by Abigail Owen
He put the band down on the table and pulled her back into his arms. Never, ever, in the more than a century of his existence, had anyone made a sacrifice for him. And this? To sacrifice the possibility of regaining her sight? A fierce wave of emotion caught in his throat until he couldn’t talk and wasn’t sure he could breathe.
“Mi amara—my beloved. Will you marry me and give me many beautiful babies who look just like their mother?”
“Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes.” She put her arms around his neck, and when he bent his head to hers, her eyes were shining. “Dare, I know it’s late, but can’t we go out to your ship now so I can meet Seranth? I’ve been so excited to see your ship and meet her. Let’s do it. It will be part of our Christmas miracle.”
He smiled at her, but gently shook his head. “Let’s go downstairs and meet everyone for the Christmas Eve feast instead. We’ll have plenty of time to look at our presents.”
“But—"
He took her hands and kissed them, one by one. “Tomorrow we’ll find the perfect stone for your ring. But tonight, let’s feast.”
“But--"
He smiled at her but knew she couldn’t see it, so he placed her hands on the sides of his face. “ Lyric, I sold my ship to buy you a lost Renoir. I wanted the first thing you saw with your new eyes to be an object of ultimate beauty.”
At that, she started to cry. “But your ship—"
“Don’t you understand by now?” He tightened his arms around her and put his heart into her hands, knowing that she would protect it. Knowing that his future belonged to her, and hers to him. “All I will ever need is you, my very own Christmas miracle. Anything else is just a bonus. Let’s go down to that feast. Maybe we can make Alaric sing Christmas carols.”
And so with laughter—and a few more tears—Dare and Lyric went down to join the rest of their Atlantean family for a Christmas supper, and to share their wonderful news.
15
The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
-- The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry (1917)
Christmas morning in Atlantis.
Lyric almost pinched herself again, but this time the very large, very muscular man in her bed did it for her.
“Hey!”
He sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t keep my hands off that lovely round ass of yours. I may never accomplish anything again for dreaming about it.”
“That is the strangest compliment anybody has ever given me.” She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her for a kiss. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said, before rolling on top of her and pinning her arms over her head with one hand. “Time for your present.”
He moved his body against her in a determined fashion, and she had to laugh. “I think you already gave me that present.”
“Then you should return it to me,” he told her solemnly. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”
So she did.
And it was quite a while before they lay back on the bed, gasping.
“You love me,” the pirate in her bed—in her heart—said smugly, all arrogance and charm.
“I do,” she admitted. “Just let me catch my breath, and I’ll show you how much again.”
He rolled over to face her. “Lyric,” he said, and his voice was unexpectedly serious. “I can’t—I can never—"
“Dare,” she said, putting her entire heart in her voice, so he was sure to hear it. “All I need to see is you.”
They eventually had to leave the room and find food.
“Or I’ll collapse right here on the floor,” Lyric laughingly told him when they finally made it out of the shower, boneless with aftershock and satisfaction.
His stomach growled, right on cue. “I think you might be right.”
When they walked into the dining hall, hand in hand, a crowd of children, all of whom had been impressed by Lyric’s beautiful singing voice, crowded around and demanded a story and a song.
Lyric smiled at their clamoring. “A story, too?”
“Yes, yes,” they all chorused. “An Earth Christmas story from Topside.”
She sank down on the cushion they’d saved for her, but never let go of Dare’s hand, so he dropped down to the cushion next to hers. “This is my favorite Christmas story of all, so gather around and listen closely. It’s a story of love and hope and the miracle of Christmas.”
When they were all settled, their little rapt faces staring up at her, Dare thought his heart might have grown too large for his chest, because he was having a hard time breathing while looking at this amazing woman who had become the center of his life.
“I love you,” he told her, not caring who heard him.
The children all started giggling.
“I love you, too,” she said. And then she smiled at him, with infinite love and joy and hope shining in her face, and began.
"One dollar and eighty-seven cents...”
16
Epilogue
One year later…
Lyric placed her hand on the slight roundness of her belly and smiled. The sea spirit, hovering in place next to her at the bow of the ship, was singing a song in a language even Dare hadn’t recognized. It was older than any known civilization, Seranth had informed them in a wistful voice.
It had taken no more than the space of an instant for Lyric to love the water elemental as much as Dare did, when they’d finally been able to buy the Luna back from its new owner. Dare had captained a merchant ship for a while, and she’d painted furiously to populate a show at an Atlantean gallery. Her “rare, human paintings of the world Above,” as the canny gallery owner had labeled them, had sold like hotcakes to the Atlanteans who’d never yet ventured out of Atlantis.
And now they were finally back on the ship Dare loved, making perfectly legitimate supply runs and carrying perfectly legitimate cargo—and the occasional visiting dignitary—to and from Atlantis.
Seranth, who felt like the sister Lyric had always wanted, hummed while she petted Picasso, who was purring loudly in her arms. “We’re going to have a baby on this ship, are we not?”
Lyric nodded. “We are. But Seranth, please don’t tell Dare yet. I want to surprise him.”
A thudding noise behind her signaled that her wicked pirate had finished fixing the lines and dropped back onto the deck. He strode over to her and pulled her back against him, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Surprise me with what?”
“I’ll be up in the crow’s nest,” Seranth said, releasing Picasso to scamper off and sun himself.
Lyric turned in his arms and held her face up for his kiss. “I love you, you know, my wicked pirate.”
“The Painter and the Wicked Pirate. Is Meredith really still planning to write that novel?”
She laughed. “Planning to? She’s already written and published it. I bet it will be a bestseller. I need to call her and suggest the title for the sequel.”
He tightened his arms around her and kissed her; long, slow, sensuous kisses that promised an evening of deliciously wicked seduction.
“So what is it?” he asked, when he raised his head.
She blinked, still dazed from his kisses. “What is what?”
“The title of the next romance novel. What is it?”
She felt the smile spread across her face. “The Painter and the Wicked Pirate’s Baby.”
There
was a pause, and then his hand slid down to her belly. “Oh, my love. How is it possible to be so completely and entirely happy, and then find that your heart can contain even more joy?”
“It’s the miracle of Christmas,” she said.
Dare’s arms tightened around her. “It’s a good damn day to be a pirate.”
And the painter and her pirate lived happily—and wickedly—ever after.
NOTE FROM ALYSSA DAY:
I have to get a little sentimental here and tell you how much I appreciate you for reading Christmas in Atlantis. This job is a dream come true, and I wouldn’t have it except for readers like you. I adored writing this book—I’ve had the idea in mind for a long time. The Gift of the Magi is one of my favorite stories in the world, and I wanted to pay homage to it in a way that did it justice, especially on this centennial anniversary of its publication. I’m thrilled to announce that Poseidon’s Warriors will continue with JANUARY IN ATLANTIS (https://alyssaday.com/books/january-in-atlantis/overview), and it’s FREE for a limited time at all ebook retailers. If you want the scoop on all new releases, behind-the-scenes details, and the chance to win prizes, Text ALYSSADAY to 66866 to sign up for my newsletter. I You can also follow me on BookBub (https://www.bookbub.com/authors/alyssa-day) if you only want new release news.
Thanks again for reading—you rock!
Alyssa
About the Author
Alyssa Day
Alyssa Day is the pen name (and dark and tortured alter ego) of Alesia Holliday. Alyssa has won several awards, including the RT BookClub Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Paranormal Romance novel of 2012 and the Romance Writers of America’s coveted RITA award for excellence in romance fiction. She’s a diehard Buckeye who graduated summa cum laude from Capital University Law School and practiced as a trial lawyer in multi-million-dollar litigation for several years before coming to her senses and letting the voices in her head loose on paper. She lives somewhere near an ocean with her Navy Guy husband, two kids, and any number of rescue dogs.
http://www.alyssaday.com
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Series by Alyssa Day
The Tiger’s Eye Mysteries
Poseidon’s Warriors
Cardinal Witches
Warriors of Poseidon
COMING SOON
June in Atlantis (Poseidon’s Warriors) - 11.26.2019
Bewitched Before Christmas
Daughters of the Morrigan
Nina Croft
BEWITCHED BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Christmas is a time to spend with family, but Lola’s don’t seem to want her back. Instead, she’s stuck in the wilds of Scotland under the protection of Lachlan MacNair, a blood-sucking monster, who’s determined to make sure she has the sorriest Christmas ever. Things go from bad to much, much worse when Lola sees a vision of herself kissing Lachlan, under the mistletoe.
Lola is a powerful witch and her visions of the future always come true. Until now. Because this one… Never. Going. To. Happen.
1
The snow started to fall as Lachlan crossed the courtyard. Tiny flakes that swirled in the icy air. Beside him, Sean, his second-in-command was humming under his breath.
Goddamn Jingle Bells.
Again.
Everywhere he turned someone was singing a Christmas carol.
And he knew exactly who to blame for that.
He gritted his teeth and shoved his hands in his pockets. Goddamn Christmas.
“You’re going alone?” Sean asked as they stopped beside the Porsche.
About to climb in, Lachlan paused. Sean had been with him a long time. Long enough to know not to question his decisions. “Yeah, I’m going alone.” What was the alternative? Listening to fucking Jingle Bells all night long? “You have a problem with that?”
Sean pursed his lips. “You know the guys reckon you have a death wish?”
Pretty difficult considering he was already dead. Had been for nearly three hundred years. He opened his coat to show Sean the two Glocks at his hips. He wasn’t worried about a rabble of disorganized werewolves. Even if they had killed his predecessor.
That was why he was here as the Council’s representative and had been for three long months. Because, the stupid fucker who had been here before him had allowed a pack of dogs to take him down. Otherwise, Lachlan would have happily never set foot on Scottish soil for the rest of eternity.
Lachlan wasn’t part of the Council, but Darius, his sire was, and he’d asked Lachlan to step in and cover until someone else could be appointed. The Council had been in disarray at the time, recovering from some sort of internal coup. And Lachlan wasn’t able to deny a request from his sire. However much he wanted to.
He climbed into the car, was about to shut the door when Sean leaned down and spoke again. “Lola asked if she can go into town. It’s Christmas Eve. She wants to go to the carol service.”
He didn’t even think about it. “No.”
“She won’t be happy.”
Like he gave a fuck. “Our job is to keep her safe. Not happy. Lock her in the goddamn dungeon if you have to.”
The snow fell faster as he drove out over the drawbridge. Thick, heavy flakes, that splatted against the windscreen, cutting off the view. For a second, he considered going back. Changing the vehicle for something more appropriate—the Porsche was hardly suitable for extreme weather conditions. But only for a second.
It was seven in the evening, but he had already been up for hours. In some ways Scotland was the perfect environment for his kind. At this time of year, the days were short and the nights long.
But it was cold. And when it wasn’t raining, it was snowing.
Christ, he hated Scotland and not only for the bad memories.
The wheels slipped on the icy road, and he fought for control, skidding to a halt, then pulling away again. It wasn’t as though the crash would kill him. Though it would make him late for his meeting.
Scotland was bad enough, but then two months ago, Darius had asked a second favor, and if Lachlan had known what it involved, he would have said a categorical no. But he hadn’t, and so Lola Morgan had landed on his doorstep.
How could someone so small cause so much havoc?
She’d wrapped his men around her little finger. A bunch of the baddest-ass vampires in the world, and she just had to smile and wrinkle her cute little nose to have them all falling over themselves to do her goddamn bidding.
An image flashed in his mind. A glossy cap of black hair, pointed face, red lips. And witch’s eyes, silver rimmed with black, that could no doubt see into a man’s soul, and rip it out.
Truth. He wanted her. Had from the moment he first set eyes on her. It was unexpected and undesired. But he wanted to fuck her and feed from her and lock her in that dungeon for his own personal dark pleasures. But that wasn’t going to happen because…he made a mental list of all the reasons why:
She was too young. Only twenty. A baby. Even he didn’t mess with babies. Actually, he hadn’t messed with anyone in a long time.
She was a witch, and everyone knew that witches were evil creatures and not to be trusted.
She was Darius’s sister-in-law, and Lachlan was supposed to protect her. To keep her safe.
Finally, she didn’t even know he existed. He might as well have been invisible for all the notice she took of him.
So the fucking and feeding thing—bad idea. All the same, his fangs ached, and his dick twitched every time he caught a glimpse of her or thought about her or…
He’d almost welcomed Darius’s third request just to take his mind from the little witch. Two nights ago, Darius had been in contact again. Change in Council policy. After years of being downgraded to animal status, the werewolves were being brought into the fold. Darius didn’t say why, and Lachlan hadn’t asked. But he was to arrange a preliminary meeting. Bring them to the table. And not as food. Pity—wereblood was tasty stuff.
Up ahead, lights flickered in the dar
kness, and he checked the GPS. This was it. Pulling the car over to the side of the road, he slid to a stop and switched off the engine. Then sat for a minute.
He tried to feel a little enthusiasm for his task. And failed. Darius had promised him, do this and he could head back to New York in the new year. Away from Scotland and the cold, and the snow, and the memories, and the hot little witches.
But even that failed to raise his dark mood.
Maybe he’d lived…or died…for too long.
Eventually someone tapped on the window, and he sighed, pushed open the door, and climbed out of the Porsche. Two men stood close, too close, and he snarled, showing the tip of one fang.
They stepped back. Good.
One of the men waved a hand into the dark shadows of the forest that edged the road. He walked beneath the trees; the snow thinner here, blocked by the canopy of branches overhead. A man stood in a clearing, flanked by three others. He was dressed in black, a mask hiding most of his face. Fucking poser. Lachlan came to a halt in front of him and breathed in the sharp feral scent of werewolf, and under that the sweet smell of fresh blood. His hunger rose.
“Rumor has it you’re from these parts,” the man said. There was a thick Scottish burr to the voice. Familiar from long ago. A local.
“Does it matter where I’m from?”
“Lachlan MacNair? Och aye, you have a clan name, but you sound like a fucking Sassenach.”
It had taken a hundred years or so for the brogue to fade from his voice. He shrugged. “I bring you a message from the Council. An invitation. There will be a meeting in two days’ time. Seven in the evening.”
