Anew: Book Two: Hunted

by Litton, Josie

  Fury, hurt, fear, all of it collides with sheer unbridled lust. I suck hard on his tongue, drawing him even deeper into my mouth and claw at the armor over his chest and shoulders. I love that armor; it may very well have saved his life. And I hate it. I desperately want it off and the two of us skin-to-skin, as close as we can be until I take him inside--

  A throat clears behind me. In the small part of my brain that’s still functioning, it sounds like a thunder clap.

  I whirl around to find Edward watching us. All I see of Hollis is his back as he withdraws quickly. The man is nothing if not discrete. Unlike my brother.

  “Do we have time for this?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “We should be moving on.”

  Strong hands set me aside even as one twines with my own, fingers interlacing, keeping me close.

  “We should,” Ian says with a nod. “We’ll go to Pinnacle House. Nowhere in the city is safer.”

  He sounds completely impervious to what has just happened between us. A dart of resentment moves through me. Once, at the estate, he indulged me with the illusion of control. Now I realize that I want the real thing, not forever, not even mainly, but I want to see him come undone and know that I am the cause.

  Before Edward can reply, my grandmother joins us. Adele’s silver hair is a bit mussed but otherwise she looks perfectly calm, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I can only admire--and envy--her composure.

  “You should certainly do so,” she says to Ian, not unkindly. “The rest of us need to return to our own residences.”

  “With all respect, ma’am,” he begins, “that isn’t a good idea.”

  “On the contrary, the last thing we want to do right now is draw attention to ourselves.” She holds up a hand, forestalling any further argument. “We are the innocent, shocked survivors of a terrible atrocity, no different from all the others who were here tonight and are fortunate enough to still be alive. We were not escorted away just as the attack began, escaping through a tunnel in the company of your men who were present in force and for unexplained reasons.”

  It takes several seconds for her meaning to sink in. When it does, I gasp. “You aren’t suggesting that anyone could believe Ian was involved in the attack?” That’s insane yet I can’t overlook the fact that the city creates its own reality, different in so many ways from the world that normal, ordinary people inhabit.

  “If the presence of his men here tonight becomes known,” Adele says gently, “some will certainly suggest that. The Council won’t want to accuse him openly, of course, but they need to assign responsibility for this quickly. A long drawn out investigation would be intolerable to the city’s residents and would bring demands for political change.”

  “You’re right,” Helene says. She has joined the rest of us without my noticing. “Nothing counts for more in this city than appearances. Going to Pinnacle House would broadcast to the world that at the very least we lack confidence in the Council’s ability to maintain security. Any hint of such disloyalty will invite questions that we don’t want to have asked, much less be pressed to answer.”

  Frowning, Ian turns to Edward. “Do you agree with this?”

  Reluctantly, my brother says, “I’m not happy about it but the ladies are right. We were all seen together at the Crystal Palace this evening and we all got out of there alive. If we now all hole up in Pinnacle House, we’re bound to draw attention that could get in the way of our finding out who was behind this.”

  Slowly, Ian nods. Like it or not, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t, he accepts what the others are saying. I can’t help thinking that this is one of his great strengths, the ability to see beyond his own formidable intelligence and experience and grasp when someone else is right. Now if only he could extend that to me.

  “All right,” he says. “But the security ring that’s in place will be tightened. It will be discrete but it will be there.”

  What security ring? Suddenly, I recall the frequent episodes of feeling as though I was being watched. Could Ian have been responsible? Exactly how close an eye has he kept on me since I arrived in the city?

  Before I can ask, he says, “But Amelia is coming with me. That’s not up for discussion. Apart from everything else that has happened here tonight, Davos has left no doubt that he has an unhealthy interest in her. I’ve managed to make that worse.”

  He looks directly at me as he speaks, as though he expects me to object. When I remain silent, a flicker of wary surprise darts behind his eyes. I fight a smile, secretly delighted that I can keep him off balance at least a little, especially since he does the same to me so effortlessly. That’s all well and good as far as it goes but I can’t overlook the much larger issue. I accepted that he and I should part because simply by being with me, he’s forced to confront his worst demons. Now, because of his concerns for my safety, he will have to do exactly that.

  My throat tightens at the thought but there is one consolation: He won’t be alone. Whatever comes, this time I am determined that we will face it together.

  Chapter Ten

  Ian

  The sight of Amelia standing in the great room of the penthouse on top of Pinnacle House sends a bolt of relief through me. For the first time since walking into the Crystal Palace hours ago, the muscles at the back of my neck start to unclench.

  She’s here. She’s safe. Besides that, nothing else--including my raging hard-on--matters. All my concern about needing to stay away from her has crashed and burned against the reality of imminent death. If I had gotten her out of there a few moments later… If one of those shards of glass had hit her… I close my eyes against the pain that lances through me.

  When I open them again, my gaze meets hers. I take a breath and force myself to speak as calmly and steadily as I can manage.

  “I’ll let Hodge know that you’re here,” I say. “He’ll see to anything you need. I mean that, anything.” Casting around for some way to convince her that I’m down with whatever it takes to make her happy, I say, “If you need to go to class with that Russian, Hodge will arrange it.”

  My plan is to stay as far away from her as possible for however long she’s here. I’ll sleep in the single men’s barracks, eat in the mess, work out, do whatever I have to while steering well clear of Amelia. That shouldn’t be a problem considering that Pinnacle House is the vertical equivalent of a small city with a population of more than twenty thousand men, women, and children. One way or another, I’m responsible for them in addition to another twenty thousand or so in other locations around the world.

  For their sakes, as much as Amelia’s and my own, all my attention needs to be focused on figuring out what happened tonight, that and getting to the bottom of who was financing the HPF. My gut says that there could be a link, either that or two separate efforts are underway to undermine the established order. Unraveling that won’t leave any time to think about Amelia.

  Which is why I’m lingering just a couple of minutes when I know I should be on my way out the door.

  She looks pre-occupied. I’d worry more about that if I weren’t so distracted by how the velvet gown she’s wearing has slipped off one creamy shoulder, yet further exposing the swell of her glorious breasts. Or how it clings to her narrow waist before flaring slightly at the curve of her hips that I love to grasp as she rides me--

  In desperation, I force myself to look away from her, out through the glass walls of the penthouse to the city and beyond. It’s almost midnight but Manhattan is still lit up, lights blazing as though a party is going on that will never end. Less so the outer boroughs where the working stiffs live, resting up in their micro-apartments for whatever the coming day will bring. How will they react when they learn of the attack on the Crystal Palace? With a certain vindictive pleasure is my guess, although they’ll be careful to mask it.

  Beyond the rings of light is the harbor, a black hole in the night except for the statue of Lady Liberty illuminated by high-power searchlights intended
to discourage anyone who might think of dropping by uninvited. Visits to her island have been banned for the vast majority of people for longer than I can remember and there’s a rumor that she’s falling into disrepair. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised to look out one day and discover that she’s gone. At best, she’s become an anachronism. At worst, she’s a potential rallying point and a threat.

  But she can’t hold a candle to the woman reflected in the glass wall. Amelia is watching me. There’s a slight furrow between her brows that I find myself wanting to kiss away.

  “Would you like some help?” she asks, meeting my eyes in the glass.

  I turn back to the room, to her. “With what?” Leaving? I can do that under my own power. And I will…any minute--

  “With your--what is it called, body armor?” she says. “It looks uncomfortable.”

  I open my mouth to explain that I’ve worn armor like this for days and nights at a time in the field. A few hours is nothing. I’ll take it off when I get down to the operations floor for the debrief.

  But before I can say that, Amelia closes the distance between us. She’s kicked off her high heels. The top of her head tucks neatly under my chin. Laying a slim hand on my chest, she says, “How does it come off?”

  Walk away, go downstairs, do the debrief. Take a cold shower. Take a longer one. Jerk off. Do anything I have to do to--

  “Like this,” I say. My hand is over hers, guiding her. I have to be out of my fucking mind. My fingers slip under hers, pressing against the biometric sensors that release the armor. The front and back pieces that protect my torso separate and drop onto the floor. A million bucks worth of the most advanced survival equipment on the planet, forgotten.

  Because Amelia isn’t done yet. I’m also wearing armor on my legs where a hit can sever the femoral artery, making for a very bad day. Without breaking eye contact with me, she lowers herself slowly and gracefully to her knees.

  Amelia and my cock have gotten along really well in the past. He doesn’t give a shit about the demons that haunt me or my very genuine fears about how I could hurt her or much of anything else besides being deep inside her. By the time the rest of the armor hits the floor and gets kicked to the side, he’s more than raring to go.

  Worse, still on her knees, Amelia tosses me a look that walks the line between sweetly shy and ready to have me for her next meal. She reaches for the button of my waistband.

  Whoa, not happening.

  I grab hold of her and lift her back onto her feet. “You’ve been through a terrible experience. You’re not thinking straight.”

  Her eyes narrow. I get the distinct impression that a calculation is going on in that complex, often bewildering brain of hers. After a moment, she turns her back, glances over her shoulder, and says, “You’re right. I should really lie down. If you wouldn’t mind returning the favor?”

  How’s that?

  “The buttons,” she prompts. “I can’t undo them myself.” When I stand there frozen, she adds, “Perhaps you’d rather call Hodge to help me?”

  Cold day in hell. Pigs flying.

  I stare at the long--extremely long--row of tiny pearl buttons that marches down her back from just below her bare shoulder blades to the curve of her ass. Each is secured with a velvet loop that matches her dress. When I touch a tentative finger to one of the buttons, it slides right off. On top of everything else, they’re so polished that they’re slippery.

  We live in the era of high-tech everything when inhuman speed and efficiency overrule all other considerations. And this is the best way they can come up with to fasten a dress? What kind of sicko sadists work in the fashion industry?

  “This isn’t a good idea.” I’m talking to myself. Amelia definitely isn’t listening or if she is, it’s not having any effect. She shrugs, freeing her other shoulder so that the dark claret-hued velvet slips all the more.

  “I could just sleep in my dress,” she says. “But I’m wearing a corset and it’s a little tight.”

  The Universe has to be doubled over laughing. For ten days, I’ve struggled to do what’s right and here’s where it’s gotten me. Maybe it’s the epic hard-on or the incipient blue balls or something a whole lot deeper and darker but in the next moment, I’m watching my hands gripping both sides of the velvet that’s warm with the heat of her body and--

  Tiny pearls fly in all directions and skitter across the penthouse floor. The gown falls away, pooling around her feet. Amelia is left in nothing more than a black lace corset, matching thigh highs, and a tiny excuse for a thong.

  That and the diamonds that encircle her wrists and throat, dangle from those delicate earlobes I love to suck and nestle in her hair. No goddess adorned by her worshippers ever looked more enthralling.

  She turns again and stares at me. Her luscious lips have formed a surprised O that has me instantly thinking what I would like to be doing with her mouth. To it. In it. In her.

  Fuck.

  “Amelia--” I’m drowning in need for her, grasping at a last thin filament of reason, and she isn’t helping. Every dark reason I have for staying away from her is ricocheting around in my mind. I can’t escape them any more than I can avoid my overwhelming need for her. Those opposing forces threaten to tear me apart.

  “Don’t,” she whispers as she steps gracefully out of the pool of clothing at her feet. Her hands reach up, her fingers lacing in my hair. On tip-toe, she presses closer. My breath fills with the intoxicating scent of her skin. “Don’t think,” she whispers. “Don’t worry. We’re alive, we’re together. That’s all that matters.”

  It isn’t. I’m fairly confident she knows that as well as I do but I’m forgetting why I should care. All I can think of is the sight of her trying to come back up the steps out of the tunnel because she didn’t want to leave me. Running to me in the park. Keeping her hand in mine.

  After everything that’s happened between us, she still trusts me.

  Nothing matters beyond that except the raw hunger that’s eating me from the inside out. I’m coming apart in some way that I’ve never experienced before--not in battle, not in my darkest moments, never.

  Knowing that I shouldn’t, terrified not to, I lift Amelia into my arms.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amelia

  Ian carries me up the floating glass staircase that connects the two floors of the penthouse. My heart is pounding and I can’t catch my breath. It’s dawning on me that I’ve pushed him past his limits into territory that he never intended to revisit. Now I’m about to face the consequences.

  Given the choice between remaining mired in the anguish of missing him or reaching for even a chance that we can be together, I feel no hesitation at all.

  At least I don’t until Ian sets me down in the master bedroom, paneled in glass and looking out over the rooftop Japanese garden. The setting should encourage a sense of peace and serenity but all I can feel is the raging fire of my need for him.

  The mouth that has tormented me so exquisitely is tightly drawn as he says, “Tell me this isn’t insane.”

  The words are far more of an order than a plea. That makes me smile. However concerned and vulnerable he is, he’s strong willed as ever. I wouldn’t change that for anything.

  “You think this is funny?” he asks.

  I rest my palms against his chest and look up, meeting his gaze. His pupils are dilated, leaving only a narrow ring of tawny gold around the outer rims. The planes and angles of his face are even more sharply defined than usual. I can’t help but think of how beautiful he is, this passionate, wounded man who has struggled so valiantly to do what is right.

  “This is what we both want,” I say, seeking only to reassure him. “What we both need.”

  That horrible day in the gallery, I said a great deal more, about wanting him without condition or judgment, all of him, the light and the dark. In hindsight, I feel as though I babbled on and on although realistically I know that wasn’t the case. Whatever I said, it didn’t
work. Words don’t with Ian, something I should have realized before then. Actions count--his, mine, ours together.

  I take a step back, reach around to the hooks holding my corset closed, and undo them. The garment falls into my hands. I hold it for a moment, a shield of black lace and silk scarcely protecting me from his gaze.

  Ian’s eyes darken even further. A long tremor runs through me. I want him so desperately, want to hold him inside me, watch his pleasure build, know that I’m the cause of it, and finally see him come undone. Above all, I want him to know that we can both have this without either of us being hurt, him by his demons and me by whatever harm he imagines he could do.

  I want to end even the thought of that for good, shatter it as thoroughly as the glistening panes of the Crystal Palace were blown apart tonight.

  The corset slips to the floor. I stand before him. Despite the thong and thigh highs, I feel more exposed than I ever have before. The cool air of the bedroom contrasts sharply with the heat of my skin. My nipples are puckered and I’m all too aware of the wetness gathering in me.

  When he still doesn’t move, I force myself to walk over to the bed. Slowly, I sit down on the edge, lift my right leg, and begin rolling the stocking down along my thigh, over my knee and calf until finally I slip it off my foot. The length of ivory silk dangles from my fingertips for a moment before I let it fall. Lifting my other leg, I repeat the process until I’m left with nothing more than a rapidly dampening scrap of black lace between my legs.

  Ian’s scrutiny is making me acutely self-conscious. I lean back as nonchalantly as I can, resting on my elbows, and study him.

  “Your turn.”

  The corners of his mouth quirk ever so slightly, giving me hope. Without taking his eyes from me, he unbuttons his shirt. When it falls open, revealing his broad chest defined by perfectly formed abs and the V of muscle pointing toward his groin, my throat goes dry. But not before I notice a scattering of small, faint bruises that I don’t remember from before. They don’t so much mar the perfection of his beauty as accentuate it.