Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  His sidelong glance told her he knew that very well. “You turned, Layla.” When she ducked her head, he continued in a soft voice. “How long has this been going on?”

  She cleared her throat. “A little under a year. I cannot be sure, though.” With a deep breath, she looked up at him. “I don’t remember what I do. I wake up nude, sometimes there is blood . . .” A choked sob left her. “I taste blood on my tongue, and it is delicious.”

  Her guardian sat and drew her into his embrace. Layla rested her head on his shoulder and tried not to cry. Theirs had always been a close relationship, but Augustus had been formal with her, never one to hug her tight as he did now. But she relished it.

  Her fingers curled into his lapels. “I’m frightened.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Why do I end up nude? Do you suppose . . .” She could not finish. The thought was too horrible.

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “No, child,” he said as if he’d read her thoughts, which, given what Sin had told her, he just might have. “It is because, when you are cornered, you shift into a flock of birds.”

  She choked out a horrified laugh and drew away. “You’re serious? Birds?”

  His expression was solemn. “Starlings, actually.” A small smile pulled at his mouth. “Quite ironic, given your name, no?”

  She had to laugh again. “Quite.” She wiped her bleary eyes. “I’m not human. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to keep you from the ugliness of our life for as long as possible. Most immortals don’t discover their ‘otherness’ until they reach maturity and develop their powers.”

  “And mine? Changing to birds? What of the blood?” Layla gripped him again. “What have I been doing?”

  “I do not know.” He peered at her. “I believe you like to drink it.”

  She gagged. “God. Am I a killer, then?”

  “Some blood drinkers are. And some are not. I do not believe you to be a killer, my dear.”

  “But you do know what I am.” She eased farther away from him. “Augustus, you told me my parents died in a coach accident. That wasn’t true, was it?”

  “No.” He frowned down at his hands, neatly folded upon his lap. “Your mother’s name is Lena.”

  “She is alive?” Excitement warred with hurt. If she was alive, why had she never claimed Layla? Why had she left her? And could Layla find her?

  Augustus’s dark gaze bore into her, as if he could see her roiling emotions, as if he too felt them. “No one knows where she is. The last time I saw her was when she brought you to me. She begged me for help.” Tentatively, he reached out and cupped Layla’s cold hand. “She was in some sort of trouble, not that she would tell me what. But she was headed for Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “Another plane of existence which humans often think of as hell.”

  She jolted. “How horrible.”

  “Agreed.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then let go. “But Lena has the ability to come and go from that dark place. Many of the more powerful supernaturals do.”

  “Was she . . . Is she evil, then?”

  “Not evil. But those of us with great powers always walk the line between good and evil, for it is quite easy to fall into greed.” He held her gaze. “Remember that. Fate is nothing more than the repercussions of the choices we make.”

  Layla sighed. “So my mother is gone. And my father? What of him?”

  “I do not know who he is. Lena wouldn’t tell me.”

  Frustration and sadness seemed to swirl around him. And she found herself reaching out to comfort him. Augustus gave her a weak attempt at a smile. “I’m leaving now to search for her. And answers. When I am gone, watch over St. John.”

  “I thought he was here to watch over me.”

  “You’re here for each other, dear girl. Do not forget that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Layla was still sitting in bed, the morning light peeking through the curtains, when Sin knocked on her door. So great was her anticipation in seeing him, she thought nothing of leaping out of bed and running to the door to let him in.

  He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to take notice of her attire and the words died in his mouth. His serious green eyes tracked down her length, not a slow or very rushed tour. No, simply thorough and intense.

  Caught in the snare of his gaze, she couldn’t find it in her to move, but stood stock still, one hand on the door, the other limp at her side. She was not wearing anything provocative, simply a fine linen nightgown that covered her from neck to toes. But she was bare beneath it, and having his gaze on her made her suddenly feel every place the fabric touched her skin—from its caress of her backside, the way it skimmed her knees, to the soft weight of it over her breasts.

  Her nipples peaked, growing tight and hot. And his breath seemed to hitch in response.

  His eyes met hers, and for a moment his were wide open, hiding nothing. Heat, want, longing, lust, fear. Then he blinked, and it was gone. All he left for her to see was cool indifference.

  “I have brought you these.”

  Only then did she notice he held a pile of dark clothing. He thrust it forward, forcing her to gather the pieces before they dropped to the floor.

  “What are these for?” She glanced down at her gift. It appeared to be two garments made of black linen.

  “Practice.” Sin kept his attention on the clothing. “You need to know how to defend yourself should someone attack when I am not near.”

  Layla’s hands pressed into the cool fabric. “Forgive me, dear friend, but did I not nearly tear your head off last night?” She hated that knowledge and the vague, blood-tinged memories that spoke of violence and rage. But they could not nullify simple facts—she was a killer.

  Sin gave her a measured look. “Oh, you are quite capable when you are turned and nearly mindless.”

  Layla winced.

  “However,” he went on, “the likelihood of you being attacked in that state is far less than when you are in your current state.” His expression told her exactly what he thought of her current state: she was helpless.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. Layla hadn’t a clue how to defend herself should the worst occur. Well, aside from giving a good scream and aiming a knee at a man’s cods. Something told her neither of those things would be very effective in Sin’s world.

  “All right,” she said, holding the clothes to her chest, where her heart kicked up in a nervous rhythm.

  Sin peered at her for a moment. “It will be all right, little bird. You are more than what you seem. We simply must teach you to draw your powers out.”

  His sudden, quiet kindness touched her heart and she found herself leaning towards him. But his brusque manner returned. “Get changed and meet me in my room in a quarter hour.”

  With that, he turned and strode down the hall.

  Sighing, Layla closed her door and inspected the garments. The first was a set of loosely tailored pants with a tie to keep them in place. They were quite like her knickers, only longer; the thought had her flushing. The top was a long-sleeved, military-style tunic—though the linen was fine and light.

  “Good lord,” she muttered as she lifted the last offering. Sin, the devil, had even given her short stays. With wide shoulder straps, lightly padded cups, and ending just beneath the bosom, the stays were merely to hold her breasts in place, giving her the freedom to move and take deep breaths.

  Layla rather loved them and instantly wanted more. But the thought that Sin had picked the stays out, that he had put his hands on them, selected the proper size, felt too intimate, as if he were still in the room with her.

  He remained foremost in her thoughts when she slipped the stays over her bare breasts—for the outfit left no room for a chemise. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the ties close and secured it with a bow.

  Standing in front of the mirror, dressed only in the flowing pants and the plain, functional stays
, Layla took stock. The fighting outfit was mannish, the stays holding her breasts flat and secure. And yet she felt more erotically charged than when she wore one of her pretty corsets and lacy knickers. For all its functionality, the outfit was quite naughty. One rip of her tunic, a good tug of her laces, and she’d be utterly bare.

  And she was going to spar with Sin, who could pull apart this fabric as easily as a normal man could tear fine tissue paper.

  In the mirror, her cheeks went red. But then Layla laughed. Whatever wicked thoughts Layla entertained, her old friend certainly wouldn’t act upon them. Yes, he sometimes looked at her as a man does a woman, but he just as clearly did not want to. Sin was not remotely interested in dallying with her. No, all he wanted to do at the moment was teach her how to punch. Wonderful.

  Layla found Sin waiting by the far mirrored wall, where the area was devoid of all furniture. When she had been here before, the floors had been bare. Now thick cotton mats covered the space.

  Sin stood in the center of the mats, his lean body at ease, his hands set low on his hips as he watched her join him. Like her, he wore a set of black linen trousers and matching tunic. His feet were bare so Layla toed off her slippers before stepping onto the mat.

  Sin looked her over once more, then frowned.

  “What is it?” she asked, glancing down at her body. “Have I got something wrong?”

  Slowly he padded over to her, moving to her side. “Your hair.”

  “My hair?” She blinked back at him, confused. She’d braided it nice and neat.

  Sin didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped behind her. His warmth radiated along her back, not touching, but so very close that his proximity held all her awareness. She was about to turn her head to question him when he gently picked up the long rope of her plaited hair and began to feed it down her collar. Her hair tickled the skin of her back as it went, and she shivered lightly.

  Sin’s soft breath brushed over the edge of her ear, his voice low and intimate. “Do not give anyone such an easy target to grab hold of. Either wear your hair up or tuck it in like this.”

  Blood rushing in her ears, Layla only nodded. His hand lay heavy and warm upon her shoulder. She had the mad urge to simply lean back against his chest, perhaps rest her head upon his shoulder and ask him to put his lips to the exposed length of her neck where she was most sensitive.

  She did none of those things and he stepped away, leaving her cold and alone. He put a good five feet of space between them before he faced her once more.

  “Now then,” Sin began. “What you must understand is that this will not be conducted as would an ordinary sparring match.”

  “How fortunate that I do not know what an ordinary sparring match entails,” Layla murmured, unable to help herself.

  Sin’s dark brow quirked, but he pressed his lips together hard and fast for a moment before going on, his tone now dry. “Whereas one would normally execute certain moves, feints, and parries, we are going to act on instinct. Do whatever feels correct.”

  “So, then, if my instincts are to windmill my arms about in a frantic manner, that is all right?” Layla grinned wide.

  Sin stared.

  “Fine,” she grumped. “Throw a wet blanket on my fun.”

  “This is not fun, Layla.” Sin was in full professor mode now, all dour and pompous. “You are here to learn.”

  “Learning ought to be fun,” Layla groused. When she was met with yet another unyielding stare, she rolled her shoulders to loosen up. Blasted Sin. She was nervous, and he did nothing to help alleviate that.

  Layla moved her weight to the balls of her feet, having absolutely no clue what she was doing. “All right, then. I’m ready.”

  He looked rather dubious as he strolled forward, his bare feet light and nimble on the mat. It gave the illusion that he barely touched the ground. In truth, the man moved with such lithe grace, he seemed more sleek lone wolf than six feet of beautiful man.

  Ordinarily, Layla would let herself enjoy the spectacle of Sin prowling about, wearing nothing more than lose linen shirt and trousers. Now, however, she felt stalked, those green eyes of his holding a gleam of anticipation.

  “Off the mat is out of bounds and signifies a loss,” he told her casually.

  “So,” she drew out, her heart pounding loudly in her chest, “what do I do?”

  His mouth quirked. “Let’s start by staying on your feet.”

  “Staying on my f—” She landed on her back with an “ooof!”—her breath fleeing her lungs. Stunned, she blinked up at the ceiling until Sin’s face came into view. He bent over her, a lock of his hair dangling down from his forehead. “Too slow.”

  Layla found her voice. “St. John! How could you?” She hadn’t even seen him move, damn his eyes.

  His brow furrowed. “What did you think we were doing here? Having tea?”

  Bastard. Layla stood, dusting off her bruised rump. “Fine friend you are.”

  He cocked his head. “Again. Come at me.”

  So she did, a little more aggressive now. And he clipped her chin with an almost lazy cuff of his open hand and then swept her feet again.

  Again she plopped onto the mat. “You bloody, despicable . . .”

  His face hovered. “Again, Layla.”

  “That hurt!” Horrifying, but she wanted to cry. She’d never been hit before. That Sin did so hurt more than the actual physical pain.

  His expression did not alter from its normal state. “Yes, I know. It will hurt worse when someone attacks you. You must learn how to ignore the shock of being hit.”

  Refusing to move—for, good gravy, her body throbbed in protest—she glared up at him. “You propose we practice by you breaking my back?”

  The man managed to convey an eye roll with a simple lifting of his brows. “You’re an immortal. A couple of hard hits will not gravely injure your person. Nor will the discomfort last very long.”

  He was correct in that. Already the pain in her jaw and ribs were gone. Gritting her teeth, she got to her feet, pausing to straighten her clothes and take a calming breath.

  Sin sneered. “Christ, Layla, stop dithering like an old ninny. You are clearly quite powerful when you want to be. It took all I had to chase you down that first night. Now move your arse and hit me.”

  She swung before all the words left his mouth. And caught air. Snarling, she advanced on him, swinging and kicking in pure rage. And the smarmy cur dipped and spun, easily evading her.

  Again he batted her on the side of her head. Another blow to her middle. One swift kick on her arse. None of them very hard. No, he was toying with her.

  She saw red. Again she lashed out. Again she missed. And he began to laugh, a pleased chuckle.

  His heels reached the edge of the mat. Layla grinned with evil glee and kicked. He leapt high and began to descend, his fist out and aiming for her. Instinct had Layla dropping, rolling her body beneath his and kicking up into him.

  Her heel caught him directly on the cods. Sin grunted, his body falling awkwardly and with a great thud on the mat. Groaning, he pulled his knees up.

  Unrepentant, Layla jumped up and stomped down, intent on hitting his chest. But he rolled, evading. Even down and in pain the dratted man wouldn’t let her get in a good shot. The need to crush him was a sharp, throbbing want in her blood. He no longer looked like Sin, but like prey.

  His face was red, a sheen of sweet covering him as he chuckled and hopped to his feet—less graceful than before, but still competent. Still faster. “Good, never stop an attack solely because you hit your target. Always—oof!”

  Her fist found his chin. Layla tossed a smile his way, her blood hot and racing. “You were saying?”

  Sin glared. “All right. You made your point—” He dove away from her elbow. “Christ. I get it. Now, let’s take a break and—”

  Layla had no intention of stopping. He wanted her anger. Now he had it.

  She jumped straight at him and somehow managed to wrap her
self around him. His sharp inhale spoke of surprise. Layla bared her fangs with a deep seated need to sink them in his strong, delicious-smelling neck.

  Sin grunted then cupped her bottom. With infuriating ease, he flipped her and pinned her to the ground by her wrists, his ankles hooking over her kicking legs. “Would you stop,” he huffed, “trying to kill me?”

  Layla glared up into his amused face. “It is not funny.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled a bit more. “It is a little.”

  With a growl, she jerked against his wrists and thrashed her hips to get loose. His hold was not painful but as effective as iron cuffs.

  “Layla,” he warned, his humor still high but now touched with a note of strain, “you do not want to continue doing that.”

  “Oh, no?” She thrashed again, her knee smashing into his thigh. It gave her great satisfaction to hear him grunt. The bastard was too strong to truly hurt, but at the very least, he could feel her ire.

  Silver flashed in Sin’s eyes, like sunlight rippling over a still lake, before they went bright, jade green. It caught her attention enough to give her pause. Then he simply dropped onto her, his chest against hers, his hips wedged between her parted thighs.

  And then she understood. He was hard as iron and grinding that stiff pike there. Everything within her stilled—her body, her heart, her breath. This was Sin. Hard for her.

  They were both lightly panting now. His nose was a mere inch from hers, and he stared back, unrepentant, if not a wee bit put out. “I see I’ve made my point,” he murmured dryly, not taking his eyes from hers.

  She could feel him there, pulsing like a heartbeat. And it felt utterly . . . wonderful. Her breasts crushed against his chest as she drew in a deep breath. “Do you think,” she said, letting that shaking breath out, “this will get me to concede defeat?”

  His lush mouth tilted wryly, even as he seemed to settle more comfortably into place. “No . . .” His hips rocked an infinitesimal degree. It had the effect of a full-out thrust. He watched her shiver, and his lids lowered a touch. “I must say, however,” he went on, “I do appreciate this position far more.”