by J. Kenner
His voice held an infinite sadness, and she blinked back tears. How horrible to believe—to really, deep in your gut believe—that your own father could be out to kill you.
Gently, she pressed a hand to his chest. He reached up, his hand moving to grasp hers. “Mordi—”
The hand stopped. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot.” He drew in a breath, his chest rising, then falling again. “I’ll tender my resignation tomorrow.”
“Resignation?”
“As your assistant.”
“Oh.” Once upon a time, she’d wanted him to leave her alone to do her job. Now, though, his pronouncement only made her feel lost. “Oh,” she said again.
“I’m endangering you. Hieronymous knows I oppose his re-assimilation. He wants me out of the picture.” Mordi shrugged. “So I’m removing myself before you get hurt.”
“Mordi,” she said. “I’ve been in his head, remember? You know I don’t believe your father is behind this.”
“I know. But I believe it.” He smiled at her, his green eyes warm. “Guess we’re going to have to agree to disagree.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “And here they say chivalry is dead . . .”
“Is that what they say?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Izzy.” He took her hand.
Desire. Want. Need. His thoughts, crystal clear, swirled within her, filling her head before she was able to put up any barriers. And underneath it all was one persistent question:
Does she want me, too?
She yanked her hand away, then looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Yes, she thought, wishing he could read her as she read him. Sweet Hera, yes.
But thoughts were easy. It was words that were hard. And when she lifted her head to look at him again, she saw doubt flicker in his eyes, and she knew that she had to come up with the words. Though it terrified her, she had to say her desire aloud.
She drew a deep breath, as if she could fill her lungs with courage. “Yes. I . . . I want you, too.”
Relief. Waves of relief rolled off Mordi, enveloping and bolstering Isole. Relief and heat and desire and—
His mouth closed over hers. He’d lifted himself up and pulled her toward him, and his mouth had closed over hers with a frenzy born of need and pungent desire. Sparks shot through her body as his emotions accosted her, filled her. She’d pulled away before. Now, though . . .
Now he was absorbing her being; she was filling his veins, coursing through his body, becoming this man who intrigued and fascinated her. She opened her mind, wanting to know everything about him. To feel what he felt. To see what he saw.
She anticipated the images: his life, his challenges, his triumphs, his defeats. Everything, it all would fill her soul and memory as if the images belonged to her.
But there was nothing.
Sort of. He wasn’t blocking her; it was more that she’d already filled him, and she reeled under the press of images and emotions that were a mix of both of them.
Her.
Nothing but Isole.
Mordi wanted her. Needed her. And his passion was so great that, at the moment, it overshadowed everything else. She’d completely filled this man, and the knowledge both humbled and excited her.
She melted under his kiss, opening her mouth to him, her arms caressing him, wanting to bring him pleasure. She wanted him to know that, even though he didn’t have her powers, in fact he’d filled her, too. And it was the most wonderful experience she’d ever known.
35
Mordi was on fire. Izzy’s mouth burned hot under his, a living flame that he never would have expected from a woman whose frosty blue eyes could—quite literally—turn a man to ice.
Iceberg she might seem, but she was melting for him, and the heady realization of her desire for him coursed through his senses like pure energy. This was dangerous, and yet oh-so-necessary.
She broke the kiss, pulling away just far enough to meet his eyes. “Mordi,” she whispered, the single word reflecting the emotions that shone in her face—confusion, longing, desire.
He put a finger over her lips. “No words. Not now. Not yet.”
She nodded, just a tiny movement of her head, and Mordi slid his finger away, ostensibly releasing her from silence.
He didn’t go far, however. With his fingertip, he traced her lips. They were plump and beautiful, and the thought came to him that they were perfectly kissable. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually thought, but he liked that. He liked the way she made him feel, the way she made him think about touches and caresses and not revenge and retribution.
With Izzy, he’d finally let his guard down. He’d found a Mordichai that he’d thought lost long ago. He was a different Mordi, one who didn’t look for a hidden agenda in every speech and who didn’t expect betrayal from those closest to him.
It was foolish, perhaps, to drop his guard around this woman who only had to reach out a finger to read his innermost thoughts, but with Izzy he couldn’t help it. That was what she did to him. Made him a fool.
Right now, he was going to be foolish enough to kiss her again.
Her eyes were still closed as his fingers traced the perfect line of her mouth. Her hair was loose, her usually tame curls knotted and wild around her face. She looked like an angel, not the tough-as-nails re-assimilation counselor who ushered Outcasts into her office, and he was almost afraid that when he pressed his lips to hers, she’d dissolve beneath him like so much spun sugar.
It was a chance he was going to have to take.
Leaning forward, he again captured her mouth with his, pulling his finger down to trace the soft curve of her neck. Her lips parted, and he moaned, accepting her silent invitation to sample and taste her with his tongue.
She was even sweeter than he’d imagined, and hotter than he could have dreamed. Ice? Never. Not this woman. She was heat and energy and constant movement.
As if reading his mind—and he had to consider the possibility that she was—she squirmed against him, writhing closer until he could feel the press of her breasts against his chest, until their legs were tangled on the bed and he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.
“Izzy,” he whispered, sliding his mouth from hers.
She pressed two fingers to his lips. “Don’t say anything. I’m afraid that if we talk we’ll change our minds. And I . . . I really don’t want to change my mind.”
Her words rent his soul. This was more than just heat and passion, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. He knew that. He was certain. He’d decided how much he cared for this woman sometime ago. Isole filled and excited him. He wanted this moment, and the next, and the next.
He didn’t know what she wanted . . . and he didn’t dare ask.
“Mordi?” Her brow furrowed, her blue eyes sparkling in the dim lamplight. She brushed the side of her hand against his cheek, her touch as soft as a feather. He had no empathic abilities, and yet he knew one thing that she wanted. Him.
His heart lurched. Today, tomorrow, forever? Right then, it didn’t matter. For now, he’d take the moment. He’d worry about the next one later.
He slid one arm around her neck, wisps of hair tickling his fingers. Izzy arched her back like a feline, the motion undeniably erotic as her breasts pressed more firmly against his chest. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and the tiny moaning sound that came from her mouth was one of pure satisfaction.
Mordi groaned, his body swelling. But this sound wasn’t soft. It was low and hungry, almost a growl, and it held a passion so desperate that, did he not release it, he was certain he would explode. His body burned with need, and he drew Isole toward him, needing to consume her, to complete her.
His hands stroked her back, down and down until his fingertips slipped under the thin material of her shirt. Her skin burned under his fingertips, and he stroked her in long fluid movements. She writhed against his hand, finding a rhythm in his caress.
It was slow and sensual, but
Mordi wanted hard and fast. He wanted her, and he wanted her now.
He grasped the hem of her shirt and tugged it up, pulling it over her head as she lifted her arms. She wore a red lace bra, and the sight of it against her white skin excited him. Her breasts were lush, spilling over the tight lace, their fullness enhanced by the arch in her back and her hands raised above her head.
Oh, sweet Hera, he couldn’t take this.
He bent forward and took one firm breast in his mouth. He laved rough lace and soft skin, his tongue stroking and teasing even as his hand found her other breast.
He teased the nub, popping the nipple out to rub between his thumb and his finger. Isole moaned, the desperate sound filling him with an urgent need. “Izzy,” he whispered. “I want—”
“So do I. Now. Please.”
Thank Hera. He pulled her on top of him, his mouth still suckling her breast as his hands found the zipper on her oh-so-professional skirt. He eased it down over her hips, and she shimmied a little to help his efforts along.
Her hands fumbled for the button of his slacks, and he muttered a soft curse when she couldn’t quite manage to release the button. He closed his hands over hers and guided her fingers, then groaned as she slid her hand down, stroking the length of him as she urged his pants off.
“Careful,” he said, “or I won’t be able to wait.”
She straddled him, her eyes cloudy with desire as she unfastened her bra and tossed it aside. “I already told you. Don’t wait. Please, don’t wait.”
Her words ignited his blood, and he took hold of her shoulder, rolling them both over so that he was poised above her. Except for a tiny pair of white lace panties, she was naked, her skin flushed with the same heat that filled him.
He ran his hands along her shoulder, reveling in the softness of her skin. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, lips parted.
With a fierceness that surprised him, he captured her mouth, wanting to claim her with his kiss. He wanted to cherish her, yes, but he also wanted to have her. He wanted to make Isole Frost his own. His, and only his.
“Mordi,” she whispered when he broke the kiss. Her fingernails scraped his back, her hands working lower and lower, and then pressing his hips toward her so that there was no mistaking what she wanted. He wanted it, too, and he hooked one finger under the waistband of her panties and tugged them down. She did a sexy little shimmy move, helping him along. He left the panties somewhere near the foot of the bed, his attention focused utterly on the beauty in front of him.
“Izzy,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer him in words, but spread her legs in a silent invitation—one he wasn’t about to ignore. He slipped his hands between her thighs, letting his fingers explore her wet, slick folds, teasing and tempting until he felt her body shudder under his touch and her breathy moan filled his ears.
She lay there, warm and limp, with a satisfied smile on her face, and Mordi knew that he simply couldn’t take it anymore. Her body tightened around his fingers, and he knew that she couldn’t take the anticipation any more than he could. He lowered himself into her, thrashing and then pounding into her as her hips rose to meet his. It was wild and hot, and all control was fast leaving him.
His blood boiled, the pressure building until he couldn’t hold back any longer—until he didn’t want to hold back. Then, suddenly, the world exploded around him, leaving only him and Izzy at the center of the universe.
Spent, Mordi went limp, shifting his weight just enough that he didn’t crush Isole. He lay there, staring toward the ceiling and lying next to her, his bones and muscles liquid. He felt like molten metal and imagined their bodies blending, becoming one.
“Izzy,” he whispered after an eternity of simply holding her. He didn’t really have anything to say, just wanted to speak her name.
She didn’t answer, and he turned toward her. Her chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep. Mordi smiled, then rolled onto his side, idly stroking her hair as he watched her.
I want you, Izzy, he thought. I want you forever. Can you hear me? Do you know how much you’ve come to mean to me?
He didn’t know if she could hear him or not. Didn’t know if she’d heard his soul while they’d made love. He’d opened himself to her in a way he’d done to no one else before, and he felt a closeness now that he’d never felt with anyone.
Oh, he’d fallen hard for this woman. And, Hera help him, he didn’t want the feeling to stop.
36
“Mr. Black! Welcome, welcome!” Harold Frost’s round face flushed with happiness, and Hieronymous beamed, enjoying his current role of savior and inspiration. Soon, that would be all but erased, the joy in Frost’s eyes replaced by fear. Fear and awe. Just as it should be. As all mortals should feel toward those of Hieronymous’s superior breed.
He clenched his fist at his side, forcing his thoughts back on track. He already knew what he had to do. Now was not the time to justify—in his mind, or aloud—to someone as low and insignificant as Harold Frost.
Hieronymous’s gaze swept over the workbench, and he moved forward, his black cape swishing behind him. “You are finished, then?” he asked. “The second batch is complete? All is in working order?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The man’s expression shifted, and his gaze drifted to the floor.
“You wish to say something?” Hieronymous asked, graciously allowing his minion to speak.
“I, well . . . yes.” The little man pushed on the bridge of his glasses, shoving them more firmly into place. Hieronymous pulled himself up to his full height, looking down at the man from an eighteen-inch vantage point. Intimidating, no doubt. The little man swallowed, bucking up and continuing. “I, uh, just wanted to say thanks. Yes. Thanks. I, um, recently was honored with an inventors award, and if it weren’t for your inspiration and financial backing—”
“And helping you with the trickier bits,” Hieronymous put in.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Frost contemplated his feet. “I owe you much.”
“Indeed you do,” Hieronymous said. He softened the words with a smile. “Of course, your success has been my pleasure.” He crossed to the workbench and picked up one of eight purple fountain pens. He unscrewed the inkwell portion and peered inside at the tiny mechanism, then smiled. “It has been a joy to watch you so deftly bring my ideas to life.” Each pen was designed to write the thoughts of its holder. Hieronymous had engineered the implements, however, to be easily manipulated. Instead of simply taking thoughts, the pens emitted them—capturing a Protector’s brain waves and switching his thoughts and beliefs to whatever Hieronymous deemed appropriate.
Unfortunately, the device didn’t work on some Protectors. Himself, of course. And also that gargoyle Zephron—or, for that matter, anyone in his line.
“Might I . . . I mean, could I ask a question?”
Hieronymous inclined his head, silently granting permission.
“You have such a knack, such obvious skill. And yet you’ve chosen to mentor me. Why?”
Why, indeed? Because he had no choice. Because the Inner Circle could discern if Hieronymous utilized his own skill. And because the punishment for an Outcast utilizing his skill was severe, and he could not directly challenge the Council’s power. Not yet.
No, that was a risk Hieronymous could not afford. Not now. Not when he’d finally conceived of a plan so brilliant, so foolproof, that it would ensure his ultimate rise to power . . . and the concurrent subjugation of the entire mortal race.
“Mr. Black?”
Hieronymous replaced the smile that had faded during his reverie. He waved a hand in an offhand gesture. “I wanted to help you,” he said, once again grateful that Harold Frost, though he had a halfling daughter, was so utterly ignorant of the Protector world. “It benefited you, and it benefited me.” He picked up one of the pens and examined it in the light. “Exemplary work.”
“Thank you.” Frost cocked his head. “What do you intend to use them for?”
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“Ah, Harold, you know I can’t tell you that.”
Frost nodded, then ran his fingers through his silver-white hair, causing it to stand on end. The little man vaguely resembled a rumpled porcupine. “Top secret. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’d only hoped to have some idea. I mean . . .” He shook his head, trailing off.
“You mean that the device could be altered—so that it doesn’t channel the energy in one’s mind, but instead controls it.”
“Oh, no. I’d never thought of—what?” His eyes widened as the import of Hieronymous’s words caught up with him.
Pathetic little mortal. Hieronymous had only to make the choice and the little man would be squashed like the little insect he was. But no. Not yet. There still was a use for Harold Frost.
Hieronymous sidled up to the mortal and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, stooping a bit to make the contact. “I need your help on another matter,” he said. “A matter involving your daughter.”
“Izzy?” Fear colored the man’s voice. “How do you know Izzy?”
“She and I are quite well acquainted, actually,” Hieronymous said. “And I intend for us to become more so.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Hieronymous said. “You, my dear Mr. Frost, are bait.” He held out his hand to grasp the startled mortal. “Shall we go?”
37
Izzy awoke in Mordi’s arms, a shaft of light peeking through the flimsy curtains to illuminate their intertwined bodies. She smiled and stretched, feeling a bit like a satisfied cat who’d just downed an entire plate of cream.
Happy. Content.
And all the happier because she felt the same feelings emanate from Mordi.
His eyes flickered, and she realized he was awake. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Good morning.”
He reached out to stroke her cheek. She’d had plenty of warning now, and she’d managed to turn off her power. She didn’t need it, though, to know what he was thinking. It was right there in his eyes—deep satisfaction and a glimmer of male pride so apparent it made her giggle.