Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  She might have melted into a hot puddle of want right there, were it not for that damned wry amusement still lurking in his eyes. He was laughing at her, even as he slowly drove her mad with his hard, lean body. Layla stiffened, forcing herself to ignore everything but his smug face.

  “Oh, do get off.”

  Sin paused, his brows raising. “But we’re so comfortable.” As if he could not help himself, he moved again, just that small exploratory rock of his hips.

  And Layla growled again, a low warning rumble deep in her breast. “Now, Saint. I do not like this.”

  Instantly she was free. So fast and completely that her lungs expanded with a gasp. Sin stood a foot away, his fisted hands in his pockets, that hateful blank expression back upon his handsome face. “My apologies, Layla. It shall not happen again.”

  Layla got to her feet, her ribs protesting a twinge. But her heart hurt more. He appeared so wounded, as if her words had sliced into his gut. “Sin . . .”

  He turned and straightened his shoulders. “Shall we continue or are you done for the day?” He looked at her, patient and waiting for her answer, as if nothing had occurred.

  Layla took a breath, wanting to scream, wanting to demand he give her his secrets. “Let us continue.”

  She’d be damned if he forced her to quit. And so they sparred once more, hard, fast, but never playful, never with joy. Sin was once again that solemn stranger, keeping her out.

  Chapter Ten

  The rules of the supernatural world were not the same as those of human society. When one could easily level a townhouse with a pulse of power, safeguards must be put in place. Therefore, one must always stand down. If one found oneself becoming annoyed, it was imperative to walk away.

  On the other hand, when one couldn’t be killed short of a beheading, one tended to be more . . . lax about rules of comportment. Supernaturals usually skipped stuffy formalities such as seeking an introduction and, instead, acted on instinct.

  All of which meant that Sin was in a hell disguised as a ball. For he could not step in between the numerous males who flocked around Layla, nor could he throw out the tosser who hovered too close to her elbow. If Layla did not want their attention, all she had to do was say so. Instead she fairly beamed with happiness.

  Well good. Wonderful. Bloody great.

  He turned away from the spectacle. And ran straight into a woman. Stepping back before he made full contact, Sin was already muttering his pardon when he caught sight of the female. Red, curling hair, and dark brown eyes tilted at the corners. His stomach lurched, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. The woman looked like her, the evil, foul witch who’d ruled him for so long. Instinct had him wanting to shrink back or lash out.

  It was not her; it was just an ordinary female. He was safe. She was gone. Dead. He’d annihilated her with his own power, seen her body break apart, and had sent her spirit to Judgment.

  Apparently oblivious of Sin’s unease, the female sauntered closer, her green gown all but painted on her curves. Sweet hell, she even wore green. Bile rose in Sin’s throat. He might well retch before he could escape.

  “I’ve been watching you,” the woman said with a lyrical voice. She had the scent of fae. Not exactly like the evil bitch’s, but one of her kind. “I know you.”

  He was certain she did. Most London court fae knew that Sin had been the bitch’s blood slave. Humiliation pressed in, but Sin kept his expression neutral by sheer force. “You do not, in fact, know me, madam. You might recognize my face, but only my friends know me.”

  Her smile was coy. “Very well. I know of you. Is that better? I’d like to know you, however.” She moved to touch him.

  Sin struck out, grabbing hold of her hand and lowering it. A steady but firm action that could not be avoided. Like hell would he let a fae female lay her hands on him again.

  The woman pouted. “I only wanted a dance. Perhaps take a tour of one of the alcoves.” Her pink, overlong tongue flicked out to lick her upper lip. “I’ve heard you’re quite the lover.”

  Rage fell in a red haze over his vision.

  “I’m afraid,” Layla said, suddenly at his side, “my friend here is otherwise occupied.”

  Her fingers just touched the edge of his elbow. His first instinct was to throw it off, but this was Layla. So he let her guide him away from the foul fae woman, who huffed in irritation as they left her behind.

  Neither of them spoke as they walked towards the terrace. But Layla made a point to drop her hand from his arm. He felt the loss like a cold spot upon his skin. Even so, as soon as he was out of doors, Sin took a deep breath, attempting to purge the sick feeling from his flesh.

  She was dead. Annihilated.

  “Sin?” Layla’s voice brought him back. Her eyes, now wide with worry, peered up at him. “Tell me what happened.”

  Sin could only stare back at her, a certain horror coiling through his insides at the mere idea of explaining any part of his life concerning the fae bitch.

  But Layla was Layla and she would never be dissuaded by silence. “She claimed to know you, and it was clear you were repulsed by the notion.” Layla gave him a sad little smile. “Do not worry, I doubt anyone besides me noticed. I know your tells well. They do not.”

  Another breath and Sin glanced into the inky night. “I did not know the woman.”

  “She reminded you of someone?” When his gaze snapped to hers, she grimaced. “The way you’re looking at me now, as though I’d strung your union suit up a flag pole. Can we not speak honestly anymore?”

  He cleared his throat. “I do not wear union suits.”

  Her smile was sly. “Yet another bit of information I shall store away for later.”

  Hell. He actually flushed. From a little flirting. But it felt . . . good. Pure and sweet. So far from the tainted ugliness he’d experienced in the hands of his first sexual experiences that Sin wanted to soak in it, like a cool bath on a hot, sticky day.

  And he found himself drawing closer to Layla, setting his hand upon the balustrade where hers rested. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. You now know what I do not wear beneath my trousers, and yet I haven’t the same information in regards to you.”

  Her smile grew, her gaze going dark. “Well, for one, I do not wear union suits.”

  A laugh huffed out of him, soft but surprising. He hadn’t laughed in a long time. His hand moved closer to hers. “No?” he murmured. “How disappointing.”

  Though he could picture it, all too clearly, Layla’s rounded curves filling out a pair of men’s long underwear. In his mind, he turned her to her stomach and slowly unbuttoned the little panel that covered her pert bottom. When exposed, he’d run his hand over that smooth, plump flesh, slip between her rounded cheeks.

  He took a ragged breath, and she watched him. Her hand slid nearer. The touch of her pinky against his was a match strike along his cock. The ground beneath the house rumbled a bit, the air turning balmy around them.

  She didn’t appear to notice, but gazed up at him with parted lips. Another tiny stroke of her finger to his. “Are you really disappointed that I don’t wear union suits?” she whispered.

  The ground rumbled again. Enough to send a tremor up his legs. Sin tried to tamp down his power even as he kept his gaze on Layla. “No,” he whispered back. “In truth, I’d prefer to picture you in noth—”

  “There you are,” a male voice interrupted. Sin’s back teeth met with a click.

  St. Claire strolled across the terrace, his focus on Layla. “Miss Starling, I do believe you promised me a waltz.”

  The beginning notes of the waltz drifted out from the open ballroom doors.

  Layla glanced between Sin and the rat bastard St. Claire. “Oh yes, I did.”

  St. Claire stopped beside her, his hand going to her elbow. Sin wanted to tear his fingers off one by one. St. Claire’s expression was doting, this side of possessive. “Shall we?” He glanced at Sin. “I’ll take it from here
, Evernight.”

  Take it from here. As if Layla were a parcel to be fobbed off. Frustrated rage punched through Sin’s chest. But Layla had agreed to dance with the bastard. And she was letting him lead her away. From him.

  Her wide, brown eyes glanced back, an expression in them that replaced his rage with guilt. Condemnation, disappointment, and a dare. Do something if you do not like this, she seemed to say with that one look.

  Nothing had been promised between them. They were merely childhood friends reunited once more. And yet, Layla, with one quiet look, had slashed through that falsehood and exposed the truth: she was his for the taking. If only he dared.

  In the golden light of the ballroom, St. Claire took Layla into his arms. He held her close enough to stake a claim, close enough that Layla had to arch her back into his embrace, the tips of her pert breasts nearly grazing his chest.

  Sin’s hands curled into fists as the air around him grew sweltering hot. Condensation beaded on the French door glass.

  Layla smiled up at something St. Claire said. Another twirl and St. Claire was facing Sin’s direction. The bastard glanced his way, and a flash of smug humor lit his eyes. His hand slipped down Layla’s waist just a fraction. Enough that another surge of rage coursed through Sin’s body.

  And still he did not move. Sin tore his gaze away and looked out over the dark garden. The waltz played on, mocking him. The urge to turn back and watch Layla dance with St. Claire had his neck locking up. Laughter drifted through the air. It wasn’t hers but it might as well have been.

  Here he was again, on the outside while others within enjoyed their lives.

  Life is what you make of it, a voice whispered in his head. You are the one choosing to be out here.

  Out here he could breathe. In there, people knew what he’d been: a slave, a plaything for a bored fiend. He’d been a whore. Betrayer of family. Who was he to take away Layla’s opportunities to find someone respectable?

  Only she hadn’t looked at St. Claire the way she’d looked at Sin. In his mind’s eye, he saw her again, pleading, daring.

  Something within him snapped. He’d been fortune’s fool for long enough.

  Honestly, attempting to make a man jealous was bloody tiring work. Layla reflected on this as she danced with St. Claire, tittering like some inane bit of fluff over every word he uttered. The man ought to be rolling his eyes, but he appeared to be quite pleased with himself.

  As for the man she wanted to notice? He was still on the terrace, presumably without care that she was dancing with another man.

  Well just bloody perfect.

  “I would love to hear you sing, Miss Starling,” St. Claire said, drawing her attention back to him.

  He really was a handsome devil, with his golden hair and well-shaped features. Not in the breathless way of Sin’s male beauty, but no less attractive. She held back a sigh. Not appealing to her, however.

  “I have retired,” she said, giving him her standard polite smile.

  His brow drew in a frown. “Retire? You are so very young. At the top of your profession.”

  Insensitive boor. Did he not realize that she would only retire with good cause? The polite thing would be to drop the subject or not to have brought it up at all.

  Her smile grew tight. “There are those who believe it is best to leave the stage while on top.” They made a turn, and she went on. “Do you know, Mr. St. Claire, it was always my great regret never to have attended a performance by Miss Jenny Lind.”

  “The Swedish Nightingale,” St. Claire murmured, his eyes flashing with humor. “Yes, she was wonderful but very controlled in her expression. It is said that you, Songbird, are much more passionate in your delivery.”

  So much for deflecting the conversation. Layla made a noise that one could either interpret as, this is so or please do shut up. Hopefully he’d do the latter. Her gaze drifted over the crowded ballroom and came to an abrupt halt as she spied Sin striding into the room.

  Everything else fell away. She was a lost cause where Sin was concerned, for there was no one else who inspired her regard the way he did. Good Lord but he was magnificent, tall and strong, his angular features fierce, his jade-colored eyes shining bright beneath the black slashes of his brows. Inky strands of hair fell over his forehead, making her believe he must have run his fingers through them in agitation.

  When he was a boy, he’d been not shy but quiet, keeping to himself. He was still self-contained but now power radiated from him with such force it affected the very air around him. She fancied he would laugh if she pointed out the way he commanded a room. He merely had to enter it and people turned to watch him, stepping out of his path when he walked past.

  They did so now, not that he appeared to notice. His gaze was still focused directly on her. And she flushed hot, her skin prickling. She wanted him to catch her, haul her close, and . . .

  He cut in front of St. Claire, knocking them apart, and wrapped his warm hand around her wrist. A gentle tug and she was stumbling after him as he headed off the dance floor.

  Behind them St. Claire called out, protesting.

  “Sod off,” Sin said over his shoulder, not bothering to look at St. Claire or even at her.

  Layla’s heart pounded as they entered the hall. Sin guided her to the front door, leaving the house as a footman opened the door for them.

  “Sin,” she said as they rushed down the stairs, “I’ll trip on my skirts if you do not slow down.”

  He stopped entirely. Still holding her wrist, he turned to face her, and they ended up nearly toe to toe. “Right then,” he snapped. “Did you want to dance with that ponce?”

  Layla didn’t know what a ponce was, but she gathered it wasn’t pleasant. “No,” she said truthfully.

  Sin’s nostrils flared on an indrawn breath. “Then why did you?”

  “Because he asked and you would not protest.”

  He gave her wrist a squeeze before letting it go. “It is not my place to protest.”

  “Oh, but it is yours to drag me off the dance floor like some . . . some . . . ruddy barbarian?”

  He made a noise of exasperation. “You gave me that look.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “That bloody ‘why don’t you do something, Sin?’ look.”

  She had, hadn’t she? Layla bit back a smile, trying valiantly to keep a straight face. But he noticed, and his green eyes narrowed. “Right there, I see that, Layla. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I am enjoying myself, precisely. You are, however, amusing at times.”

  A blast of heated air brushed over them as his jaw bunched. “So help me . . .” He took a breath. “You keep pushing me, Layla, and eventually I will push back.”

  She took a step closer, her satin skirts swirling around his legs, the tips of her breasts nearly touching his chest. “So push.”

  Sin’s body jerked, his head dipping down as if he just might silence her with his lips. But then he froze. His gaze strayed to her mouth, and it seemed he swayed closer, his lids lowering just a fraction more.

  Her breath came on in quick, deep pants. Please. Please. Heat bloomed wide, washing over her skin, plucking at her nipples. They grew stiff beneath the tight clasp of her bodice.

  As if he saw her physical reaction, a visible shudder went through him and he closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “Layla,” he rasped, almost weakly. “When I became Judgment, I took a vow.”

  “A vow,” she all but croaked.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze flat and pale green. “To remain faithful to my duty. To make it my one and only mistress.”

  “You mean . . .” She could not finish the sentence without sobbing. Or stomping her foot. Or something equally horrid.

  His voice was low, placid. “I told you Judgment were akin to monk warriors.”

  That he could stand there, telling her he would never be anything more than her guardian, that he would choose his duty over her 
. . . It was noble, honorable. It ought to have made her proud. Instead a thick, sticky emotion came over, thwarted rage and frustration.

  She stamped her foot then. “Then why drag me out here, St. John? Why this display of jealous temper?”

  His brows rose. “Jealous—”

  “Yes, jealous,” she snapped. “You appear to appreciate forthright talk. Well, that goes both ways. You were jealous. Admit it.”

  He glanced away, his jaw bunching again, making it appear sharper. “Leave off, Layla. This is useless.”

  “Oh, bollocks to that! Admit it, you . . . ponce!”

  A shocked laugh escaped him, his cheeks dimpling, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that was irritatingly boyish. “Ponce, eh?”

  “Yes.” She stomped her foot.

  He leaned in, tilting his head. “Do you know what that even means?”

  “A cad?”

  His smile grew. “Try again.”

  “Boor?”

  He began to chuckle, low and rolling. “No.”

  “Oh, who the bloody hell cares!” She tossed up her hands in defeat. “All I need to know is that it isn’t nice. And neither are you . . .”

  She stopped talking when he dipped his head until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. His deep voice worked over her like a delicious shiver. “A ponce, little bird, is a man who manages prostitutes.”

  Layla reared back. “Well, then why would you call St. Claire one?”

  He burst out laughing, his entire frame shaking with it. “Because it isn’t nice and neither is he.”

  She wanted to wring Sin’s neck but she could not help it; she laughed too, hard enough that her corset pinched. “You awful man,” she said between gasps. “Awful, horrid . . .”

  He reached out and hauled her close, wrapping her in his arms. It shocked her into silence, and he hugged her sweetly, his lips pressing against the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Layla,” he murmured into her hair. “I acted the ass. Because I was jealous.”

  A little lurch went through her heart. As if he felt it, Sin gently rubbed her back, his broad hand warm.