by Bec McMaster
Nothing. Lucien panicked.
"You can tell me, you know. After all, you know some of my worst secrets. In a way..." Ianthe took a deep breath. "I know we're not friends, but I feel this odd sort of kinship with you. Neither of us were wanted, not truly. And I would never share what you told me with others."
Not alone. Not if he gave in to this. But the hesitation remained. How long had it been since he'd placed his trust in another?
The answer to that lay all around him. A year. A year since he'd been shown the value of another's trust. Bitterness and cynicism had swallowed him up in that time. He had the sudden shocking realization that he didn't know himself anymore. He had become someone who watched the world through wary eyes.
"It's difficult, isn't it? To place one's trust in another's hands. Or your body perhaps, hoping that you won't be hurt," she said.
That jerked his head up. She'd feared his intentions when she'd given herself to him? "You weren't afraid of me."
"Of course I was frightened, Lucien. I barely knew you, and you yourself admitted you wanted revenge. Or want revenge," she corrected. "But you didn't hurt me. My trust was not misplaced, and now you know some of my secrets..."
The offer lay between them, tremulous as a truce between warring armies. He had the feeling that it wouldn't come again if he refused her this one time.
Take it, or don't...
"It gets to me." Something unfurled within him, something he'd been holding onto for a long time. "Being here, under the shadow of him."
Ianthe glanced around, but he knew she saw only the bookcases and the heavy desk. This room wasn't weighted in memory for her, the way it was for him.
The desk where Lord Rathbourne had spent most of his life behind, scratching out his notes in the bloody grimoire that Ianthe held in her hands right now. Ignoring him as a child, but lavishing attention on his chubby, spoiled cousin, Robert. Robert who always pleased Lord Rathbourne. Robert, who, for some inexplicable reason, was better than Lucien. More. No matter how hard he tried.
Everything held a ghost of memory: the heavy skull that sat atop the desk; the hourglass; the scarred bench surface where Lord Rathbourne had worked his alchemies; the drawer where the Earl kept the strap he'd used to punish Lucien whenever he'd caused some minor indiscretion; the silver circle set into the floor, where Luc had stood when he called for the demon...
His chest tightened, nostrils flaring, and he clenched his eyes shut, turning his face away. "I was here... When I called the demon forth." An eerie prickling stirred over the back of his neck. This was where his life had changed, and not for the better. The last time he'd been here, pieces of Lord Rathbourne had been splashed all over the walls. Lucien had broken free of his collar, as the ring controlling it had been destroyed in the blast, and found himself covered in blood, and filthy with the oily stain of the demon upon his soul, knowing that he could not stay. Anywhere. Anywhere, but here...
That was when she'd found him, three days later, at the Grosvenor Hotel.
"It's just a room, Lucien," Ianthe said softly. "Just memories." He looked up and those gorgeous eyes shuttered. "We all have them. No doubt yours are as pleasant as mine."
Closing the book she'd been perusing, she set it aside, moving toward him with a faint swish of her skirts. It was as if she could see right through him. "You're not alone, Rathbourne. Not this time."
It helped ease the jagged edges within him. Lucien bowed his head, hungry for her to touch him, but unable to ask for it. "It feels like I've always been alone. I've never belonged to anybody." And I want to, damn it.
"Forget those memories," she whispered, her hand sliding over his cheek, "and look again. It's just a room."
Lucien let out the breath he'd been holding. She was right. He cupped his hand over hers, holding it to his cheek. Not enough. He wanted the crush of her body against his. Curling his arms around her, he dragged her close, burying his face into the side of her neck.
Ianthe wrapped hesitant arms around him. There was tension within her, something that eased as soon as his arms came around her, as if she too needed this. Lucien's buttocks hit the scarred desk. He was trapped in a cage of skirts and the scent of lilacs. A pleasant prison, indeed.
And he felt like he didn't want to let go of her.
Ever.
They stood for long moments. As her breast rose, his fell. Against the chill of the room, the warmth of her body was a welcome respite. His cock stirred, far too aware of the press of flesh against him, but Lucien forced himself to think of other things. This comfort that she gave him was just as precious as a tumble into bed. For the first time in months, he felt some sense of peace steal through him. This was only pretend, but it was... something he hadn't realized he'd been searching for.
"Well," Ianthe said, letting out a breath and easing away from him. Those fingers fussed with his lapels. "Aren't we a pair?"
Too soon. He was tempted to drag her back, but that was madness, wasn't it?
Instead, he brushed his fingertips over that full, luscious mouth, feeling his own tingle with suppressed need. He wanted to kiss her, but could not. And perhaps that was the problem? Denied by his own pride, his desire only swelled at the thought of what he could not have. Could not touch. Or taste.
And she knew it.
Ianthe's breath hitched. Her fingers tugged his tie from where it was tucked within his waistcoat. She looked up, a sultry glance from beneath her lashes. Apparently he was not the only one thinking lustful thoughts. "Why not create some new memories? For the both of us?"
"It's not night."
"True." Those fingers slid down his waistcoat, flexing against the fabric, as if she enjoyed the sensation beneath her fingertips. She turned her hand, brushing lower against his erection.
Violet eyes lifted to meet his.
"To disapproving fathers," she murmured, a faint smile playing about her lips as she went to the floor in front of him, her skirts spilling about her. A supplicant on her knees, but it was not forgiveness she asked.
"Christ." Lucien's breath exploded out of him, but he certainly wasn't protesting. "You don't have to do this."
"I don't do anything unless I wish to do so."
"Really?" He captured her chin, lifting her face so that he could see everything it revealed. "Then you wanted to be in my bed?"
Ianthe hesitated, and a pretty rose flush spread through her cheeks. That was not what caught his interest, however. Colors danced over her skin, a wash of yellowy-green guilt, and something... blue. A blue so bright and vibrant that it reminded him of a summer sky with not a cloud in it. He hesitated before making his guess. Longing? Yet there was nothing sexual about the flash of color. It was pure, chased away by the dark indigo of doubt.
Lucien froze. He couldn't quite decipher what that look had been about...
They stayed like that until Ianthe's dark lashes slowly lowered, shuttering her pretty eyes. Her gaze fell, her hands sliding up his thighs. "I wanted you in my bed," she admitted in a soft voice. "I wanted you under my hands, under my mouth... I wanted permission, in a way, to take what I wanted. Permission to surrender to your needs, and in doing so, to exploit my own."
"Nobody was stopping you," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair off her face.
"Only myself."
He understood that in a way. She'd been raised in a strict environment, and though she had rebelled, echoes of society's restraint still lingered within her. By demanding her nights, he had, in effect, given her guilt-free permission to accept his deal and explore her budding sensuality.
"It was easy to give into your demands, Lucien, for then I could pretend I had no choice in the matter."
Lucien stroked his thumb across her cheek. "And then you could enjoy this without feeling the shame."
Those dark lashes lowered. "Yes."
"Look at me, darling." As she slowly complied, he felt a nervous flutter along his skin, knowing how important this moment was. "There will never be shame,
not between us. No, this is but desire, Ianthe, and it is pure and clean and whole. I don't care which of your father's lies you still hear, no matter how much you claim otherwise; he is wrong. I don't care what society will say about us; they know nothing. You and I, we are all that matter here, now, between us. All you need know is this: do as you please."
"We're in the middle of an important investigation," she whispered, and he saw the guilt in her eyes. "It's easier at night, when there's nothing else I should be doing."
"Is not giving in to desire going to help us find Morgana faster?"
"No."
"Is this going to strengthen the both of us, considering the sexual aspect of our power?"
"Yes."
Lucien leaned closer. "I think this is important. For us. For our bond. For you. You've been carrying a weight around on your shoulders. It's not good for you."
Her hands quivered on his thighs. "Thank you."
"It's my pleasure." At the flash of budding emotion on her face, he forestalled her. "No, really. It is. Use me to please yourself. Do as you please. I will not utter one word of protest."
That earned a smile, followed closely by a look of determination that took his breath away. "Then I shall."
His cock strained behind the fabric of his breeches as her breath whispered soft entreaty there. His skin heated as her hands slid higher, so lightly that they almost trembled over the buckskin of his breeches. Every muscle in his abdomen tightened in sensual anticipation.
And she was barely even touching him.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered.
"I want to be under your hands." Another sensual whisper from those rosy lips. "Under your mouth. Under your command. I want. That's the truth. I wanted this. It's very simple, really, and yet, not at all."
One delicate finger traced the firm bulge of his erection, like a lit spark set to flesh. A button parted under her careful ministrations, then another... She was seducing him in slow measures, wrapping him around her little finger, stealing the very breath in his lungs and taking command of the rapid thump of his heart.
And all the while, she watched him with those dangerous, dangerous eyes.
Lucien was fairly certain, in that instant, that he wasn't going to survive Miss Martin. Not intact. Not whole.
"Do you know what I want?" he whispered, curling his finger around that one strand of hair that always refused to obey her careful ministrations and rubbing his fingers down its black length. Soft. So soft.
"What?"
The devil knew it. He could see it in her eyes as she leaned closer and rubbed her cheek against the engorged length of his cock.
Lucien sucked in a sharp breath and thrust his hand back for support, knocking a pair of books off the desk. "I want that pretty little mouth—"
Something shifted in the air in the room. It stole his attention.
"Yes?" she asked in a taunting whisper as her tongue darted out, caressing his molten skin. Lucien froze, one hand clenched in her curls, as she pressed forward and bestowed a chaste kiss against the buckskin barely covering his cock. Breathing seemed dangerous in this moment. Not now. Not bloody now. But he looked up, alerted by some instinct, some tremble along his skin, that something wasn't right.
"Do you feel that?"
"Is that supposed to be some sort of innuendo?" Ianthe teased, and her hand brushed against his cock.
Lucien caught her wrist. In the darkness, something red gleamed.
Eyes. A set of glowing, red eyes.
"Ianthe," he whispered. His cock flagged.
Some sense of his concern must have betrayed him. She looked up, her voice as quiet as his. "What?"
"I think we just tripped one of the wards in the room," he told her, not daring to take his eyes off the creature shuddering free of its stone trappings with a cracking sound. "Lord Rathbourne must have put it over one of the books on his desk."
Ianthe froze, her back to the threat, and her pale face tilted up to his. Her previous languidness melted off her. "What is it?"
"A stone construct. The gargoyle, I think."
Another low groan tore itself through the room, and he had the sudden realization that there'd been two of them guarding the entrance. "Fuck."
"Good thing we weren't caught with your breeches entirely down."
Lucien stepped slowly to the side. His flagging erection couldn't have felt more vulnerable as he swiftly rebuttoned himself. "Not the time for a jest, Miss Martin. I'm fairly certain I'm never going to have you on your knees without the hairs on the back of my neck rising."
"Yes, this wasn't entirely what I meant when I said 'let's create new memories'."
Bizarrely, he couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Don't you ever show fear, woman?"
"I'm not very fond of small spaces, remember?"
Yes, but far from running from such things, she was the type of woman who braced herself, stiffened her upper lip, and then waded into battle. A warmth spread through him: admiration.
"Constructs," Ianthe muttered, turning to face the doorway with her hands flexed at her sides. "It had to be constructs."
"At least they're only stone."
"Not bodies?" She gave him a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Small mercies, my lord."
Lucien looked for a weapon. Something. Anything. Nothing on hand, except for the fire poker. Good lord, he was reduced to this. He did, however, snatch it up.
Ianthe shot the poker a look, then turned that look upon him. It spoke volumes.
"Later," he said.
"Would you like me to take point?"
He gave a gruff nod. "If you would."
"Can you keep them off my back?" Ianthe's fingers flexed, a pair of mage globes forming an inch from her palms and flickering with blue lightning.
"I'm not entirely certain. I'll try."
"We need to discuss this at some point," she murmured. "You cannot continue like this, Rathbourne."
"Later."
Saved by the gargoyle. It skittered toward them, its stone claws clicking on the cobbled floors, and its eyes gleaming with a vacant, demonic light. Buoyed by latent magic, color flooded its body until its hide was no longer stone but an iridescent ripple of oil on water. A slick pink tongue darted out, tasting the air, and then it danced back into the shadows behind a column.
"It's quicker than I imagined." Ianthe raised her hands.
Her mage globes rose into the air, throwing back the shadows. They hummed neutrally, pale globes of light with the odd static crackle of lightning dancing over their surfaces.
Quick as a hunting cat, one of the gargoyles darted forward. Lightning lashed out, but it dodged away, leaving a smoking pit in the floor where it had been. Burnt stone flavored the air. The second gargoyle feinted, and Ianthe flicked her fingers, casting lightning toward it. It too, twisted in midair, muscle rippling down its flank.
The pair of them took turns, as though testing her weaknesses. Ianthe took a step back, toward him.
"Without Lord Rathbourne, they have no wits," he said, "though they seem to act with animal intelligence."
No, they were just stone. Keyed to attack anything within their perimeter, until either they or the intruders were down. Anything short of complete annihilation wouldn't stop them.
Bully for us.
His gaze darted to the doorway. "If we escaped this room, they might not follow."
Both of them looked at the pair of gargoyles prowling the floor between them and the door.
"Any more brilliant ideas?" Ianthe asked.
"Run? One of us has to be faster than the other."
"Very amusing. How do you know it's not me?"
The first gargoyle launched itself on top of one of the bookshelves, running along it as nimble as a cat, its demonic tail lashing random books of the shelves.
"Watch out!" Lucien yelled, brandishing the poker. He spun to face it, but the gargoyle suddenly curled its back claws around the shelf, and then shoved itself away from the wall with one
arm.
Shit. The enormous bookcase launched itself toward them, the gargoyle riding it. Lucien grabbed Ianthe by the waist, trying to swing her out of the way. A whip-like tail lashed around his boot from behind, yanking him off-balance just as the bookcase careened down across the desk, vomiting books like some tidal wave. The mage globes imploded with a small, thunderous crash.
Lucien hit the floor and kicked up with his boot, hitting the gargoyle in the face. It felt like kicking a wall, pointless and jarring. The creature snapped its fangs, teeth sinking into his boot. Sharp, wretched teeth sunk through the boot into his skin. Lucien yelled, but by some miracle, the boot came free, leaving the blasted thing with it. The gargoyle shook its head like a dog, worrying at the leather.
Heart in his throat, Lucien looked for her. "Ianthe?" Where was she? Lucien shoved aside the table. A mess of red skirts lay toppled beneath a mountain of books and the leaning bookshelf. She wasn't moving. "Ianthe!"
Get up! Lucien leaned his back beneath the bookshelf, where it had caught on the desk, and put all of his weight into it. The enormous thing shifted, and he ground his teeth together. "Can you move?"
Ianthe gasped, rolling onto her hands and knees. "Behind you!"
Shoving a hand out, she triggered the power stored in one of her rings. Lucien's coat hem flapped as the weight of pure force flung past him. One of the gargoyles had been midpounce. It hit the wall with a boom, powdered stone exploding onto the floor. The face slid free like a mask, tumbling onto the ground, the red eerie light of its eyes slowly fading like an ember and then dying. All that remained was the snarling nose, its leering teeth, and one eye.
"One down."
"One to go." Lucien twisted his head as he dragged her out from under the bookshelf and then let it fall onto the desk again. "Where did it go?"
Claws skittered over stone, almost sounding like hushed laughter. Lucien spun, but there was nothing in the shadows.
"I begin to suspect this is what a doe feels like when hunters are converging upon it," Ianthe said.
There was a flash of movement to the side, but when he turned, there was nothing there.
