She snuggled into him and sighed. At his spot beside the woodstove, Le Dog woofed lightly.
“Was that—”
“Are you—”
They both spoke at once and fell into a lazy, giddy sort of laugh, although hers was more of a giggle. Luc couldn’t remember being this happy in…forever.
He angled his face toward hers and asked, “What were you going to say, mon coeur?”
“It’s silly. I…”
“No, go on.”
“I…I don’t… What happens next?” she asked, and he had the distinct impression that wasn’t what she’d planned to say.
“I go turn on the barn generator so the wine won’t freeze.”
“No generator here?”
“I have never had anything I cared about keeping warm before.” He gave her thigh a squeeze, feeling strange about this conversation that ignored everything they’d just done.
“And us?” He heard her swallow and waited a few seconds before realizing she’d meant them the first time. Their bodies. What next because she had no experience with a condom or any of those messy practicalities that modern women faced with so much aplomb.
“First,” he said, pressing his softening cock deeper into her for one final, languorous taste, “you give me another kiss.”
“Oh.” She sounded slightly flustered until he bent his head, finding her mouth easily in the dark, and touched his lips to hers. Light kisses, a swipe of his lips, stroking tongues, and quick, noisy inhales. He was getting hard again inside her, which wouldn’t be a good thing with the condom, so finally, he pulled away. “Oh.” Her voice this time was lazy and full of understanding, laced with humor.
“Next, I have to hold on to the condom, or we could have an accident.”
“Okay.”
He reached between them, eliciting a gasp when he ran his hand over her pussy to the place where their bodies came together. He pinched the latex against himself and nudged her until she shifted back.
“Where do you…put that?”
“In the trash. It clogs up the septic system, and these things never disintegrate.” He paused. “We won’t be able to bathe, with the pump not working. If you want a bath, you might be able to get what’s left of the hot water, but you have to go now.”
“Oh, that would be nice.” She got up and stretched, her silhouette visible in the faint light of the fire.
“Does it hurt?”
“My back?” She tilted her head, seeming to consider. “Not really.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
Another hesitation. “It was the only way.”
“What?” When she didn’t answer, he advanced on her. “The only way what?”
“The only way I could think of to make sure I could leave.”
“But they did this to you, yes?”
“I let them.”
“Let them?”
“I accepted it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I accepted the Mark. If I hadn’t… Not sure what he would’ve done.”
Frustrated, Luc looked around for his flashlight or a candle or anything. What the hell could be worse than brand marks on her back?
“You mean you let them burn you? They hurt you in exchange for…not hurting you?”
“I pretended to repent. For my sins.”
“And what were those?” He spread the blanket over her, pulled his underwear up his hips, and reached for his pants.
“Wanting to save Sammy. Wanting to leave.”
He blinked, the anger swelling on a wave of understanding of what he’d done—he could feel its flush across his chest and face, prickly and uncomfortable. Somehow, he’d managed to forget the boy’s visit. He’d pushed it out of his mind, which had made it easy not to mention it to Abby. He should tell her.
He threw on his clothes and loaded the fire up with logs. He dug his Maglite out from its drawer in the kitchen and handed it to Abby, who’d put on some clothes of her own.
“I don’t want to leave, Abby, but I have to.” She took the flashlight and fiddled with it for a moment before he showed her where to press.
“Lord, you must think I’m ridiculous.”
“I think you’re charming,” he said, and watched the smile disappear from those lush lips. Something passed between them. It might have been awkwardness or embarrassment. Maybe for her it was an oh shit, what have I done? moment, but it felt different, more intimate than any post-sex experience he’d had before.
“I might be gone a while,” he whispered, then leaned in to put his lips to hers in a quick kiss. It was meant to be chaste, with the secretive taste of the Sammy betrayal still in his mouth. But how could he keep it that way when she was so soft and smelled of sex? How could he resist the sounds she made?
And when had kisses been this sexy?
Never before Abby. Not once. Not Sandra Couron in the barn, not even when her cousin from Paris had joined them. He’d been, what, thirteen? And the girls more like seventeen. He’d always wondered why they’d chosen him and not the older, more handsome Olivier, who’d actually known what he was doing. It wasn’t something he’d ever gone back to ask. Certainly not as an adult when he’d run into the exhausted-looking Sandra working the checkout line at the local Leclerc supermarket.
They kissed for a while, until finally he drew back to look at her, a knot of guilt sitting too large in his chest.
“I have to tell you something, Abby.” He waited for her soft, blurred eyes to focus on him and then spoke. “Sammy did come here.”
“What do you mean?”
“He made it here and then…then Isaiah came, with his men. They were armed to the gills and I…” He bent his head and rubbed his eyes at the memory. “He said he wanted to go with them, and they…they threatened you, Abby. And Sammy.”
She swallowed, her eyes flicking back and forth at his. “He just went with them?”
A chill went through Luc as he remembered that moment—Isaiah’s arm slithering around Sammy’s neck. There’d been a threat there, but something else, too. Something almost gleeful. “Sammy was happy to go. He had no idea that his life was in danger.”
“He’s too good to understand people hurting one another.”
“Does he know what they did to you?”
She shook her head and sounded fierce when she spoke—a mother hen protecting her chick. “I’d never let him see that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” He smiled, wishing she’d touch him again, let him know he’d done the right thing. “I wanted to go out and find you, Abby.”
“They had me locked up.”
“I would have kept him if I could, but they would have killed him and—”
“I know,” she whispered before reaching up to touch the side of his face, the rasp of her fingers against his stubble audible. “But he’ll die anyway, if he stays there.”
Luc shook his head. When had he felt this responsible for another person? It was a terrible feeling, really. Wonderful and terrible.
“I’ll help you get him out.” When she started to protest, he talked over her. “It’s my fault he’s back there. I’ll go on my own if you won’t let me help. You understand?” After a pause, he went on. “But you have to promise me one thing, Abby. You have to promise that you won’t go until you’re better and the weather clears. If I leave you here tonight and find that you’ve gone back over the mountain, I’ll rush in after you and—”
“I won’t go without you.”
Luc stared at her hard. Was she lying?
“Promise me, Abby.”
“I promise not to go without you.”
“And not until you’re well enough and we can leave this mountain, if necessary. If we get stuck up here with them after us…”
She nodded, shuddering.
“I promise, Luc.”
With a small huff, she put out a hand for him to shake. He shook it a few times, remembering that first handshake out in the middle of his vines. The feel of her hand in his that day had been like a door opening, letting sunshine into his life for the first time in years. He just hadn’t known it then.
He didn’t want to go up to the barn. He wanted to take this woman—the best thing in his life—upstairs to his bed. He wanted to lay her on her side and slide into her from behind, face in that thick, red hair. Instead, he leaned in for one last kiss, inhaling her scent so he’d have something to take with him into the cold, snowy night.
God, he couldn’t remember a woman tasting better than this, couldn’t bring up an occasion when he’d wanted someone more. But he had to get the generator up and running at the barn, so he pulled back and sent her to the bathroom. He gave her another kiss, because he couldn’t help himself, and then left her alone.
* * *
Abby’d wanted to stay on that sofa forever, lolling around in the vestiges of her excess, but Luc urged her to the bathroom and into a shallow, steamy bath before leaving her alone with a burning candle and that little flashlight.
Alone with this body, this hedonistic shell she’d been blessed with.
She was languorous still, and slick down there, the pleasure taking ages to seep out of her. It wasn’t until she started to slide down into the water that reality returned: her back, a mess; Sammy, out there still. The power was out, which made no difference in her world, but now she was alone here and that did. It wasn’t until Luc was gone that she realized just how safe he made her feel.
Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it, so close to the Church? And Sammy hadn’t been safe here, had he?
Chilled now, she washed quickly, got out of the bath, and turned to her dim reflection in the mirror. Mirrors were not something they had at the Church of the Apocalyptic Faith. Mirrors were for sinners.
She twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her back and worrying about that unpleasant numbness.
It didn’t hurt. She hadn’t lied to Luc about that, but that was because it was numb—not necessarily a good sign, although it could have something to do with the wine she’d drunk. The memory of that wine gave her a tight thrill in her abdomen. Would he give her more tomorrow? Would he do that…touching himself again? Would he kiss her in that deep, lewd manner she’d never guessed would feel so good?
Or maybe I’ll do things to him, she thought, looking directly into those eyes in the glass and seeing nothing familiar there. He’d put his face down there. A long, slow shiver worked its way through her, leaving her skin pebbled with goose bumps.
Could I do that to him?
With another shiver, she pushed that thought aside and forced herself to concentrate on her back.
It was numb and stiff, despite the days that had passed since they’d marked her. The best sign that things were improving, she’d found, was when it started to itch. Right now, she felt nothing.
Squinting in the low light, she eyed one of the top-most burns. That yellow tinge couldn’t be good.
Was it getting worse?
No. Her arms had healed just fine. She’d be fine now.
No matter what, there’d be no police. No hospitals. No authorities.
One time, years before, someone had called Child Protective Services on the Church. Goodness, she’d been just a kid back then. Ten or so. Those people had shown up with their badges, police with their lights and guns. She and the other kids had been told to sit in the Hall, to smile and sing. So they had. They’d sung every hymn they knew, while the police took them out, one at a time, leading them to one of the cabins, where they asked all sorts of questions. Stuff about touching and beatings and food and school.
The police had come up empty-handed and eventually left. But beneath the fear of separation from Mama and the Church and everything she knew and trusted was the knowledge—even at that young age—that if anything was to happen, if there was to be any sort of confrontation at all, they would all be forced to endure God’s Wrath.
It wasn’t until recently that she’d fully understood what that meant. The adults wouldn’t go down without a fight. And the ones who tried to get away… Well, Abby remembered Becca Bernstrom—barely. She’d had the cutest twins—two itty-bitty girls, born early, their heads like warm apples. The birth hadn’t gone well, and her husband, Richard, had wanted to take Becca and the babies to a hospital. There’d been a fuss in the Center—Becca’s blood and her husband’s shouts. She remembered watching the family leave in the Church station wagon, disappearing down the drive toward town.
There’d been gunshots.
After that, the twins came back to be raised in the nursery, but their parents never resurfaced. Gone to a better place, everyone said, and she’d thought for the longest time that they meant some other town.
That didn’t seem likely anymore.
Abby did her best to resalve her back before dressing, feeding the woodstove, and heading back upstairs to crawl into Luc’s bed, chilled by more than the air. Again, her thoughts returned to the other side of the mountain.
What were they doing? Was Sammy okay?
Goodness, how could she be here, partaking in earthly delights, while he could have had one of his seizures again? When he could be hungry and ignored?
Luc’s bed smelled like him, which warmed her almost as much as the blankets she crawled under, but even that wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering back there, over and over.
And what about you, Mama? Are you worried? Did you search for me? Do you wish you’d done something to stop the branding this time?
Abby shivered, wishing for more blankets. Where was the one she’d given him?
And then back to Mama: Did she wish, like Abby, that they’d never come here to begin with?
Although Abby couldn’t regret it, could she? Not with the things she’d experienced.
Not with tonight. Hesitant, she reached a hand down to that place between her legs. His had a name, but what, she wondered, did they call it for a woman? A hen, perhaps? That made her smile. Sliding a hand inside the big pants he’d loaned her, she marveled at how much pleasure it could give her.
Slowly, she let her fingers explore in a way she’d never done before, all the Church’s complicated garments making skin-to-skin touching nearly impossible. Oh, she’d pressed there, through cotton, and felt things, but not like this. Not explicitly, with the memory of a man holding himself in his hand for pleasure. Thinking of me.
Did all women know about that little spot? She pressed it with a shuddery breath.
In Luc’s warm bed, surrounded by his scent, she explored herself: her breasts, heavier than God would have wanted. They’d bounced as she’d moved atop Luc earlier, and she’d caught the way his eyes watched—so intently. He’d looked at her hungrily, and she understood that hunger, could feel it surging through her body, from that warm, heavy, pulsing core to her tingling fingertips.
Sinner. The voice whispered in her head, the notion of sensuality so linked to being bad that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to separate them entirely.
But what she’d done hadn’t felt sinful tonight, had it? It had been as joyous as the hymns they sang at Church.
A thought burst through her mind, a flash in a sea of uncertainty: What if sinning was just another part of life? What if it was okay to sin?
That would be… Lord, it would be beautiful, wouldn’t it? If you took the person, the whole person, as they were—if you strove for goodness, kindness, empathy, but the things you did with your body were your own? Eating and drinking and…fucking. He’d said it earlier and she’d heard it before. Oh, that word alone felt sinfully perfect, sliding along her nerve endings and reminding her of the man who’d blown all this wide open for her. Luc. Bringer of Light.
With a
deep sigh, she flipped from her side onto her belly and sank her face into the pillow, to suck in his smell the way she’d soaked up his caresses. The way she’d taken in his body.
And on a lazy haze that felt almost happy, she recognized how much she’d like to do it again.
* * *
The stupid generator wouldn’t start. Which meant Luc had to light the fire in the barn fireplace and keep it stoked, which just barely kept the place from freezing. If the sun came out in the morning, he’d be fine. Everything would be fine. He’d just have to spend the night here.
He got the fire up and running and returned to the cabin to tell Abby before heading back to settle in front of the barn fire on Abby’s quilt.
The sun emerged at daybreak, thank God, bright and brassy and piercing.
Exhausted and grumpy, Luc tried to start up the generator again—without any luck—before making his way back down to the cabin, Le Dog at his heels. He’d have to set up a proper bed in the barn for tonight if this continued.
As he got closer to the cabin, he was surprised to see no smoke coming from the chimney. Well, it wasn’t that surprising, actually. Abby was probably snuggled in his blankets. God, he wanted to join her. Maybe he would. The thought brought a smile and a burst of excitement to his chest.
On the porch, he knocked the snow off his boots as quietly as possible—he’d let her sleep, get the fire started, maybe brew some coffee, and slide into bed beside her for an hour.
That sounded perfect. Surely the barn would be fine with this sun.
Though warmer than the outdoors, the cabin was still cold as hell, and he quickly relit the fire. In the kitchen, he fed the dog, made coffee, and started breakfast for his guest. Pain perdu, he decided, since French toast was the perfect way to use up stale bread.
He would bring it to her in bed.
Halfway up the stairs, something frantic skittered down his spine, but it disappeared when he found her snoring lightly on her side.
He should let her sleep. She was clearly exhausted. But maybe he’d just check her forehead.
In His Hands Page 22
