by Anya Bast
Maybe it had been mistake to bring her here, although he had achieved his goal of getting Alek to use his magick. It had only been a small act, but it was a start. It meant the block that had formed at the time of Evianna’s death was breaking down. Lilya had done that. And no matter how much pain Alek was in right now, that crumbling block was worth it. In time Byron hoped Alek saw that.
When he entered Lilya’s painting room, she was so obsessed with her work that she didn’t even hear him come in. She’d taken off her gown and stockings and laid them carefully over a chair. Her boots were on the floor near the fireplace. She stood barefoot in front of the canvas wearing only her undershift.
His breath caught at the sight of her. Elusian crystal lights blazed behind her, throwing the curve of her body beneath the thin fabric of the shift into clear view. He could see her slim waist and the flared heart shape of her hips and rear. Her full breasts pressed through the bodice, nipples hard from the chill in the room that the fire in the hearth couldn’t completely banish. Paint smears marked her bare arms and rosy cheeks. Her hair was mussed—half up and half down—the way she looked after sex or a day of ice skating.
Beautiful.
“Lilya?”
She jumped, startled, then turned and flashed a devastating smile at him. Her eyes had been out of focus—like she was looking into another world while she worked—but now they were clear and focused on him. “You scared me.”
He walked toward her, looking at the canvas. The landscape she was working on was a departure from the other paintings she’d done while here. This was no street environment imagined from her youth.
He frowned, studying it. “Where is that?”
She shrugged, smiling, her paintbrush still in hand. “I don’t really know. I can see it in my imagination. It’s pretty, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you like to go there?”
The landscape was lush green with hills rising in the background. A building that looked a lot like a cathedral rose on one of the hills, a deep forest running down along its side. The sky was a deep blue with perfectly painted clouds. “It’s gorgeous.”
She set her paintbrush down and stepped back to look at it, her back coming very close to his chest. “I wanted to abandon reality for a little while, I guess.”
Yes, he knew about that all too well on this last eve they—he—had with her. He enveloped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I want you to take everything with you tomorrow when you go.”
“What?” She turned toward him, her eyes stormy and . . . hurt. “I thought you said I could come back here whenever I wanted.”
He touched her mouth, searching her eyes. “And you can. I hope you do.” His gaze lifted to the canvas. “But you have real talent, Lilya. You shouldn’t go even a day without painting. Take all these supplies with you and use them daily.”
She stared at him for a moment, then laid her head on his chest. “I’ll miss you.” Her voice sounded full of emotion and a little broken.
Not like I’ll miss you. He closed his eyes, unable to answer. Instead he moved her head and dropped his mouth to kiss her slowly, as if trying to savor her. His tongue slipped between her lips and rubbed up against her tongue. He wished he could bottle up the taste of her for the long nights ahead. Finally he broke the kiss and set his forehead to hers. “I’ll come into the city to visit you often.”
“Why?” Her voice sounded full of tears. “Do you want to become a client?”
He stared down at her. Her eyes sparkled with something between anger and sadness. “Do you want me to?”
She pushed away from him, going to stand in front of the painting with her arms over her chest. “No. I’m not taking clients anymore.”
He stepped toward her, frowning. “Lilya—”
Then she turned and came back into his arms, kissing him hard. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her body crushed up against his. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her fingers tangled in the hair at his nape as she pulled his head down to kiss him. His own body ignited, need flaring to life. His fingers gripped her shift and lifted it, pulled it over her head, and threw it aside.
He pushed her down to the floor of the room. Her hands pulled at his clothes, yanking his sweater over his head and then tugging at the button and zipper of his pants. Once his bare skin slid against hers, he kneed her thighs apart, his cock hard and throbbing with need. He dropped his head to her breast, pulling one small red nipple between his lips and then the other. She gasped softly, her fingers stroking through his hair.
Trailing his tongue down over her abdomen and her mound, he found her sweet little clit and licked it. Her back arched and the bundle of nerves immediately began to swell. He explored her with his tongue, leisurely driving her crazy and enjoying the taste of her and all the ways he could make her moan. When she exploded in climax, he clamped his mouth down on her as she bucked, drinking in every lovely jerk of her hips and committing it to memory.
Then, unable to wait even a moment more, he raised himself up, guided the crown of his cock into her, and sank deep inside her velvety hot sex. Her muscles clamped down around his shaft, rippling as they accommodated his girth and length. He tipped his head back, groaning her name. They fit so well together.
Her breath hissed out of her and she closed her eyes as he began to thrust into her. Her fingers found and clenched around his shoulders while he rode her faster and harder.
“Open your eyes,” he murmured. “I want to watch your face when you come.”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then slowly cleared and held his gaze, though they remained heavy-lidded with arousal. Her hair was a riot of darkness around her head, her pretty lips slightly parted.
He took her in long, hard, driving strokes, pulling out almost all the way before impaling her over and over. They were one right now, connected by body, if not by heart and soul—sharing pleasure.
Her body twitched and her back arched in the way he recognized meant she was close to her orgasm. He was close too. She moaned, her eyes drifting closed.
“Look at me,” he commanded in a harsh, broken voice.
Her eyes locked with his as her climax hit her. They widened, her mouth opening with a silent rush of air. The muscles of her sex pulsed and rippled, her hips bucking. Her back arched and she cried out his name, her fingernails digging into the skin of his arms.
Pleasure bubbled up and exploded over him as well. His cock jumped deep inside her, spasming as he came. He groaned out her name as it washed through him just on the tail end of her orgasm.
“Ah, gods,” he breathed, collapsing over her and rolling to the side. They both lay there, breathing hard. He pulled her up against him, and stroked his hands over her skin, unable to stop touching her. Forcing all other thought from his body, he immersed himself in this moment, trying to stay here with her forever.
She snuggled against him, her hands roaming his body as well. She kissed his chest, rolling over his body as if she wanted to feel the slip of his skin over hers, finding his mouth and sliding her tongue inside. Her hand stroked his flaccid cock, making it twitch and start to harden again. He rolled her over again, closer to the fire, his hand delving between her thighs and finding her sticky sweet with the remnants of their mingled bliss.
He used it to pleasure her again, stroking over her sensitive clit until she moaned and panted, then thrust up into her sex with his fingers while his tongue worked over her breasts. He felt obsessed, relentless in his need to devour every inch of her.
She came again, suddenly and softly, there on the floor, and he drank up every sound she made with his mouth slanted across hers, tongues tangled.
Finally they lay snuggled up against his each other, breathless and unable to speak.
Eventually they got up and went to his room. Alek still wasn’t home. Lilya didn’t ask where he was, though her gaze lingered on his door as they passed it as if she wanted to ask. She didn’t and Byron was glad. Tonight he wanted her
to be his alone.
He filled a tub and they washed each other. Then, naked, they crawled into his bed. Limbs entangled, they fell asleep, though it took Byron a long time to drop off.
Tomorrow she’d be gone.
Twenty-four
Steam billowed from the transport at regular intervals with angry-sounding hisses. Lilya stared at it, bag in hand, fighting back an overwhelming melancholy.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
She stared at the billowing steam while she answered. “No. You’d just have to turn around and come right back on the next transport. What a waste of a day. But thank you for offering.”
In actuality she didn’t want him to come with her because she wasn’t going back to the Temple of Dreams. Not ever. She didn’t want him to know that because he’d ask her why.
To change the subject, she asked the question she’d been suppressing with much effort since that morning. “Where is Alek?”
“Ah.” He glanced away from her. “I think saying good-bye to you was a little too much for him.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Emotion caught at the back of her throat. Swallowing it down, she looked away from him so he couldn’t see the sadness on her face. She’d definitely wanted to say good-bye to Alek.
The conductor called for all the ticket holders to board. She went very still for a moment, then she gathered her strength and embraced Byron. This was the moment she’d been dreading. “I hope I did what you wanted me to do, Byron. I feel like I failed. Good-bye.” Then, before he could say another word, she hurried onto the transport without looking back.
As she made her way to his private car, she could see him out of the corner of her eye, following her down the length of the transport. She reached the car and slid into the seat nearest the window, only then daring to look at him. Hopefully he wouldn’t be able to see the tears in her eyes.
But he wasn’t there. He’d already left.
Blowing out a long breath, she stared ahead and mustered every ounce of her strength not to dissolve into large, self-pitying tears. Leaving Byron and Alek was the hardest thing she’d ever done and, in her life, that was saying a lot.
Her heart didn’t feel broken; it felt crushed.
When the transport finally pulled into the station in Milzyr, she hired a carriage and had the driver load her luggage, including all of the painting supplies and her paintings. Instead of instructing the carriage to the Temple of Dreams, she had the driver take her to Byron’s old house—her house now.
The driver off-loaded all her things in the entryway. She paid him, then turned to survey the damage. She hadn’t been in here in years. Straight ahead of her were the stairs that led to the second-floor bedrooms. Down the hallway to the left of the stairs were the kitchen and a large dining room. Through an arched doorway on her immediate left was a sitting room filled with furniture that she’d covered with canvas before she’d left.
Entering the musty-smelling room, she pulled the canvas off a couch, a chair, and an end table. Then walked over and threw open the heavy drapes of the front window to reveal a bustling downtown street. Light flooded into the room. She’d need to open all the windows and do a bit of cleaning. That was good; it would keep her busy and her mind focused on things other than Byron and Alek.
She was done with the Temple of Dreams, unable to ever bring herself to be with a man she didn’t care about. Love, she’d always said, was the demise of a courtesan and she was suffering under the power of it twice-fold.
This was her new life.
She turned, surveying the large, empty house. It was going to be a lonely one.
Byron stood in the library, feeling the weight of his huge, empty house. Hands fisting, he closed his eyes and dropped his head. This day was going to be hard; it would probably be hard for a while. He was going to have to learn to live without her and that would take some time.
A part of him was sorry he’d ever gone to her in the first place, but he didn’t regret the last three weeks. Despite the pain, it was good he’d had those days with her. At least he had the memories.
The front door opened and footsteps sounded in the foyer and corridor. He knew who it was because he recognized the cadence. Byron opened his eyes as Alek entered the room. He knew his expression looked stormy—it matched the way he felt. “She was sorry you weren’t there to see her off. In fact, I believe she was quite hurt. Where did you go?” He couldn’t keep the hostility from his voice.
“I couldn’t say good-bye to her.” Alek looked down into his hand. A ring box lay in his palm. “I won’t say good-bye to her. I had to go get this. It was my mother’s.”
Byron stared at the box for a moment, then snarled. “You’re a fool.”
“I think you’re just worried she’ll agree to marry me and you’ll lose her forever. You love her as much as I do. It doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t need to be shut out.”
“What do you mean, share her?”
Alek closed his hand, his arm dropping to his side. “We both love her and I believe she loves us in return.”
“You’re crazy.” Byron stalked to the fireplace and turned his back to him, his hands on the mantel. “She’s got a whole drawer full of little boxes just like that. You’re going to be rejected and come back here brokenhearted.”
“I know that’s what you’re afraid of. You don’t want to be like all those other men she’s turned down. Is your pride really that strong, Byron? You’ll let the one woman you love go just because you’re afraid she’ll tell you she doesn’t feel the same way?”
His hand tightened on the wood. That would kill him. Destroy him. He couldn’t bear to hear words like that coming out of Lilya’s mouth. “Yes,” he hissed.
“What if she says she loves you back, Byron? What then?”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that. Come with me.”
Byron whirled to face him. “You go and get your heart broken if you want to do that. If you’re so certain you’re somehow better than the other fifty men who have asked her to marry them, you go on ahead. I don’t have any wish to hear the rejection you’ll undoubtedly receive for your trouble.”
Alek’s face hardened. “I never pegged you for a coward, Byron.”
Byron stared at him for a long moment, the silence of the house suddenly pressing down on him so hard he couldn’t breathe. He tore past him, catching up his coat as he went. “I can’t stay here anymore,” he growled. “Good luck, Alek.”
He turned as Byron barreled through the doorway and into the foyer. “Where are you going?”
“Away.” His hand found the doorknob and he threw the door open. Cold winter air blasted him in the face. “For a long time,” he finished, looking out at the drifts of snow. Then it was his turn to slam the door as he left.
Ivan slipped in through the back door with minimum effort. Byron Andropov had fortified his defenses since his last visit, but it still didn’t take much for him to break in. He was the King of Crime in Milzyr; a few expensive locks meant nothing to him. He hadn’t even had to break the lovely expensive glass.
Once in the kitchen, he felt immediately that something was wrong. He knew that Lilya had left for the city earlier that day; he’d seen her terse final exchange with Byron in front of the steam transport and noted with contentment that Alek had not even bothered to show up to say good-bye to her. But he hadn’t known that the men had also left.
The house felt empty to him and all the hearths were cold. Hell, even his breath showed white in the air of the kitchen. It seemed like no one had been in the house for a long time, though he knew that Byron and Alek had returned to it earlier that day.
Just to make sure, he made his way up the stairs and checked all the bedrooms, first Alek’s and then Byron’s.
“Fuck!” he bellowed into the quiet air as he stood next to Byron’s empty bed. He took his dagger out of his pocket and slammed it into the pillow
again and again, sending clouds of feathers into the air.
Then he turned, grabbed a vase from a nearby table, and hurled it against the door. He stalked around the room, destroying everything he could, ripping the pictures from the wall and smashing the end tables against the floor.
Breathing hard, but feeling a little better, he came to a stop in the middle of the shattered room and ran a hand through his hair. He’d been counting on the men being here tonight so he could slit their throats in their sleep. Now, with no sign they’d be returning anytime soon, that would have to wait.
He needed to get back to Milzyr and make sure Lilya was once again where she belonged.
Twenty-five
She wasn’t at the Temple of Dreams.
Ivan turned the corner of the block where the building was located, only barely able to contain his rage. He’d even gone there himself. He’d never once personally set foot in that place until today. The woman who answered the door had recognized him right off and had paled. She’d paled even more when he’d asked after Lilya.
Clearly Lilya hadn’t kept her history a secret from everyone.
But Lilya wasn’t there. Hadn’t even so much as stopped there when she’d returned from Milzyr and had sent word she would never return. She hadn’t even sent for her things, according to the woman who’d answered the door, instead she’d donated everything to some of the other women who needed them.
How . . . fucking . . . sweet.
No, Lilya hadn’t left a forwarding address, said the woman when he’d asked. That was fine. He knew where she’d be. She still owned property across town. Byron’s old place.
And that’s when the rage had set in.
Nothing he’d seen in Ulstrat had been what he’d presumed. He stood on a street corner, watching carriages drive past, a boy hawking newspapers on the corner, smoke curling from the chimney of a nearby cook shop. The snow in the streets looked grimy from the passing of carriages and the muck from the smokestacks.
