by Billi Jean
He settled behind her, head resting on his fist so he could gaze at her. She had done something to him. Changed him in ways he wasn’t sure he understood. Or liked.
Oh, it wasn’t the hand job. Or it was, but it wasn’t a hand job… She’d done exactly what she’d whispered she would do. She’d cared for him. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d slept. And that, more than the powerful ejaculation, had him frowning up at the ceiling.
She’d cried over him. He rubbed a spot she’d kissed, an old wound he thought he’d suffered down in Memphis a few decades ago. They’d run into a fierce band of feral Vampires. The death of a young woman had clung to them. They’d raped her repeatedly and drank from her until she’d died. It’d taken her days. He had found her because she’d been missing, a friend of a woman he’d bedded. He hadn’t known what to do with all the fury blazing in him. He’d attacked. Not waited for Ajax and Aaron, or anyone else. He’d run straight at the group, getting a wrought iron bar rammed in his side for his lack of caution. He’d ended five of the seven bastards. Aaron still owed him drinks for that night. He’d saved him from getting the same piece of iron in his throat.
Spartans could die. Ares was never pleased when they did, and he often called them back only after they’d lingered in Hade’s realm for longer than they’d like, but Spartans could die.
He’d died twice. Once on the battlefield, in a glorious fight with the Persians. It had been brutal. His death heroic.
The next time it hadn’t been a battle and he hadn’t been heroic.
Maeve made a soft sound of distress in her sleep. He watched the frown slowly ease from her pretty face.
She’d cried over him. Over wounds that were ancient history. Over more than his wounds, though. ‘You break my heart.’
He would. He didn’t know how to care for a woman. Oh, he’d read every article about relationships he could get his hands on, but it all seemed too difficult. Personal. Intimate. Draining. And up to the individuals. He could communicate. He could read signs. He knew how to make a woman happy. But only for a short while. Never for more. Even now, if he wasn’t stuck here with her, he’d want to leave, go home, sleep in his own bed.
He rolled to his back and studied the ceiling. That’s what I always do. I leave. I don’t want more.
Aeros had more. He appeared…happy. Solid in a way he hadn’t been before. Now that Stephano could see the Aeros before and the Aeros after Tabithia, he could see the difference. One thing was certain, Aeros would die for good if Tabithia ever did.
But that didn’t worry Stephano. What had him awake wasn’t that. Or it was, but not the fear of finally tossing in the towel. He’d done it twice before, after all. The second time he’d taken the two-hundred-foot dive down to concrete, ending his immortal life and getting his ass thrown in Hades’ deepest darkest cell.
Only Hades hadn’t shown him more than he already knew the second time. His life meant nothing. No one meant anything to him—outside of his companions, but they were immortal Spartans and if they did die, they would return. Nothing else mattered. No woman. No family. No cause. No good. No evil. Oh, shit mattered. He’d gut someone for raping a woman, and he’d string them up by their entrails for touching a child that way. But nothing mattered. Not like Tabithia did to Aeros.
He’d tried. He’d bedded women, in the hopes of finding more. That spark, that feeling, that one. None had ever been the one. No one had ever fought for him, wanted him enough to risk their lives for his, or even miss their nail appointment. Women were selfish and self-centered, filled with their own agendas. So he had his. What did it matter if he did only want to have sex with them? That’s all they wanted.
Until now.
Maeve. She entered his life, or whatever this was, but did she matter? She thought him little more than a womanizing thug. He was. Essentially, he killed and fucked. That was a womanizer and a thug.
He moved to his side to study her. He felt attraction for her. What man wouldn’t? Simply following the line of her body his groin stirred. He cut that off before it could start. He felt protective over her. Sure, like he would for any woman in this situation. But more? He’d been sick to think her dead, but he was sick to think of anything as beautiful as she was dead and gone, lifeless and cold.
There’d been so many. She didn’t feel different. Oh, the way she’d stroked his cock had been mind-blowing, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that for long, and when he wanted more, then would she ‘give it’ to him?
‘You break my heart.’
He’d done that to many women. More than he could ever possibly count or make amends for. Most didn’t really want him or even love him. They wanted sex, they wanted a handsome man on their arm. If he didn’t provide that, then they cried and wanted more, but really, truly they never did want more.
He’d even lived with a woman once, way back when. She’d died. Cancer. Not a knife to the heart, or slice to her throat, or something equally brutal. A slow, sickening disease had robbed her of her life and left him standing on the edge of that two-hundred story nosedive. He’d not done it for her. Or out of grief or agony of losing her. They’d lost whatever it was that had kept him with her long before he soared through the air to his death. He’d done it because nothing mattered. No one and nothing he did. He’d been sad at that, more than her tragic death.
Does Maeve matter? If she died on this journey, if her arm couldn’t be restored to how it was and she had to lose it, would it matter? He sighed and restlessly turned onto his back, rubbing his face. She’d kissed his scars, but she had no idea that those rough patches didn’t feel things the same way they once had. There was too much scar tissue. Too much damage. Maybe I’m too damaged. Maybe there’s too much of me scarred to ever feel anything.
He was tired. He needed sleep. Too much self-reflection wasn’t good for a man. It made him irritable. Still, her voice rose to mock him. Hasn’t anyone ever cared for you…eased you simply because you were grumpy?
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, Maeve woke feeling more exhausted than when she’d gone to sleep. Stephano was gone, but he’d left a square of the oat bars they’d found in Garret’s satchel. His weapons were missing, all but one large knife near her head. She assumed it was to protect herself with. She ignored it and went to the window.
It was barely dawn. Where is he? She’d fallen asleep after tending to him. She’d fallen fast asleep, something that never happened. That was until she’d woken with him behind her, his bigger body tightly wrapped around hers. His arousal had pressed so firmly to her bottom she’d been frightened. When he’d not moved, and his even breathing had stayed the same, she’d returned to sleep.
It was unnerving. Tonight, I cannot let that happen. What if I’d grown aroused again? Her face flamed at the thought. Other places grew uncomfortably warm. If I do, he will know what to do to soothe me.
She shook her head at her thoughts. Footsteps, his she knew, echoed up the stairs. Her stomach felt as though she’d fallen down that cliff again. She skipped to the bed in a rush and managed to sit a second before he entered the room, grinning at her with his hands full of…blue-speckled eggs.
“Where did you find those?”
Memories of what she’d done last night made her feel clumsy and unsure, but all he said was, “You’re probably better off not knowing.”
True. He had dust all over him and she thought a twig in his hair. Did he climb a tree?
“How should I cook them?”
He seemed so happy, she couldn’t think of a thing to say for a moment. Isn’t he going to say something about last night? His question hung there, waiting for her, as he was, expectantly. “I…well, maybe boil them?”
His smile fell. “I suppose so. I did find the kitchens. Amazing, but no supplies worth touching. I won’t take you there for fear of losing you.” He set the eggs down on the bed as he talked but gave her his rakish grin for the last.
“Was it a big kitchen?”
Such a place would have an incredible kitchen. She moved the pot over on the hook wondering how he would know she would love to explore such a place. He poured water into the pot then examined her face. She felt it heat. His lips were so kissable. She’d dreamed of his lips last night, kissing them.
“Your scratch is gone, but this…” He touched her stone fingers, his face a mask of concern.
“It’s the same.”
“It hasn’t moved, higher?”
She shook her head, scared at the idea. He stroked the pale stone with his fingers, drawing her eyes to his hands. They were big, but his nails were clean and trim. He had scars over his knuckles and one finger bent oddly as if it had healed wrong after a break. But they were so tan her arm appeared ghostly white next to them. What would his hands feel like on my naked breasts? Her breathing grew erratic, forcing her to bite her lip to calm down.
“It feels like marble, but looks like your other arm.” He rubbed his thumb over her stone fingers, then did the same to her real hand. She held her breath, unsure what he was doing to her. “It’s the same size, same shape, but weighs more. Stone weight, eh? But why stop it here?” He spoke more to himself than her.
She was glad at that. There was no way she could speak without revealing how aroused his touch made her. He didn’t know. He was bent over her, inspecting each inch of it of her arm. It gave her time to soak in every detail of him, without him knowing. His hair had lighter silky strands blended in with the dark. He dropped her hand and she reached up to pull a twig free
“You have dirt in your hair. And this.” She held up the little branch.
Their eyes met. She lost herself in the heat reflected there.
He didn’t speak, but he brushed his knuckles every so lightly along her cheek then ran his fingers through her hair, tucking it back behind each ear. She thought he might kiss her, and didn’t move away, too confused by him to think straight.
Being near him again, after last night, made her feel inept and unsure. She knew how hot his flesh was, how hard it felt, how his flexed when he began to thrust into their hands, but this, him quiet and not teasing her, was a mystery.
“Why don’t you ever wear your hair up, like this?”
“I do,” she managed.
He didn’t seem to hear her. His subdued expression confused her. He stood there, gaze flickering over her face and hair. She didn’t know what to say, or to do. Even dressed again in his shirt and armor, she knew what he looked like completely naked—or near enough not to matter. How his skin felt. How he sounded when he found his release. It was shocking to have such knowledge. It made everything harder, talking to him, meeting his eyes, standing in front of him. Why doesn’t he kiss me? Or speak? Is he embarrassed as well? She almost laughed at the idea. Stephano would never be embarrassed. But if he still wants me, why doesn’t he try to seduce me? Especially after I touched him last night? She couldn’t ask, but she also couldn’t say that she would stop him if he did kiss her. Or do more. Everything about him confused her.
He suddenly focused on her eyes and lowered his hands, letting her hair fall down her back, as if realizing he was holding it at the nape of her neck. He met her eyes again, but she couldn’t read his expression. “Now, do we put the eggs in? How long do they boil?”
The eggs… Her face flamed hot. The water had started to steam. Her brain clicked back into place. Breakfast. He wants breakfast, not you, silly! I though the wanted a kiss, or more, but all he wants is breakfast. He must simply be tired.
“Oh. Now. Now would be good, yes.” Feeling on pins and needles, she tried to walk over and get the eggs, but Stephano stopped her. He threaded his fingers through hers, holding her in place.
“I can do it.” For some reason, his tone slithered over her oddly. He brought their joined hands up to his lips to brush a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve got them. You sit and give directions.” He surprised her again by dropping her hand and guiding her to the bed. She sat numbly and watched him pick up the eggs.
“How long should I let them boil?” He dropped them in with hardly a splash.
“A few minutes at least. We don’t have much else…”
“There’s a few apples left, and the meat. I spotted some berries.”
“Nothing in the kitchens was usable?”
“I wouldn’t touch anything.” He shook his head at her. “There were rats bigger than you down there. But I did find more of those statues. Cooks, I think. They looked like they were preparing a feast.” He laughed, but it sounded distracted. “If she has this kind of power, I wonder why she didn’t attack us last night. Maybe her power has lessened over the centuries. But your arm.” He studied her. “That’s our biggest concern right now.”
She considered that. If the statues were here, and had been for years, what could they do to break her arm free? What if it did grow to encase all of her? She felt as if she were missing something that should be obvious, if only she didn’t have to deal with her actions from last night. If only Brennan were here, he’d know what to do, what I’m missing. But the statues… She didn’t wish to argue with Stephano, but they were important. They were people, trapped in stone. She shivered to think of such a thing. What if they can sense everything around them? What if they can see us, feel things…but can’t move?
“Is this good, do you think?” Stephano’s question, spoken low next to her, scared her so badly she jumped. The hot egg he was balancing on the cloth, flew out of his hands. It cracked on the floor, and the cooked part broke apart, revealing a slightly gooey yellow center. “Ah, I think that’s it!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine. I’m sure it was my sweet voice that broke it, eh?”
Sweet voice that broke it?
Stephano bent and retrieved the egg. Then rushed over to the eggs and poured the steaming water into another pan. It was almost cute how such a big warrior could do such a simple job. He scooped the little eggs out one at a time, too, his face furrowed with concentration. She watched him, half of her amused, half of her considering what to do about the Siren. Her eyes kept returning to the split-open egg.
A shiver raised the fine hairs on her arm as an idea came to her. Crack the spell. If the Siren did encase these people, I might be able to use my voice to reverse it. Like I did with Stephano.
“Here.” Stephano walked over with an egg. “These will give us the energy we need. The apple will help, too, and the meat, but I think we should keep the jerky until we need it. What do you think?” He cracked the little egg, peeling away the shell as he spoke, so engaged in his task he continued. “I used to eat four or five eggs a day. Cheap protein, and easy to make.” He glanced over and paused with his third egg. “Maeve? What is it?”
She shook her head, suddenly realizing what she had to do. Her idea would work. She knew it. But to make it happen… I have to tell him I am like her. A cold lump settled in her stomach, spreading a chill to the rest of her. Then he will never want to touch me again.
He stood taller, frowning in worry. How is it that I know that he’s worried? Has he become so clear to me? “Is it your arm?”
She let go of her stone hand, only then aware she’d been clutching it. “No, no. I think… I think we have to break the mirror, for good though.”
“I agree. It’s not going to be easy, but there has to be a way.”
“Stephano.” Saying his name seemed to tell him something because he set down the next egg he’d been about to peel, gaze on her intently.
She couldn’t have eaten any of them. Her stomach was in knots. Now that she knew what to do, she felt she had to do it. As if the same force that had pulled her toward the mirror was leading her there again. Only this time she knew it wasn’t because of the Siren. This was…right. He will never want me again once he knows. She met Stephano’s eyes, feeling more and more secure. Then he’s not for me and I’m not for him. “I think I can break it.”
“Why
do you think you can break it? I broke it, Maeve, with my knife, remember? It went right back together. She’s gone—”
“She’s not gone. She’s trapped, by hatred and pain, maybe by this city, but I think I can set her free. Help her. And these people.”
He didn’t laugh or disregard her, but he anchored his hands on his hips. “Okay. How?”
The pressure on her chest meant she needed to calm down or hyperventilate. She knew the signs. But couldn’t answer him. Not until his eyebrows rose and he cocked his head to the side as if laughing at her.
“With my voice.”
He blinked.
She’d surprised him. Well, I surprise myself. Before he could speak, she gathered her nerve.
“Do you remember yesterday? When you were confused and I had to stop you from”—raping me—“hurting me?”
“Yes.” The one word was cold, as if she shouldn’t remind him.
She went on, “You frightened me. You wanted to hurt me. She made you that way, angry. She used her voice.”
“She’s evil and that’s why you shouldn’t go near her!”
“Maybe, but she’s also…” Her eyes stung, but she went on. “Like me. She’s the same as me.”
He appeared stunned, as if he’d learned she couldn’t speak again.
Before he could say anything, she rushed on. “She is…was…a Siren. I’m a Siren. It’s why I can’t speak. It’s why you want me. It’s why my brother hides me. Why he wants to go to your realm, and why he wants to be free of me. I’m like her.”
Stephano narrowed his eyes. “You are nothing like her.”
“I am.” Now that she’d confessed, she was desperate to make him understand. “And I…I can stop her. I think. I think…” She winced at her own thoughts. She would sound boastful, or… naïve.
