A bolt of energy pulsed through him, destroying the lingering murmurs of The Vanquished, leaving fascination in their wake.
He hovered over her, absorbing every nuance of her features. His body hummed.
Reign would never be the same.
~~~~~~~
The beast raced after the retreating car, homing in on the two people it wanted most in the world. Tearing up the asphalt, he dodged between the traffic, never losing sight of their taillights. Tonight, they were his.
The car sped up an onramp. He followed, merging into traffic. A car clipped him and he went down in a rolling mix of limbs and tail. Squealing tires and crashing cars competed with his bellow of outrage. He shot to his feet, not caring about the multi-car pileup he caused. He leaped onto the roof of the nearest destroyed vehicle. Using his superior eyesight, he found their fading taillights three miles away, speeding down the highway. They thought they were free. A grin peeled back the flesh from his snout, exposing his new dentures.
He flashed a second too late to intercept them—but not the semi they’d cut in front of. Much like a fly slamming into a grill, he smacked into the truck.
His tail spiked a tire and caught, dragging him under. Six tires left track marks before he was stuck in the undercarriage. Breaks screamed and smoked as the truck skidded and then jackknifed, taking out several compact cars that weren’t fast enough to get out of the way. The cab slammed into the highway divider, the trailer broke free, rolling down the roadway, spilling its precious cargo of cheap merchandise from China.
Thrown into a ditch beside the road, like so many bits of trash, Alamut couldn’t move. Too many parts were severely damaged. His body couldn’t heal them all instantly. Distant sirens drew closer, risking discovery.
With his last bit of energy, he flashed back to the pit and the clammy, camaraderie of his fellow beasts. There—in the slime—he would regenerate, heal, and plan for the next attack.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rocking, no longer the purr of a car, but a steady, slightly nauseating rocking motion woke her. The chug and rumble, and a glimpse of water out of the car window confirmed her location. She was on a boat. A few feet away, Roman stood at the rail.
Stella opened the door and stepped into a fine mist and a slick metal deck. The strong smell of diesel filled the air. She’d traveled on the Staten Island Ferry for a job interview once. Too afraid to go up on the open deck, fear of drowning kept her in the middle of the ferry, seated near the snack bar. This rusted wreck couldn’t compare. No deck chairs, no snack bars, and no lower levels. The water lapping against the boat seemed dangerously close.
She looked around, searching for other travelers. There were none. Roman and she were the only people. She glanced up and spotted a shadow in the weather-worn wheelhouse. The captain, hopefully. The boat rode a crest and groaned when it slammed back into the water. Stella clutched the car to steady herself. Level again, she carefully walked around to the front of the vehicle.
“Where are we?” Afraid to cross the distance, Stella perched on the hood. Roman faced her. His shades were gone. In the weak light, his eyes were deep, dark drowning pools.
“No one sits on the hood of a Shelby.”
“Why?” was the only thing she could think of to say.
“Because, it’s a Shelby.”
As if that answered the question. Cautiously, she came to the rail and studied the dark night for any landmarks. Light twinkled in the distance, but didn’t cast enough illumination to pick out any details. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Does that place exist?” Her lips twisted.
“It’s my job to make sure it does, at least for you.”
“Is that the only reason why you’re here, because it’s your job?” She shouldn’t have asked, but the words slipped out without a care for her pride.
“Why else would I be here? I’m a mercenary. I have a job to complete.” Monotone, his voice held no life, no passion.
Something in her heart broke. “Just a job?” Watery, her voice wavered.
“Just a job.” He gave her his back.
Streaks of sunlight stabbed the sky. If she cared to see, the perfect sunrise greeted the day. She couldn’t enjoy it, not when a continent separated her and the man standing inches away. And rightly so. Too much shit had passed between them for anything meaningful to survive. It’s best she let go of what she thought they had. It’s not as if she didn’t have other things to worry about.
Like his brother the serial killer.
“Did you know about Daniel?” Her heart already knew the answer, but her head needed more confirmation.
“No.”
“Not a clue?’ she pressed.
His eyes snapped to hers. Pain did laps in their depths. They said what his lips refused to impart.
She touched his stubbled cheek. “I’m sorry, Roman.”
He jerked away. “Don’t pity me.”
She couldn’t deny it. Pity is exactly what she felt seeing his pain.
“Landing in ten.” The captain cupped his mouth and yelled from the house.
Roman gave him a single wave.
“Landing where?” she asked.
“A small town upstate.” He walked over and stopped in front of her. “Fifty miles from here is a cabin on a lake. That’s where we’re going.”
“Why there?” She wanted to keep him talking.
“It’s a good place to hold up and rest.”
A simple touch stopped him before he went to the car. “I’m sorry your brother betrayed you.”
Though he turned away, his shoulders rose as he took a great shuddering breath. This time when she pulled him, he moved into her arms and she couldn’t help burying her face in his neck. She pushed all her questions and valid reasons aside. Q&A would come later. Right now, their joined pain needed easing.
God, his scent shot through her bloodstream like nicotine to a three-pack-a-day smoker who had quit puffing a week ago.
Roman bent her body to his and molded every inch to his strength. Pressed against the entire length of him, his heart thudded, echoing her loneliness and his anguish. In this moment, they were one.
She didn’t want his arms around her. Naked, that’s what she desired most, to peel his shirt off and touch his perfect body. Briefly, his arms tightened as she pushed away, but he released her and stepped away. She grabbed his belt. His silly expression made her giggle as her nervous fingers fumbled with his buckle, belt, button, and zipper. Laughter came to a choked halt when her hands dipped in the waistband of his briefs and she sprang his erection free. Tip glistening, her thumb ran over the wet opening and delighted in the passionate gasp her single finger evoked from him.
She fisted her hand around him and rolled her palm over the sensitive tip. His hips jerked when she gave a gentle squeeze and stroked downward. From the roll of his eyes and rhythmically pulsing of his hips, she commanded his passion.
As he commanded hers. The heat between her legs gathered. She stroked, up, around, down, and watched his face contort into painful pleasure, then pulled her hand away. He nearly snatched her hand back, but Stella met his lust-crazed eyes with her tongue licking her lips.
Slowly, she circled his tense body. The first time or the hundredth, the sight of him made her needy, achy for his touch. She stepped in front of him and unbuttoned her pants.
“We can’t do this.” His hand stopped the descent of her zipper.
Please, teetered on the tip of her tongue.
“I’m your bodyguard. Nothing more.” Still hard, he stuffed himself back into his pants and walked away.
She staggered to the rail. It hurt too much to cry and this pain was familiar. An old friend that never left—just took a short vacation—and returned with more luggage than before.
The boat bumped against the dock. Roman helped tie up the boat and moments later, the boarding ramp lowered. Gingerly, the captain approached. So old, ancient was a b
etter description, he tipped his cap to her and hobbled to Roman. Through the window of the car, they spoke, but the wind scattered their words.
“Ready?” His voice reached her when the captain walked away. He revved the engine.
She glared at the retreating back of the captain and knew he wouldn’t take her back. Not that she knew where back was.
Eyes forward, Stella got in the car.
A short drive later, they drove the speed limit down the main street of a small, sleeping town. A stray dog strolled from building to building, shadowing them until the town receded in the rearview mirror. They turned onto a state road and drove for thirty minutes. She kept track of the time and the speedometer. At another speed bump of a town, Roman made a right onto a dirt lane and drove up to a house.
A withered garden lay beneath a large bay window. Double doors in an archway and a two-car garage, faded yellow paint with once white trim, the structure had seen better days. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious questions, but he had already left the car and walked up to the garage door. He pulled a key out of his pants pocket, unlocked, and then hauled it up. Inside, a battered Jeep waited.
Roman climbed back into the Shelby and parked. He switched her luggage and other items from the small trunk into the Jeep. Along the wall, he opened cabinets. Black duffel bags were tossed into the trunk.
He pointed to a cooler. “Fill it up.” Then pointed to the sub-zero freezer humming against the back wall. “I’ll be back.” He used the same key to unlock the door to the house.
Steaks, chicken, hamburgers, bacon, she loaded as much as possible and then followed Roman inside. Clean, but a bit musty, the home needed airing. Retro 1970’s furniture in decent condition decorated the interior. An overstuffed—ugly—striped autumn and gold sofa overwhelmed the small living room. A teak dining table with rolling chairs inhabited the breakfast area, which led into a yellow linoleum kitchen with avocado colored appliances. Dark cabinets completed the decor.
“When did you live here?” she asked while watching him empty the pantry of canned goods.
“In ‘74,” he answered still filling bags with food.
“Even in ‘74, why would you choose to live here?” After all, he could’ve lived anywhere in the world.
He stopped. “You were here.”
“W-what?”
He went to the window and pulled back the lime green curtains. “You lived right there with your husband and two daughters. I was discharged from the army. The war was over. I got on my Harley and planned to drive from Florida to Quebec, with maybe some scenic detours along the way. Reinvent myself by the time I crossed the border. I stopped at a county fair and there you were . . . kissing another man.” His voice rumbled deep in his chest. “Your girls ran up yelling, ‘Mommy.’ I was too late. You didn’t wait for me to find you. You’d moved on.”
Sudden memories of that life drowned her. “You stayed. Why did you stay?”
“Masochist.” He laughed and shook his head. “I watched over you, protected your family, and became your friend.”
Until he left.
“I left when I could no longer explain my youthful appearance.” He snatched up the bags. “It seems you live a longer life . . . without me.”
“Is that why you didn’t wait for me? Why you planned on marrying Bianca?”
His eyes were eerily bright. “Let’s get moving.”
~~~~~
“Come on. This is as far as the jeep will go.” Roman exited the SUV.
Stella scanned her surroundings. Whether he intended to or not, she had no idea where they were. After leaving the house, he covered over one hundred miles on the highway, then another thirty on a state road. Finally, he engaged the 4-wheel drive and took them onto a dirt road that nature reclaimed a quarter mile in.
It took a moment for her to adjust to the sounds. The woods didn’t sound like Central Park in the middle of Manhattan: sirens and tires on blacktop competed with pigeons and squirrels, which competed with the human masses. Central Park had life because of its human population. These woods were alive due to the lack of it. Standing here, she could believe she was the only person in the world.
“You like?” Roman broke the spell. He carried most of the bags from the trunk. “Bring what you can. I’ll come back for the rest.”
She didn’t complain about the heat as they hiked over the rocky terrain. A city girl, she took to the woods with a smile on her face and a sway to her hips as she marched. Roman pointed out edible plants and trees and the tracks of the local wildlife.
“Were you a boy scout?”
He shook his head at her unexpected question. “No. There were no Boy Scout clubs when I grew up.”
“Where did you grow up?” He opened the door to his past and she walked through.
“Thrace. It’s now located in Greece. Long ago, it was a country.”
She noted the wistfulness in his voice. His home was lost in time.
Late afternoon she spotted a cabin. “Are we going there?”
“Yes.”
“Who lives there?” she whispered.
“I do,” he whispered back, then marched ahead of her.
“You do? How many homes do you have?” She followed closely on his heels, but she became distracted by the fabricated wooden men stacked against the side of the cabin. “What are those?”
“They are combatants.” He walked onto the porch and opened the door. Stella stepped in behind him and gasped.
“This is lovely.”
Inside, a spacious living room with rustic, worn furniture done in the shades of brown and green, a fireplace off to the side and a small kitchen tucked in the corner. She dumped her camelback canteen on a chair and glanced at the nearest wall where a collection of swords hung.
“I guess one wasn’t enough, huh?”
“I’ve spent lifetimes collecting them.”
“This is a bit big for a cabin in the woods.” She waved her hand at the spacious room and upstairs loft.
“I like creature comforts,” he replied, unloading his burdens on the way to the kitchen.
“How many bedrooms?” she asked when he returned.
“One. I don’t like visitors.”
With a raised eyebrow, she asked a question.
“You are the only woman I’ve ever brought here.”
She thought of Bianca.
“The only one, Stella.” He studied her, waiting for another reaction as she studied his for signs of deceit. She saw none in his blue eyes or chiseled features. When all she mustered was a smile she couldn’t hide, he took a gun from the small of his back and handed it to her.
“I’m going back to the Jeep. Don’t shoot me when I return.”
“Is that an order or request?” she asked, palming the warm metal.
“I’m immortal . . . but I still feel pain.” The sadness in his eyes reached her, causing her chest to ache, but he left before she had a chance to respond.
At a window, she followed his walk to the back of the house and heard the hum of a generator kick in. Then she watched him disappear into the trees.
Confused, she decided not to think about her personal mercenary and concentrated on putting the supplies away. Already well stocked, she added more canned goods to the pantry and filled the freezer with meat. But her thoughts strayed back to the ferry ride.
Roman didn’t want her. Good, because she didn’t want him either.
“Yeah, right,” she mumbled, snatched up her duffel, and then jogged upstairs to claim the only bed. A massive, sun-bleached, weather-beaten hunk of a bed that seemed to be carved out of one huge tree, greeted her. The posts were twisted and nearly touched the ceiling. On one side of the headboard, two stags fought, horns locked in eternal combat while a doe awaited the victor. On the other, a buck mounted the doe. On the footboard, the doe with her newborn and the stag nearby guarding his family. The sideboards depicted other animals; fox, lynx, bears, copulating.
This bed was made for
one thing and it wasn’t a stretch picturing her body splayed in the center with Roman attending her every need.
She lugged her duffel back downstairs and tossed the bag next to the sofa.
Roman entered, carrying the rest of the items from the Jeep.
“I’m not sleeping in that bed.” She pounced.
He dropped the bags on the floor. “Suit yourself,” he said and slammed the door behind him. From another window, she watched him enter the garage and exit with a different bag slung over his shoulder.
Stella ran onto the porch. “Where are you going?” She demanded when he walked past.
He didn’t spare her a glance as he trekked back into the trees. Furious, she stomped back into the house, slammed the door, and locked it. Thirty minutes later, she was back on the porch, staring into the trees, searching for him.
With nothing else to do, she stored the rest of the supplies and started dinner. Porterhouse steaks, instant mashed potatoes, and canned corn sounded good. She held off on cooking the meat until she heard his footsteps on the porch. He stopped short when he caught sight of the small dining table set with candles.
“I made dinner.” That was as much of an apology he was going to get, she decided.
“Smell’s good.” He approached cautiously. “Didn’t know you knew how to cook.”
She wasn’t insulted. Working in a diner meant you knew how to serve food, not cook a meal. “You’re filthy.” Dirt clung to his sweaty clothes and hair. Mud caked his shoes and he smelled like a man that had a very hard day in the sun.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“Laying traps.”
Eternity (Descendants of Ra: Book 1) Page 25
