'd discovered had confounded her: Those strange holographic curtains. The security cameras. And the man himself.
Maybe she was over-thinking things. Maybe Assail and his buddies were just hard-core doomsday preppers ...
Closing her eyes, she gave up on everything and just floated in the water. She could have hit the jets, but her body had been through enough agitation, thank you very much--
Abruptly, emotions bubbled up, too many to hold.
Jerking upright, water splashed out and hit the floor. "Damn it."
How long was it going to take before she felt normal? How many nights of the jitters, and distractions at meals, and hidden crying jags was it going to take?
Getting out, she snagged a fluffy white towel off the counter and winced as it came in contact with her skin. It was like her nerves were on high alert, weather vanes catching each pull of the terry cloth, every blow from the vents above, all the shivers of water evaporating--
"You are beautiful."
Her wet heel squeaked as she wrenched around to the doorway. Assail was standing in the shadows, a dark, looming presence that made her feel more than just naked.
There was an electric moment as their eyes met.
And then she dropped her towel. "I need you."
The sound of him exhaling was all about a kind of defeat, but she didn't care. She could feel the sizzle in the air between them, and knew it was not one-sided.
"Now," she demanded.
"How can I say no," he whispered in that accented voice of his.
He came to her and took her face in his broad, warm hands--and it was such a relief to have him bend down and brush his lips against hers, plying her mouth, soothing her while sexing her up. And then she was off the floor and in his arms, being carried into the bedroom.
With incredible gentleness, he laid her out on the fur duvet as if she were in danger of shattering--which was too right. Even as her body responded to him by loosening up and going liquid, she was on the knife edge of breaking apart.
But this was going to help.
She pulled his shoulders down to her as he settled beside her on the bed--like he was worried that trapping her in any way might panic her. Except she wanted his weight to tether her; she wanted the feel of him pressing her down into the mattress, replacing memory with reality, shifting her consciousness through contact.
Sola pulled him onto her. Splitting her legs to make room, the erection behind his fly went right to her core, the pleated wool pants he had on scratching against her sensitive skin, making her moan--in a good way.
More with the kissing, his tongue slipping into her mouth, his palms going to her breasts. He was better than the water in the tub for her aches and pains, especially as he rolled his hips against her, stroking her sex with the promise of his own, bringing her along nice and easy. And as her nipples tightened to the point of pain, he seemed to know what she needed next, breaking the seal on her mouth and kissing his way down to them.
His tongue was lazy as he licked around one and then the other--before sucking in a tip and pulling at it.
Arching into the pleasure, she stroked his hair back, the thick waves giving her more than enough to hold on to ... as she looked into the mirror above the bed.
And watched him make love to her.
"Oh, Marisol ... a feast for the eyes..." His lids were low as he lifted his head and looked down her body. "You are a male's dream
."
Hardly. She was lean as a boy, with no hips to speak of and breasts that were barely big enough to need a bra--and yet like this, in this dim light, on this circular bed, under his straining watch, she was as voluptuous as any woman on the planet, fully sexualized and ready to be pleased by her man.
Even though he wasn't really hers.
Dropping his head back down, he attended to her breasts some more as his fingers drifted over to her hip and onto her outer thigh. Up and down he petted her leg, as he suckled and ground carefully against her--
And then his hand slipped between them, replacing his clothed erection, passing over her wet sex once, twice ... and then rubbing.
He recaptured her mouth as his fingers delved in.
For a split second, she winced and stiffened, her body remembering the last time that had happened.
Assail immediately stopped everything. Staring down at her, his expression darkened to the point of violence. "How badly were you hurt."
Sola just shook her head. She didn't want to go there, not when relief was so close she could touch it.
"Marisol. How bad."
"I thought you said I'm supposed to forget it happened."
His eyes closed as if he were in pain. "I don't want you hurt--ever. But especially not like that."
God, he was beautiful, those handsome features of his pulled into agony on her behalf.
She reached out and smoothed his brow, erasing the lines that had been created. "Just be with me. Make it all about you and not ... anybody or anything else. That is what I need right now."
Every time Assail thought his female was done surprising him, Marisol took him to another, deeper level. In this case, the idea that some man had brutalized her sacred body ... Virgin Scribe in the Fade, his brain literally shut down from a traffic jam of aggression and agony.
And yet just her touch was enough to redirect him from the violence.
"Don't stop," she breathed as she nuzzled his throat--
Her innocent action triggered an immediate feeding response in him, his fangs dropping into his mouth, his urge to mark her by taking her vein almost as strong as his abiding resolve to never let her learn what he really was.
She had been traumatized enough--
Her hands went to his shirt and she tugged the thing free of his slacks. And then she went to work on his belt.
Except he couldn't be distracted. Not until he knew ...
"What did he do to you?" he demanded.
As Marisol went still, a part of him wondered why he was pushing her, especially given the advice he'd insisted on imparting.
"I did what I had to, to distract him," she said tightly. "And then I went for his balls."
Assail exhaled. "I should have been the one to kill him."
"To defend my honor?"
He was dead serious as he looked at her. "Absolutely."
Her eyes seemed to cling to his. "You really are a gentleman under all of it, aren't you."
"I killed Benloise," he heard himself say. "In a way that made him suffer."
Her lids closed briefly. "How did you know he was the one who took me?"
"I followed you the night you broke into his house."
"So it was you." She shook her head. "I could have sworn someone was with me. But I wasn't sure. Jesus, you put me to shame when it comes to tracking somebody."
"Why did you go there? I have wondered."
The smile she gave him was full of irony. "Because he called me off of your trail--and refused to pay me the full amount I was owed. I mean, I was prepared to keep my end of the bargain, but something spooked him. You?"
He nodded once and took her mouth again, drinking in the feel of her, the taste. "No more of that for you."
"Of what?"
"That kind of work."
Her stillness returned, but only for a moment. "I agree."
God, that was what he needed to hear and hadn't known it: The idea of her staying safe gave him a rush so great he had to blink his way through it.
And as soon as it passed, Assail shed his clothes quickly, the fine fabrics floating off the edge of the bed onto the floor. Then he was skin on skin with her, poised above her parted thighs, his rock-hard cock nonetheless content to wait.
When he finally positioned his head at the entrance of her sex, he knew he was going to be lost forever if he completed the act. Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe ... he had been lost since that first night he'd met up with her out in the snow.
Pushing inside slowly, feeling her arch up against his chest, watching her eyes roll back, he wished they had never met. As good as this was, he didn't need a weakness like her anywhere near his life. But like a wound filled with salt, she was permanently in his skin.
At least she was going to stay here with him and be safe.
That was his one solace.
Moving slowly, carefully, he eased himself in and out of her slick hold, his cock getting stroked on all sides. He had to grit his teeth and lock his lower back to keep up the steady, even pace--he wanted to go faster and faster, but that was not an option.
And yes, he knew exactly what she was after: She was using him as an eraser, and he was more than willing to fit the bill.
Anything for her--
Marisol repositioned her herself, wrapping her legs around him, angling herself so that he went even deeper. One stroke later and she was holding on hard to his shoulders. It was getting close for her, so close.
"I have you," he said into her hair. "Let yourself go and I shall catch you."
Her head threw back and her nails dug in and her body tightened, and he froze, feeling the tugs on his arousal, the subtle pulls that cranked him up.
Turning his head into her neck, he meant only to get closer, feel more of her, be further responsive to her needs.
But she moved unexpectedly, arching her body, shifting her position--and her neck pushed into his mouth ... his fangs.
The scratch was minor. His taste of her was anything but.
Before he could stop himself, he scored her more deeply.
His Marisol moaned and swept her hands down to his hips, pulling at him as if she wanted him to start moving again.
"I'm on the pill," she said from a vast, vast distance.
His clogged mind didn't know what that meant, but the sound of her voice was enough to snap him back to reality. Lapping at the wound he'd made, he both closed it and took more of her blood into him--although it was such a small amount compared to what he wanted.
"Keep going," she said. "Please ... don't stop--"
Assail was tempted to take that the wrong way and bite her properly, take from her completely. But he would not do that without her permission. Rape could happen in many different ways--and a violation was a violation, especially when only one side got pleasure from it.
He would, however, finish the sex.
Hitching a more complete hold on her, he drove in and relented, drove in and relented, swinging his hips.
At the last moment, he pulled out and came all over her lower belly, the jerking spasms kicking out his scent on her skin.
As much as he wanted more of this--and he intended to have her again, right now--he would not complete the act within her until she knew the full truth about him. Only then would she be able to honestly decide whether or not she wanted him as a lover.
With his lips at her ear, he said, "More, yes..."
The rippling moan she let out was the perfect reply. And before it had even faded, before her nails once again sank into his flanks and her legs squeezed his lower body closer to her, he began to move again, the sex tempered by his respect for her, and yet all the more vivid for the restraint.
He had never been with a woman or a female like this before.
After years of having had sex, he felt as though he was finally with someone for the first time.
THIRTY-FOUR
Kneeling before the bedding platform, Wrath kept time between his beloved's breaths, measur
ing her inhalations as they pushed weakly against the arm he had stretched over her waist. Longer and longer between the draws, slower and slower the exhales.
And meanwhile his own heart continued to beat, and his own lungs did their duty, and his body kept on.
It seemed so cruel--and he would have traded her his health in a moment. He would have given her anything of his just to keep her with him--and as that was not possible, he put his palm on the hilt of his jeweled dagger and brought it between them.
Focusing on her parted lips, he angled the blade so that it was pointed at the center of his chest. The supports of the platform were constructed out of stout oak panels, and they happened to be at just the right height for what he required: Bracing the base of the weapon's handle on the edge of the wood, he kept the dagger upright in his grip and leaned in, measuring the distance he had to close.
Putting his sternum to the tip of the blade, he pushed in enough to feel the pinch.
Satisfied with the angle, he turned the knife around and took the point to the wood itself, digging a circle out of the fibers, creating a lock for the base. As he chipped away, it seemed disrespectful to waste the last of his Anha's breaths on such efforts--he should be paying mind unto her, and her alone.
But preparations needed to be made.
If he lost her before he took care of this, he was liable to make a sloppy attempt, and he needed to make sure that there was no chance of survival--
"What ... do you do?"
Wrath's head jerked up. And at first he could not comprehend the sight a'fore him.
His Anha had turned her pale face to him and was staring out from under heavy lids.
The dagger point slipped from the perch he was creating, sinking into the wrist of the hand he'd braced. The slice didn't register.
"Anha ...?"
Her tongue licked at the blood on her lips. "Our son..."
Verily, he did not hear whate'er it was she said. Tears came to his eyes and his heart pounded, and he wondered first if this was not a dream ... a function of his having followed through with his own death, stabbing himself in the very place he felt the love for her most keenly.
Except no--she was reaching out to his face. Touching him with wonder--as if she too could not comprehend a return to consciousness.
