by Julie Kenner
Mal and I had only one glorious, delicious night together to explore our new forms. To touch and taste and tease.
Even now, I can remember the way it felt in his arms-real and warm and vibrant. So much richer than when we had mated in our dimension, twining our essences as we shared ourselves.
And I can remember the taste of fear and of pain when the fuerie had captured me. When they’d violated me. When they’d thrust their weapon deep inside me, because in this universe energy cannot go unbound, and the fuerie had needed a vessel to contain such an enormous and feral power.
I remember the battle that followed, and I remember being rescued.
And I remember the pain and the horror of that first night, when Mal realized what was inside me. What was building. What was about to burst out of me.
And, of course, I remember when he killed me.
Now, in his arms, I tremble.
“Hush,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’ve asked Dennis to just drive for a bit. I don’t want to go straight back in case we’re being tailed. The fuerie are aware of Number 36 already,” he adds, referring to the building owned by the brotherhood on East 63rd Street. “But they don’t understand its importance.”
I nod. Number 36 is also the location for Dark Pleasures, a members-only scotch and cigar club that had been established in 1895. But the club is only one facet of the property, and though I do not know the details of what the brotherhood has built over the last three thousand years, I realize that excellent drinks, fine cigars, and good company is the least of what goes on within those walls.
With a nod, I close my eyes again, willing the exhaustion to draw me back down. But I cannot let go. I can’t shake the memory of what I saw in that alley. The battle. The risk.
What if Mal had been cut down by the fuerie’s whip? What if he weren’t immortal?
What if I lost him?
I feel the hot press of tears burn in my eyes. “You’ve had to kill me so many times,” I whisper, then feel his body go tense against mine, as if he is waiting for a blow. I turn in his arms and look at his face. At the self-loathing in his eyes.
“No,” I whisper as a tear snakes down my cheek. I lift my hand to brush my fingertips across his lip. “No, I’m not—” I draw a breath to gather my thoughts. “Don’t you see? I may have died over and over again, but you had the worst of it. Oh, god, Mal, I can’t imagine losing you even once, and yet you had to walk through hell over and over and over again. And you had to inflict that hell on yourself. I don’t know how you survived it.”
“I couldn’t.” His voice is gravelly with emotion. “I didn’t.” He pulls me close and kisses me hard. “I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t destroy you this time.”
I swallow, my eyes locked on his, my breathing hard. And then slowly I turn and look at the front of the limo, where I know that Asher sits behind the privacy panel. “I know what’s inside me, Mal. And I don’t know if I can control it. No,” I amend, remembering the horror I’d felt only moments ago as the heat and power had risen inside me for the third—third—time that morning. “No, I know that I can’t control it.”
He takes my hands, holding them tight in his as he looks at me. “I told you to trust me to help you,” he says. “You said that you did.”
“I did. I do.” I draw in a breath. “But you need to tell me what we’re going to do.”
His smile is slow and sexy and just a little bit devious. “Lover, I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to show you.”
Chapter 3
‡
“She’ll be fine,” Mal said to Jessica, as if by making the statement, he could make it so. He glanced quickly at Dante, who sat on the couch in Mal’s second floor den, bent forward with his elbows on his knees so that his marred back was exposed. “Both of them will be fine.”
In front of him, Jessica tucked a loose strand of wavy black hair behind her ear and bent closer to Christina, whom he still held tight in his arms. “Just a quick look,” Jessica said gently to Christina. “I promise this won’t hurt.”
It already hurt—that much Mal knew damn well. How could a fuerie’s whip not hurt? But to her credit, Christina nodded, her bone-deep exhaustion painted across her face. Then she bit her lower lip as Jessica gently moved the ripped shirt out of the way so that she could better examine the injury.
The wound was long and thin, like a slice from a razor, and the sight of it marring Christina’s soft skin made Mal’s gut clench.
This was his fault. He should have gotten her out of the alley immediately. He should have left Ash to fend for himself.
He should have protected Christina.
Gently, he held her close, bending his head over hers and brushing his lips over her forehead. Only when he felt the soft press of Jessica’s palm against his shoulder did he look up.
“She’s going to be fine,” Jessica said. “Just like you said. Now go put her on the bed while I deal with Dante.”
“No,” he said. “In here.” He was damned if he was taking her into his bed wounded. His bed was the place to help her. To heal her. Hell, to cherish her. He wasn’t about to mar the sanctity of that place by tainting it with this goddamn major fuck-up.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
He’d caused that wound as efficiently as if he’d wielded the whip himself.
He’d hurt her.
And that reality ripped him to shreds.
He moved to sit in a chair, not because it strained him to hold her slim body, but because the weight of his guilt was almost too heavy to bear.
“Mal.” Christina’s whisper was thin and weak.
“What?” He bent his head, trying to hear her better.
“Stop worrying about me.” Her lips curved, and that sweet smile warmed him to his core.
“Never,” he said, but he realized that she’d made him feel better. Ironic, he thought, since she was the one who was wounded.
A few feet away, Dante rose from the couch, the two cuts on his back now clean and bandaged. He turned to look at Mal. “Debrief in thirty?”
Mal glanced down at Christina, then shook his head. “We’ll meet at four.” According to the huge grandfather clock he’d acquired in London over three centuries ago, it wasn’t yet noon. That would give him a full four hours alone with Christina. And dear god, he needed it. “Tell Liam and the rest for me, will you? We’ll convene in the courtyard.”
“You got it.” He balled up his shredded shirt, then tossed it in the wastebasket. “Thanks, Jessica.”
“My pleasure. Tell Liam I’ll be right back.” Her grin was pure wickedness. “Four entire hours free. What will we do with ourselves?”
As Dante rolled his eyes and took the stairs down to the entry level of Mal’s six story brownstone, Jessica turned her attention to Christina.
“You don’t have to hold her,” Jessica said gently. “This isn’t going to hurt.”
“Is holding her a problem?” He knew that not holding her would be a problem, at least for him. Right at the moment, the thought of releasing her seemed like the hardest thing anyone could ask him to do.
The corner of Jessica’s mouth twitched. “No,” she said gently. “Hold onto her for as long as you need.”
A good answer, Mal thought. Because that was exactly what he intended to do.
*
I’m so tired that I say nothing when Mal says that he will hold me while Jessica cleans my wound and bandages me up.
I don’t understand why I am so exhausted, but I feel as if I could sleep for a year. As if all of my energy has been drained right out of me. I’m so tired, in fact, that when we arrived, I barely noticed the inside of Mal’s house, a lovely brownstone that is connected to Number 36 by a charming courtyard.
I’d seen the courtyard before, and I’d assumed the brownstone had been converted to multiple apartments.
I’d been wrong.
Instead, it’s an absolutely stunning building, full of polished wood and fabulous artw
ork and a mix of both contemporary and antique furniture that should clash, but really doesn’t. Instead, it’s like Mal himself, the building and the interior reflecting both the facets of the man and the years through which his has lived.
At some point, I want him to take me through every room on every floor. I want to see his souvenirs and hear about his memories. Right now, though, as he holds me in his arms in this comfortable den with plush furniture in shades of brown and ivory, all I want to do is close my eyes and float away.
“Sleepy,” I say as I snuggle closer to the warmth of his chest.
“I know you are, lover. I’ll give some of it back as soon as Jessica’s finished.”
I frown up at him, not understanding his words. But I see no explanation in those steel gray eyes, and before I can ask what he means, Jessica is very gently cutting off my T-shirt with a pair of small scissors.
“It’s really not that bad a wound,” I say, though in truth the pain that had faded when Mal pushed the weapon back down is starting to return.
“Maybe not. But unless you let me treat it, you’ll not only have pain but a nasty scar.”
I frown and glance over toward the stairs down which Dante had descended only moments before, his wound treated with nothing more than ointment and Bandaids. Jessica, to her credit, laughs.
“Oh, please. A scar only makes him look like more of a badass. And the truth is, if he bites it in a fight, the phoenix fire is going to fix any lingering scar, anyway. But you don’t need to look like a bad ass.”
“She certainly doesn’t,” Mal says.
What neither of them say is that the phoenix fire would do nothing for me. If I die, then I’m gone. For a year, a hundred, a thousand. Who knows? And who knows when I would find Mal again?
His arms tighten around me, and I know that he is thinking the same thing.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask Jessica.
Her smile is devilishly wide. “I’m going to fix you.” She glances toward Mal. “It’s Sunday morning, and I’m missing brunch. Surely you could spare a mimosa? And I think Christina could use one, too.”
“Jessica…”
I think I hear a warning in his voice, but she only ignores it, which makes me like her all the more. Mal, after all, is not an easy man to defy.
“Oh, go on,” she says. “I promise not to do a thing until she’s back in your arms.”
Mal sighs, but I see the flicker of amusement cross his face before he gently settles me in the huge armchair. As soon as he’s in the kitchen, I turn my attention to Jessica. “No offense, but if you think you’re going to stitch me up while drinking, you are seriously misinformed.”
“No stitches,” Jessica says. “Promise.”
I frown. I may not know much about wounds and scars, but I do know that unless this one is taken care of, that badass scar she said I didn’t need would be right there across my torso, a nasty, puckered reminder of today’s unpleasant encounter with the bad guys.
“Tell her, Mal,” Jessica demands as Mal returns with two champagne glasses filled with mimosas and one highball glass filled with scotch. “Tell her that I’ll get her back to perfect.”
“She’s already perfect,” he counters, then turns to me. “But I will tell you that she’ll fix that wound up nicely.”
Jessica rolls her eyes. “Good enough.” She takes the glass Mal offers, and I watch as she downs it in one long swallow. He hands me mine next, then sits on the arm of the chair and takes my hand with his free one, twining our fingers together. “Lie back, lover. Let her take care of you.”
I hesitate, then take a long sip of my drink before complying so that I am sprawled on the chair, my head back and my feet up on the ottoman. Since I can hardly drink while I’m like this, Jessica takes my glass and downs the orange juice and champagne cocktail before setting the glass aside.
“Trust me,” she says. “A little alcohol only helps me out. Loosens me up. Lets the energy flow more freely.”
I meet Mal’s eyes, certain that Jessica must be teasing me. But all he does is nod. “Energy is the root of everything in the universe.” His voice is steady. Soothing. And I realize that he’s speaking not only to instruct, but also to make sure I stay calm. “Do you remember that much?”
“I think so,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m remembering middle school science or deeper lessons from a life I recall only in pieces.
“Good. And even in this world, where sentient beings require matter in order to function, energy remains at the heart of it. And we, Christina, started out as beings of pure energy.”
As he speaks, Jessica’s fingers are skimming over me, her focus intent as she examines the wound.
The truth is that I only understand part of what he is saying. The things that I have remembered are moments, not theory or philosophy or the underlying answer to questions about the very nature of existence. Instead, I remember the battle when we crashed. The times that Mal destroyed me. The pain when the fuerie put the weapon inside me. I remember things that happened to me or because of me. But I have very little understanding of what—or who—that “me” really is.
“Everything you can see, feel, taste, touch,” Mal continues, not noticing that my attention has wandered. “There’s energy at the core of it. Does that make sense?”
I nod.
“Every cell, every atom,” Jessica adds. “Hell, even every memory.”
“Jess.” Mal’s voice is surprisingly terse.
She cuts a glance toward him, then smiles in what I think is apology. “Anyway, it all goes back to energy. Look,” she says. “All I’m doing is manipulating energy.”
I glance down to where Jessica’s fingertip is tracing very slowly along the line of my wound, which is turning slightly pink as the skin knits together behind her touch.
“How are you—”
Her smile is gentle. “Everyone in the brotherhood manifests a control over energy, though we each have different strengths. My particular skill is healing.”
“And here I assumed you’d just gone to med school.”
“Well, that too.” She grins. “You’re all done.”
I look again, amazed that my skin appears entirely unmarred. “Wow.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Jessica says.
I manage a nonchalant lift of a shoulder. “Well, I was hoping to look like a badass, but if this is the best that you can do…”
She laughs, then glances between me and Mal. “She’s still wiped out, and I just drained her even more.”
“I’ll take care of her,” he says.
“I know you will. And I’ll see the two of you at four. In the meantime,” she adds with another wicked little smile, “enjoy your Sunday. I know Liam and I intend to enjoy ours.”
And then she’s gone, her light footsteps echoing as she descends the stairs. A moment later, I hear a door open, and then very firmly shut again.
“Has there ever been a sweeter sound?” Mal rises from the arm of the chair to stand beside me. “I finally have you all to myself.”
He pulls the ottoman back, then gently puts my feet on the floor. I start to scoot up a bit, intending to adjust my position so that I am sitting more than sprawling.
“No.”
Just that one word, but it locks me into place. I lick my lips, suddenly breathing hard. Suddenly aware of all sorts of decadent possibilities. “Mal…”
He says nothing, but he meets my eyes as he drops to his knees between the ottoman and the chair. All around me, the air feels warm and heavy. Energy. Was this what Jessica meant? Because right at the moment, the heat that Mal is generating could fuel a small nation.
Slowly, he puts his hands on my knees, and even through my jeans, his touch is electric, sending sparks running through my entire body, making me moan. I shift my hips a bit, feeling antsy and needy, and as I do I realize that I am wet.
My legs are parted, and though I’m still wearing my jeans, I feel exposed. I’m in only
my bra, and where that had seemed fine just moments before, now I am on edge. My nipples are hard. My body on fire. I am not used to this sensation—to wanting a man so badly that my body opens to him with so little provocation. The feeling that I should be naked.
The knowledge that I am his to do with as he wants.
And the sweet, terrifying, undeniable truth that I crave everything that he might do to me.
Chapter 4
‡
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly overwhelmed by the depth of my own desire. “I—I need a shirt.”
The corner of Mal’s mouth twitches. “You really don’t,” he says, looking at me with such sensual intensity that I’m pretty sure any shirt I might put on would immediately be burned off.
“Mal—”
“Tell me what you really need.” As he speaks, his hands are sliding up my thighs, slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly.
I swallow, not sure I am capable of forming words.
“Do you want me to stop touching you?”
“No.” The word is ripped from me.
“Then what?” His thumbs stroke the juncture of my thighs, one on each side of my sex, and even through the denim the sensation is pure, decadent delight.
“It’s just that I’ve never felt this way before.” The admission surprises me. Not because it’s true, but because I am admitting that to Mal.
“Tell me,” he says. “How do you feel?”
“Open,” I admit.
“And?”
I meet his eyes, nerves fluttering in my chest. But I push forward, because it’s important to say the words. “I trust you,” I say. My words are barely a whisper, but I see the fire they spark in him, and I do not regret speaking.
“I’m glad.”
I manage a small smile. “It’s a little terrifying,” I say, and he laughs, the sound acting like a balm and easing the last of the tension out of me. That heavy exhaustion still lingers, but I blame that on the injury and Jessica’s treatment. And even if I were bone tired, I wouldn’t care. Because I want more. I want everything.
