by LENOX, KIM
“I thought she was dead.” Suddenly, his voice cracked into a whisper. “She was here with you.”
He sank to his knees, seizing her about the waist and drawing her fiercely toward him. He buried his face in her bodice and let out a ragged breath.
Stunned by the ferocity of his emotion, Elena clasped her arms around him. His muscular shoulders shook. He trembled. Out of fear for her?
Selene said in a sullen voice, “We only just arrived ourselves. The Ripper was here. He had her imprisoned in that pit. No telling what violence he had planned for her.”
He drew back. Elena gazed into his eyes.
She nodded. “I’m sure they saved my life.”
Archer’s brows furrowed. “But I followed Elena’s trace here. Why is there nothing of the Ripper?”
Mark kneaded one shoulder, as if injured. “Last night, after you were taken into custody—and don’t even think to accuse me of instigating that, Archer, because I did not—I tracked the Ripper from the hospital, but it’s as if he evaporated. He must have come here. His sudden disappearance may have something to do with all these stinking roses.”
Selene said, “It’s odd, but they somehow muddy his stench.”
Her twin surmised, “His tactics are ever changing. If I didn’t want to cut him to shreds so badly, I might find the whole thing very interesting. We found this place by latching on to Elena’s trace as well.”
Archer’s jaw flexed, and with great apparent effort he said, “I owe you both my deepest gratitude for saving her.”
From behind, Archer heard Selene say, “He’s close, Archer, and because he came out of hiding early, before the next wave from Tartarus, he’s not strong enough to fight us if we catch him now.”
Mark added, “It’s almost time, Archer. We can stop him before he turns brotoi. Selene and I can handle him.”
Archer’s pride shouted that he must go, that he must be the one to claim this matchless soul and punish him for having used Elena against him at the threat of her life. But suddenly his pride did not hold all influence over him.
“Go after him.” Archer thrust his arms beneath Elena and lifted her from the chair. “Reclaim the bastard and accept, with my gratitude, whatever acclaim you receive from the Guard. I am taking Elena home.”
Elena clung to Archer as he kicked open the door and bent his head low. He carried her toward a carriage. On the perch, Leeson tipped his head against clasped hands, as if thankful for her being brought out alive. His eye glistened with moisture. He leapt down, opened the carriage door and quickly laid down the stairs. Archer clambered up.
Holding her tight against him, like some priceless treasure, he fell back onto the leather seat. The door closed behind them.
Archer’s hands moved over her, frantically touching her everywhere—her breasts, her stomach, her legs—as if satisfying himself she were not cut or missing a limb. He growled, drawing his thumb across the place where the Ripper had painted the line on her neck. Suddenly his hands were twisted in her hair and his lips crushed her mouth.
Elena gasped, overwhelmed.
He drew back, still cradling her in his arms, and stared into her wide eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Your eyes,” she whispered. “Your skin—”
Realization swept through Archer. He had been so frantic over her safety he’d spoken and acted rashly, right in front of Elena. She had heard everything he and the other two Shadow Guards had discussed. Worst of all, he’d revealed himself to her, in all his monstrous splendor.
He gripped her by the shoulders and pushed her from him. With nothing to shield himself, no hat, no dark glasses, he covered his eyes with his palms.
“Don’t look at me.”
With excruciating effort he forced himself to detach emotionally from the moment. From Elena. He had allowed himself to get too close. The world shattered around him. How could he have failed her so greatly and brought her back to this? It was as if they again stood on that dilapidated tenement roof, the past two years—and especially the last six weeks—ripped into a thousand shreds.
She gripped his wrists.
“Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me,” she insisted, but he heard the fear in her voice.
He frightened Elena, and she had not seen half of what he was capable. He allowed her to pry away his hands.
Last night they had been a man and a woman, almost lovers. Now, in the cold light of day, she was mortal—and he was an immortal monster.
“I will make you forget,” he vowed.
“Why?” she gasped, hearing his words. “Why? Did you make me forget before?”
A slow understanding spread over her features.
“You did, didn’t you? You’re the reason I don’t have my memories.”
Suddenly she struck his shoulder with her balled fist. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make me forget.” She struck him again. “Give me back my memories, damn you!”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
Her despair washed over him.
“What are you, Archer?” she demanded suddenly. “Angel or devil?”
A tortured smile lifted the edge of his lips. He laughed hollowly. “I don’t know any more.”
“This is me, Archer. Me, Elena. I don’t care what you are. Just talk to me. Don’t pretend I matter nothing to you.”
“It is done between us.”
Tears glazed Elena’s eyes. “After having come so far? Because I have seen you like this? Because I have heard your secrets?”
She blinked them away, and hardness claimed her features.
“I’m not doing this anymore. It hurts too much. I surrender.” She drew as far away from him as the bench would allow, her breasts rising and falling with emotion beneath her uniform bodice. “But you will not take away my memories of you. I want to remember you when I marry Harcourt. I want to remember you when I sleep in his bed—” Her voice thickened with emotion. “And make love to him every night, and have his children—”
“Be silent, Elena.” Archer clenched his eyes shut.
He had always pitied humans for the brevity of their lives. Now he realized he’d been wrong. The very brevity of their existence imbued every moment with such intense meaning.
Her words tortured him with everything he could never have.
“I want to remember you, every moment of every day—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—and wish that he was you.”
He didn’t understand how she could look at him and still want him. Archer seized her around the waist, pressing his cheek against her breast. Her arms came round him, her hands staving through his hair, and she pressed a fervent kiss against his bowed head.
“Just love me Archer,” she whispered. “Just once. I promise it will be enough to last me forever when you’ve gone.”
Suddenly, her arms were empty.
Chapter Seventeen
Elena leapt out of the carriage and ran up the steps of Black House, seeing everything through tear-glazed eyes. Leeson called after her, but she wouldn’t stop, not until she got to her room where she would wail and cry and throw every last blasted thing against the wall. A startled footman held the door for her.
Archer was gone. He had disappeared from her arms, and she knew she would never see him again. She grieved him and hated him all at once. Her skirts bunched in her hand, she raced past Mary Alice on the stairs.
“Oh dear, miss!” The maid frowned in concern. “What is wrong?”
“Please,” Elena answered, pleading. “I just need to be alone.”
On the second-floor landing, she grasped the decorative pommel and veered up toward the third.
Halfway up, something seized her ankle—
She twisted round but fell, sprawling back—only to be caught by some invisible force and spared the pain of a fall.
A shadow, barely visible to the eye, curled up from her feet . . . twining round her skirts . . . and her shoulders.
She recognized the spice of Archer’s skin.
She felt heat and pressure, which she easily interpreted as his body. Skillful, unseen hands greedily claimed her breasts and squeezed her buttocks, sending a blaze of pleasure through her limbs. The buttons of her bodice sprang free to ping against the marble banister.
“Miss Whitney?” Mary Alice’s voice echoed up from below.
The shadow ceased its pleasurable onslaught, retreating into nothingness.
“Ah . . . I’m fine!” Elena shouted.
She twisted over on the stairs and clambered up the remaining steps, not stopping until she got to her room. There she frantically locked the door, then yanked the key free to hurl it into the far corner—not because she wanted to keep Archer out, but because she wanted to watch him break through.
She gasped for air, out of breath.
Long moments passed . . . and Archer didn’t appear, not like she’d expected. She twisted around, bereft, only for him to brush against her.
Darling.
Archer’s voice. Only darker and more mysterious. Anticipation seized her.
“Where are you?” She whirled, searching the space about her.
Sudden friction, formed of heat and power, moved up her stomach and over both breasts in a possessive caress. She stood helpless, tortured by pleasure, yearning to embrace him. His heat spread like honey beneath her uniform, over her skin. Her nipples hardened, and instinctively she crossed her arms over herself.
I want you.
Elena wasn’t frightened. Not really. More excited. After all, this was Archer.
Afraid?
Her cheeks burned. Everything burned. “No.”
Good.
She glimpsed a sudden flash, flame or metal.
Her uniform, and everything beneath, split cleanly down the center. She gasped and caught the gaping edges against her naked skin, but Archer, unseen, tugged and pulled—his warmth touching against her skin—until the muslin shifted and slid away.
“Archer!”
When he was finished, she stood in her shoes and her black stockings, tied with ribbons at her thighs.
Invisible hands tipped her off balance, and she dropped back, on her naked bottom, onto the dressing table bench. Unseen hands stroked her along her knees and upward, coaxing her thighs, with gentle pressure, to open.
Elena laughed nervously. Instinctively she dropped both hands between her legs to cover herself. But as she defended the center of her femininity, he eased her back onto the bench. She felt the glow of his tenderness, the intensity of his adoration.
His tongue laved her nipple. She watched it stiffen into a wet peak.
“Oh my . . . ,” she gasped from low in her throat.
The sensation was too intense. She slid her hands over her breasts, only to feel an immediate pressure between her thighs. His hands . . . his fingers . . . massaging her there. She grew slick and wet, and writhed with pleasure. Her eyes rolled back in delight.
“Yes,” she cried out, only to freeze.
Most definitely a tongue. A long, muscular tongue, exquisitely skilled. Her shoes fell from where they dangled off her toes, to the floor.
She melted just as quickly. “Archer, please—”
Please what?
“Let me see you.”
She tossed her head in ecstasy, gripping the edge of the narrow bench just above her shoulders to keep from falling off. When her eyes opened again, his dark head arose from her thighs, his gaze intense, and his expression passionate. No more a shadow, but a man. She flushed wildly that he was still fully dressed, while she wore nothing but stockings.
“Come on, darling.” He seized her by the waist, easily lifting her against him. She held on to his shoulders. Her hair had fallen free. The lengthy mass trailed down his back. Just a few steps and he tossed her to the mattress.
“We should be in my bed, you know.” He chuckled, a harsh, very male sound. “Yours is too small, and probably squeaks.”
She rose up onto her knees, watching as he dropped his braces, tore his shirt over his head and unfastened his trousers to reveal himself.
She whispered, “We’ll go to yours next.”
Her mouth went dry as he solemnly drew his hand down the length of his long, swollen shaft.
“Lie back, Elena.” His voice was tense with leashed desire.
She did as he told her, dropping back onto the velvet coverlet to prop herself on both elbows. She didn’t want to take her eyes off him. She loved the firm, swarthy perfection of his skin, and the powerful ripples his muscles made with the slightest movement. He was beautiful, and she could tell by the way his gaze moved over her, he thought she was beautiful too. After bending at the waist to discard his boots, he pushed his trousers over sinewed hips, dropping them to the floor.
Kicking them off, he finally touched her again, starting at her stocking-covered feet. Her belly fluttered with excitement. His hands, large and competent, smoothed over her skin, up over her ankles . . . her knees . . . and her thighs.
Just there his thumbs dipped low, grazing against her in long, unison strokes. He boldly spread her. She gasped, instinctively opening for him. His knees took advantage, bunching the velvet as he braced her legs wide. He eased down, nudging her until his rigid shaft settled lengthwise against her damp flesh. One hand swept up over her rib cage to capture her breast. His thumb pressed over her puckered nipple.
Suddenly he evaporated to shadow. Elena’s arms caved in upon themselves, and his warmth disappeared.
Certain you still want me?
She let out a desperate cry. With a deep, husky laugh, he grew solid again, dipping his head to suckle the peak of her breast with his tongue and lips, a long purposeful draw. The pleasure coursed, in massive waves, all the way to her pointed toes.
“Don’t do that again.” She threw her arms around his shoulders. “Please.”
He tilted his hips, pressing his thickness along against the slick channel between her legs. “I’m going to come inside you now.”
“I want you to.”
He lifted slightly. The cool air of her room swept between them, and her nipples hardened. She watched between them, as he grasped his shaft. His stomach flexed, a defined grid. He prodded his swollen pink tip against the center of her, moistening himself with the evidence of her pleasure.
“Now, Archer.” She clenched her hands on his shoulders, and moaned, her body, her passion, demanding everything. Slowly, he eased into her.
Her body stretched tight, accepting him.
“So good,” he hissed through his teeth, drawing out, only to test her again. “Better than I dreamed. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me. I want you too much.”
“Good, because . . .” His breath caught in his throat. “I can’t wait.”
He speared into her tight, wet perfection, only to gasp, deep in his throat, at the resistance of her body—resistance he, with one powerful thrust, had destroyed.
Elena, a virgin.
He stared down into her passion-glazed eyes, and her tears.
“I’m sorry,” he uttered, feeling regret to the bottom of his soul.
“Why?” She writhed beneath him, embracing him tighter, drawing him closer until he shook with need. “Don’t be sorry. I love you.”
Archer’s heart swelled and shattered all at once. He closed his eyes, sinking into her, and pressed his face to her neck, never wanting to leave, never wanting to forget.
Elena moved against him, the pain of her lost virginity faint compared with the enormity of her love for him. So close. So close. She’d never felt closer to anyone.
“Elena,” he rasped, his rhythm suddenly and intensely urgent. She touched his chest, his face, memorizing him, accepting each thrust with one of her own. She felt the coverlet scoot beneath her, and his skin against her, and the vague pressure of the headboard.
Suddenly, an intense, indefinable wave of joy rolled through her, out from the plac
e where their bodies joined, blazing outward as pure and white-hot as a sudden explosion of naptha light.
Archer, feeling her body pulse against him, instantly lost himself. He cursed, and praised her, and cursed again. He gripped her hips and spilled his release.
He fell over her, surrounding her in the cage of his arms and his legs, adoring her loving eyes and her dazed smile. Precious Elena. He wove his arms beneath her, between her silky skin and the velvet, embracing her, whispering at last, “I love you too.”
She awoke to Archer’s kisses against her neck. “I know you are tired, darling, but you’ve got to wake up.”
He lay beside her, muscular and warm against her back. His large, heavy leg cambered over both of hers. She felt small, treasured and protected.
She shifted to her back so they lay face-to-face.
“For just a moment there, when I woke up, I feared this had all been a dream.”
“Perhaps when you fell asleep I should have dressed you and pretended the same?” Archer laughed in gentle cynicism.
“No.” She shook her head, unsmiling. “I don’t ever want to forget this day. By the way, where’s your tattoo?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s not there.”
“Sorry, love,” he murmured intimately. “I just wanted to make you happy. Ink doesn’t take on Amaranthine skin.”
“Amaranthine,” she repeated.
“My body rejects anything foreign. That’s why, when you cut me with the scissors I healed so quickly. My body rejected the steel.”
“Really.”
He saw her medical mind working, trying to determine the science of how that might be possible.
“Mind you, I’m not invincible. A gunshot or any other deep wound could do a nasty bit of damage, but only temporarily. What might be instantly fatal to a mortal might put me out of service for a day or two. Or five to seven in the case of . . . you know.”
He drew a finger across his neck.
Elena shuddered. “Decapitation?”
“Mark can tell you from experience, there’s no pleasure in that. But only an immortal can kill an immortal.”
She shook her head, marveling. “Just to think, all this time my guardian was a—”
