Unforgiven: A Soulkeepers Novel (The Soulkeepers Book 3)

by Lori Adams

  They turned to go but Lovaria spoke up. “What rabble? Tell me, Vaughn. What is it that Dante is keeping from me?”

  “I am not keep—”

  “Your story has been retold by a guy—”

  “Please!” Dante broke in with sudden fury. “It has haunted me for centuries, from Signore Alighieri to Matteo to Brook to Painter, and then Lope de Vega concocted his version.”

  “Don’t forget the bard,” Vaughn said, grinning against Dante’s scowl.

  “His was the worst!” Dante snarled. “Embellishments and exaggerations. Outright falsehoods. Claiming I killed her kinsman.”

  “Who?” Lovaria perked up with interest. “Who did you kill, Dante? I mean besides me, of course.” She gave him a cool smile before returning her attention to a brittle manuscript she’d lifted from the desk. Dante folded his arms and appraised her stubborn mood.

  Vaughn happily twisted the knife. “You mean you didn’t exact revenge for Mercutio’s murder and slay Tybalt?” He laughed.

  Dante’s jaw muscle flicked with agitation. “There was no Mercutio, idiota,” he seethed. “And I…forget it. I want to be alone with Lovaria. I have waited a long time for this. I’m sure you understand.” This time he ushered them to the door. But as he pulled it open, he found a Marrow Man coming to a stop before Grayson and the guards.

  The skeletal man, cloaked in black, beckoned Dante with his brittle fingers. At that moment, Santiago came rushing up from the opposite direction. Mahl and Korse quickly drew their swords on him, and Santiago halted with his hands raised.

  “I just heard,” he panted out. “Came as soon as I could. The Order has reconvened.”

  “No shit,” Vaughn muttered, eyeing the Marrow Man. “Any word on their decision?”

  “Only that the majority backed Lord Malachi in whatever he decided.”

  “Shit,” Vaughn said, grabbing Isatou by the arm. “You’re coming with us, right? I’m sure we’ll need all the backup we can get.” He held her close, not the least bothered by the soft curves pressed against him. Dante turned on his heel and marched back to Lovaria. He tore the manuscript from her hands and tossed it aside. Taking her by the shoulders, he stared hard into her eyes to mark the gravity of the situation.

  “Listen to me, cara mia. We must stand before The Order. You remember? As Sophia, yes? Good, now please do not speak unless spoken to this time. And for Hell’s sake, no more threats.”

  —

  The Order members were waiting on their individual thrones behind the giant stone slab in the inner sanctum when Dante and the others arrived. The circular room had a vacant quality without the horde of nobles hovering about. Whatever verdict they planned to hand down, it was not meant for the general assembly. This was a private meeting, and Dante couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a bad one. If Sophia’s threat worked in his favor, fine. If not, he was prepared with a plan of his own, one that he and Vaughn had hatched in the torturous three-hour wait for Lovaria’s arrival. She was here now, and he’d be damned if he would let The Order take her from him without a fight.

  Lord Malachi remained on the High Throne with Lord Brutus to his far right, along with Lord Viperon and Lord Kruell. Lords Stivell, Sultar, and Hailu sat to his left. Isatou took her place behind the scribe and waited in nervous anticipation. On the long walk over, she had whispered promises to Dante and Vaughn; she would stand by them if The Order called her to act against them. It seemed that Sophia’s bold threat against The Order had reminded Isatou of her own value as Mistress of the Dark Arts; or perhaps undervalue was more accurate. She’d grown tired of being treated as little more than a slave.

  Taking Lovaria’s hand, Dante brought them into the center of the stone floor with its demonic rune. Vaughn stood beside him, tense and alert.

  All pretenses aside, the significance of the situation was marked plainly on each member’s face. They resembled nothing better than beaten chattel. It seemed the time of debates and plots was over.

  “You have given us much to consider,” Lord Malachi began, his voice flat and missing the previously delightful overtures. He seemed rather cold and brooding, as though he’d been properly chastised by a higher power, which was highly likely in this case. “Your audience here today is accepted as a sign of trust; we understand you came willingly, but make no mistake, threats against The Order are taken quite seriously. They are never forgotten.” His dark eyes shifted from Dante to Sophia. They narrowed with a clear objective of heightened interest. Lord Malachi, as well as the entire Order, no longer saw her as a toy to manipulate, a damned commoner at their disposal. They walked on thin ice here, neither wanting to destroy her potential nor make an enemy of the only future spirit walker to cross the gates of Hell.

  Dante squeezed Lovaria’s hand in a show of patience; she must remain silent while they were reprimanded. In an odd perspective, Dante submitted to the verbal chastising; it was due. Even he had a certain amount of respect for The Order, as far as their purpose served. But if they handed down a petty and vindictive verdict, he would not hesitate to protect what was his, even if it meant killing each member who crossed him.

  “As such, any further outbursts or threats will be met with severe punishment. They will not be tolerated,” Lord Malachi reemphasized in a menacing cadence and then let the statement play out, gaining strength in the prolonged silence.

  A low grunt of disapproval from Lord Brutus broke the quiet as loudly as any verbal outburst could have. He’d had influence over the other members for too long to be considered inconsequential. They fidgeted on their marble thrones. The dark energy in the room was stretched as taut as a live wire. Lord Malachi held up his hand as though calling for silence in the already quiet chamber. Bracing his hands on the table, he looked down at Dante and forcibly brightened his mood with a casual tone.

  “I would like to say that we are not without compassion here, but…” He shrugged and gave a grim smile. “This is Hell. Compassion is not a profitable commodity. However, opportunity is. And we understand the importance of this opportunity. Perhaps I was overzealous in my bid to obtain your companion, Dante. But I have been counseled out of that proposal.” His eyes flicked down the table toward Lord Brutus before resting back on Dante. “And so, I, er, we, agree that the best course of action regarding Sophia St. James is to ensure whatever measures it will take to complete her Awakening. If she is accepting of your help, so be it.”

  Dante elbowed Lovaria, who startled to attention. She fixed her eyes on Lord Malachi and nodded.

  “I am, my Lord.”

  “Very well,” Lord Malachi said triumphantly. “No harm done. We shall expect progress reports from your men, Dante, and you will have the safety and the resources of the fifth kingdom at your disposal.”

  Dante bowed his head. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “In the meantime,” Lord Malachi said, sitting forward again. He seemed refreshed as though he had somehow gotten his way with things. “In a show of faith in our agreement and to reward the value of your accomplishment in bringing a future spirit walker to Hell, we have elected to elevate your status among the noble heraldry. A formal announcement will be made at the conclusion of the Demonic Games, during the Danse Macabre. From that day forth, you will no longer be known as Demon Knight Dante but Lord Dante, Principe of the Fifth Kingdom. If it suits you?”

  It was shocking news, as the audible gasps from Isatou and Vaughn proved. A modest elevation in stature might have been expected if the way in which Sophia was brought to Hell was overlooked; escaping from the Death Bunker was unforgivable. But to rise eight levels from cavaliere-knight to prince was unheard of. The only plausible conclusion Dante could fathom was that some deal had been made. It was more than mild curiosity that moved him. By all rights, he and Vaughn should be rotting away in the Nether Region. This newest turn of events solidified Dante’s suspicions. Someone was pulling the strings. If Lord Brutus had not raised an argument at this announcement, it stood to reason that a gr
eater power had intervened. That being the case, Dante had no qualms with taking advantage of the situation.

  He bowed at the waist and thanked them for their generosity. “And it is with great pleasure that I share an announcement of my own,” he said, squaring up to Lord Malachi. The Order members sat at attention. Dante raised Lovaria’s hand and kissed it. “Sophia and I are to be married.”

  Chapter 17

  The Shelter of My Love

  Michael is leading me up the back stairs, heading to the barn’s private chambers. I’d often seen the balcony hidden among flowering vines but never knew who lived up here, if anyone. As we go, hand in hand and still soaking wet from our wedding dance across the water, he explains the situation. The chambers, though rarely used, had been reserved for visitors but now serve as his living quarters. He has begun his seven days of grace due to killing some demon at the Borderlands. Essentially, Michael wants us to live here. After we announce our marriage to his family and the Halos.

  We come to a stop just inside the foyer. I peer around with a growing sense of awe. I’ve never seen any place like this. The rooms are light cream, honey wood, and smooth textured, with an airy quality due to the lack of interior walls. The open space gives way to a spectacular view, right through the living room, which is flanked by the formal dining room and extensive library, and straight out the back to a wide stone balcony. I can see the vast, velvety sky with brilliant stars and fat, silvery moon. The pathway is even more awe inspiring—a stunning glass floor with millions of smooth, colorful stones. As Michael pulls me along, I feel as if I am still walking on water.

  Off to the right, we move through one of the remaining hallways of creamy suede walls, where a staircase spirals down to the floor below like stepping-stones on a waterfall. Everywhere, the glorification of nature is at its finest, and I’m a little disappointed that we don’t take the stairs. Instead, Michael, with a soft smile, tugs me toward a closed door at the end. He seems uncharacteristically shy, and I find myself growing nervous. He is leading us to the bedroom.

  He gently swings open the door and I catch my breath. I look quickly at him in surprise, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. Then I gaze back into the room, my heart hammering. It’s wholly unexpected, a romantic honeymoon suite from the pages of some tropical paradise magazine. I walk in slowly to enjoy everything in small increments. Immediately, I feel the dark, warm flooring beneath me, hand-scraped bamboo that massages my feet as I go. The vaulted ceiling of teak wood is so high that it seems to disappear above my head. I gaze up and over and come down to the lanai that opens to a glorious vision of some exotic ocean with tropical green mountains in the far-off distance. I imagine Fiji or some African coast I’ve never been to. I walk all the way through, curious to see the entire view. A chaise longue and a few chairs occupy the lanai but there is no rail. Way down below, at the end of a shiny teak staircase, is a stunning infinity pool that drops off in the short distance. I cautiously peer over the edge as Michael joins me.

  “An infinity pool?” I ask.

  “Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure where that disappears to so let’s keep you away from its edge. Okay?” He smiles down at me and I can only hope he’s kidding. But probably not.

  We fall silent and I take a moment to enjoy the spectacular scenery. It’s not something you can see at a glance, and we’re in no hurry. Or at least I’m not. I feel Michael’s hand slip into mine and squeeze. I peek through my lashes and find him watching me, waiting for a sign that I’m ready. My stomach is dancing with nerves but it’s his hand that I feel trembling.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks softly. “I had some things prepared. Just in case. Anything you want, I can…” He must realize he sounds anxious because he stops. I’ve never seen this side of Michael before and I wonder if we have something to worry about. Is it safe for us to make love?

  I search his face but only find love and anticipation. He would tell me if there was any danger. I trust him completely. Michael would let me stand out here as long as I want, but I pull away and stroll back inside.

  For the first time, I notice the bed off to the right. It’s a lovely vision with a hanging net canopy drawn back and tied to four dark-wood posters. Soft white linens and inviting pillows await us. On the nightstand is a bottle of champagne, two flute glasses, and a tray of assorted goodies: chocolate drops, a bowl of strawberries, a plate of banana chips, cheese and crackers, and a bunch of succulent dark grapes.

  I feel Michael’s eyes on me; he’s hoping it’s okay. “Everything is wonderful,” I say, a little confused as to why I’m so hesitant, feeling shy as a fawn. I’ve dreamed of this night for so long, imagining myself wrapped around Michael. I decide it’s entirely different enjoying him in my imagination than having him standing next to me on our wedding night. In our bedroom.

  I clasp my hands and let the silence have its way. I feel Michael move close behind me. The heat from his body and the electricity between us makes my pulse jump. His fingers gently brush my wet hair aside, allowing his soft, warm lips to explore my neck. I draw in a breath as my head tips back. My eyes close to the tingles dancing along my skin. He kisses across my shoulder to the white spaghetti strap where his teeth drag it aside. It drops at the same moment that his right hand brushes away the opposite strap.

  His arms slide around my waist as he buries himself in my hair. He squeezes with sudden urgency, whispering, “God, I love you so much.” He is running out of patience, so I turn in his arms and cup his face. His eyes are heavy with desire and match the burning deep inside me. I bring his beautiful mouth down, letting his lips and tongue blend with mine. A warm, gentle kiss that gradually builds into a demanding need for more. His hand slides into my hair, drawing us closer. The sparks in our kiss ignite us further, both craving more. We can’t seem to get enough. When I moan into his mouth, Michael tears his away and bites along my neck. I shudder with pleasure. His hands move to my bare back, reaching for the edge of my dress. Slipping his fingers inside, he gently tugs it loose.

  With growing urgency, I unbutton Michael’s shirt. It’s damp and hits the floor with a soft thud. We pull apart, both panting from pent-up emotions. Michael stares at me and then slowly reaches up and caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers. His hand is shaking. Without taking his eyes from mine, he carefully lowers my wedding gown, letting it slide down my legs.

  Michael steps back, his eyes wide as they drift down my half-naked body in white lace panties with tiny pink bows on the hips. My nipples rise to his arousing gaze. A tug tickles my heart as Michael instinctively draws me toward him. I step out of the gown pooled at my feet. He groans and drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing himself against me.

  “You are so beautiful, Sophia,” he whispers hoarsely. I slide my fingers through his hair, overcome with desire. Seeing Michael on his knees, feeling him wrapped around me is too much. I can’t take any more.

  “Please, Michael. Make love to me.”

  He looks up, his indigo eyes blazing with hunger. Gradually, he lifts us off the floor and into the air. I smile down, twisting my fingers in his hair. We drift across the room where he gently lays us on the bed.

  —

  Michael gazes down at me, his arms on both sides of my head. A glimmering sheen ripples across the mounds of shoulder muscles, the smooth plain of his chest. We are panting and overwhelmed. Our combined spiritual energy is combustible. Knowing we were made for this, we grin like real lovers.

  He dips his head, sharing a warm, wet kiss. I taste the salt from his skin. And mine. Intoxicating. Kiss by kiss, I close my eyes and luxuriate in the delicious flavor of us. I imagine the whole world is moving in a slow, sensual rhythm, back and forth. Deeper and deeper, pushing harder until two things make one…

  —

  The cool air beneath me suggests that we are rising off the bed, levitating. Michael rolls us over and I straddle him, loving the drunken pleasure of desire on his face. Eyes drowsy with lust,
he can barely keep us floating. Reaching out, our slick fingers slide and weave and bind us together. Clenching tightly. Everything hums inside me as my legs dangle, toes brushing the bedsheets. To and fro, gently up and down. I am drifting outside of myself, higher and higher. I close my eyes, throw my head back. The circle of my mouth crying out, gasping, and exploding. And exploding. And exploding…

  —

  I lick my lips, tender and swollen from kissing. I want more. More room inside me for Michael. More love to give him. Such a human thought, always wanting more.

  I make a wish on the moon. It hangs above the chaise longue on the lanai, just over our heads now. Hypnotizing as though it could grant me anything. Huge and powerful bearing down on me, harder and harder, driving so deep I swear it touches the sweet spot in the deepest part of me. Sweat-slick bodies crashing and Michael lifts his head, silhouetted by the wish maker. He stops suddenly, cries out my name, and shatters the moon.

  —

  I roll onto my stomach, sliding into a long, luxurious stretch. “Mmm,” I moan, and immediately become aware that my hips have an unusual loose quality about them. I feel different. Sore. My muscles protest so I sag in defeat, exhausted.

  A growling stomach makes my eyes pop open and I realize two things: It’s morning, and I’m alone in bed. On Michael’s bedside table sits the tray of goodies. What little remains, that is. I push up to my elbows and crawl over, snagging the last of the grapes. Somewhere behind me, I hear Michael moving around in the bathroom. I roll over in the sheet, prop up on my elbow, and watch him in the mirror. He’s just gotten out of the shower and has a white towel wrapped around his waist. A delicious sight, I tilt my head and admire the firm band of ab muscles that cut across his lower waist and form a V. His Adonis belt, Michael had called it. The memory of my tongue sliding along the V makes me bite into my smile.