Falling Ashes

by Annie Anderson

  Then the light show begins, and I’m glad she’s doing this during the day so her Aegis is masked by the sunlight scorching through the fat cumulus clouds. Her light strobes like a beacon, bolting from her in great wide arcs of electricity, reaching like fat fingers to the sky. They coalesce into a sphere around her body. It gets brighter and brighter, a jarring buzz coming from the beams before exploding in a sea of fragmented shards of light. She stumbles, crumpling in the scorched grass like a puppet cut from its strings. The ground is blackened in a fifty-foot circle of ash around her, some of the gritty sand on the banks of the stream melted into a crackled glass. I don’t think, I just travel to her, my feet burning from the residual heat coming up from the earth. I snatch her from the ground and move back to the porch before my shoes start to melt.

  “I’m okay,” she mumbles, her eyes closed, her head listing to the side enough for me to notice the bright red blood coming from her nose and ears. She’s breathing and talking at least, but it makes me wonder how much power she drained if she can’t even stand.

  “Princess, I need you to open your eyes for me,” I murmur against her forehead, my fingers buried in her hair, clutching her to my chest.

  “Gimme a minute. I’ll be good in a minute,” she haltingly mumbles, her eyes cracking open. “That was harder than I remember.”

  “I fucking hope so. Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” I rumble. “Don’t do that again. Fuck the house, and the truck and anything else that you could blow up. I only give a shit about you. The rest is just stuff. Never hurt yourself like that again, do you hear me?” I growl, my voice pitched low so I don’t yell, but fuck, I want to.

  She nods against my shoulder, but that just isn’t good enough. “Promise me. Promise me you will never hurt yourself like that again.”

  “I wasn’t trying to this time. It’s been a long time since I’ve drained myself. I’ve spent the last fifty years having Iva leach my power from me, sorry if I’m a little rusty,” she grumbles back, sassy.

  Iva drained her like this… My mind blanks. She’s had to do that over and over again for the last fifty years? I can’t stand it. I can’t fathom the pain she’s gone through. I can’t imagine the agony of it.

  I can’t…

  I cup her face and kiss her, rubbing my tongue against hers, hoping my kisses and my touch is enough to heal the weight of her scars.

  15

  Burning the House Down

  MENA

  I love this – the mindless feeling of kissing him. I don’t have to think or plan or control myself. In fact, he seems to want me more when I don’t rein in my reactions. His response when my brittle control snaps makes me burn hotter, brighter. His groans and growls do something to me; giving me this pulsing ache in my lower belly.

  I know we started the kiss off with me in his arms, but somehow I’m now straddling him. I don’t know if I moved or if he moved me, but I love the way my sex lines up perfectly with the hard ridge in his jeans, pressing just right on my throbbing center. I feel wild and out of control, and I love it. I feel none of the fear or trepidation I suppose I ‘should’ feel. The brisk outside air kisses my skin, lighting up every wet place on my flesh where his tongue has touched – the space just underneath my ear, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts. I love that cold bite mixed with the hot lash of his mouth on my nipples, the texture of his tongue as it curls around the sharp points. I can’t hold in my growling moan – not that I’d want to.

  He rests his head in the center of my chest for a moment, his heaving breath washing over my skin before looking up at me. His eyes bleed from their phased black back to his natural ice blue. He opens his mouth to speak but hesitates and snaps his jaw shut. I can feel the questions rising in him. I can feel his need to make sure I’m okay.

  “I’m okay, Ash. I’m not afraid of you or this pull between us. I’ll tell you if I’m not okay,” I breathe across his lips, trying to dissolve the puckered line of his brow.

  “Promise,” he rumbles. It’s not a question, it’s an order, and if it were about anything else or from anyone else I would balk. But about this? I only nod.

  “I promise,” I tell him.

  “Not just that. Promise me that you’ll stay with me – that you won’t run. Promise,” he orders again, but my response is less swift this time. It isn’t because I want to run from him, it’s because I know his time is so scarce. I grip his face in my hands, stare into his worried face and give him the answer he needs.

  “I swear, Ash. I’m not going anywhere,” I say, and it feels truer now than it did when I said it this morning. It’s not a lie anymore. I drop my lips to his, and we catch fire all over again, our tongues tangling.

  My shirt hangs in tattered strips from my arms, and even though my clothing options are limited, I could care less about the ruined cardigan or the tank top that seems to have disappeared or the bra that I heard rip just before his mouth made contact with my chest. I’m worried more about how I’m going to get his jeans off and how I can get myself naked without losing the hard press of his dick against my sensitive center.

  My question is answered when he moves us, the hard, cold planks of the porch hitting my back and I lose him for a moment before the crisp air meets my bare legs. I’m naked, my panties following the jeans as if they knew they weren’t needed. The moment goes on longer, and I realize he is gazing hungrily at my breasts, my stomach, my sex, my legs – his black gaze feeling like another caress on my skin. Scars be damned, Asher wants me. His face says he doesn’t even see them, but he gives me more when his voice rumbles a whisper, “Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

  Just that little bit makes me want to have him fill me right here. I don’t need a bed or walls.

  I just need him.

  He still has his shirt on, and I need to know what his body looks like. I sit up, pulling and yanking the fabric until he gets the hint and reaches behind his neck to tug his shirt off.

  Much better.

  His skin is smooth and unlined, perfect golden flesh as far as the eye can see. Asher is built, thick-muscled and solid. I’ve never felt small, being five foot ten, I’ve towered over most men my entire life, but Ash makes me feel tiny, diminutive, feminine. I suppose I could feel fear, but I don’t. It doesn’t matter that he could probably toss me into the next county. I know he won’t. I trust him.

  I run the tips of my fingers over his chest, the hard ridges of his abdomen. My eyes must look hungry and like he looks like a buffet; I only want him. I find his nipple with my mouth and the tortured groan rumbling from his chest makes my sex clench. My teeth tighten on the flesh, and he grabs my face with his rough hands and he kisses me, hard and hot, all tongues and teeth.

  Suddenly, I’m not even a little cold. It was brisk on the porch, but we’ve somehow moved. In the back of my mind, I figure he must have made us travel to a bedroom if the soft mattress beneath my back is any indication. Handy. I smile against his mouth and flip us, moving my lips from his to taste the cords of his neck, biting the pulse point like I’ve longed to. I always expected I would never have sex in the first place, let alone have it be so easy. And it is. I kiss and touch the places I think will bring him pleasure, and he does the same to me.

  “Fuck,” he groans out, drawing out the word until it’s rumble meets my lips against his skin, pulling a smile from me. He tastes so good, I wonder what else I can nibble that will make him make that noise. My nipples rasp against the dusting of light brown chest hair across his pecs leading down the center of his abs interrupted by the waistband of his jeans, and it sends a surge of wetness between my legs.

  His pants need to be off. Now.

  He must read my thoughts because his hands move from my hair to his belt, pulling the stiff leather from the buckle and moving to the buttons of his fly. I want to help him, but I am struck dumb at the sight of the denim popping open with each buttonhole, exposing the root of his cock. He’s not wearing any underwear, and two thoughts run throu
gh my head. I wonder what he tastes like, and in the back of my mind, I wonder if it will hurt. But that last thought is fleeting.

  God, I want to taste him, comes back through my brain, and I reach for him.

  Our hands tangle at his waistband, pulling, yanking the denim from his legs. I’m not sure when his boots came off, but I’m not complaining. I take him in, perfect, tanned flesh, striations of muscles creating peaks and valleys of his broad chest and abs and the thick cock jutting up from between his legs toward his belly button. I feel so hot, I’m nearly coming out my skin.

  My inspection must go on too long because he’s moving, picking me up by the cheeks of my ass and flipping me and then he’s over me, dragging us up the mattress moving in between my legs and I can’t wait anymore. I meet his eyes as I reach between us, guiding him to my entrance, notching the head of his dick at my opening. Asher hesitates, his fingers winding their way into my hair, his coal-black eyes holding mine as his thick flesh presses slowly into me. Making love to Asher is always like I knew it should be. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel wrong, and when his voice reaches my ears, I know.

  “Mena,” he whispers, and I watch his mouth taste my name, his full lower lip begging for my teeth and I oblige, nibbling it before kissing him for real. He growls in my mouth as he moves, my hips rocking to match the rhythm of his and I can’t hold in the moan erupting from my throat for anything. My legs wrap around his back, sliding him in even farther, touching a place in me I didn’t know I had and didn’t know I needed to be stroked until that very second. His dark eyes never look away from mine, and I feel them like a caress on my skin. He makes me feel beautiful and sexy, and the feeling of love and adoration in them touches an undiscovered broken part of my soul and heals it.

  “More. There. Please,” I beg, but I don’t have to. He felt me squeeze him, and he knows just where to stroke, he knows just how I need him to move. He sits up, bringing me with him and he gets even deeper somehow, his hands gripping my ass as he moves me, guiding me up and down his thick cock. My back bows with the feel of him, my breasts pressing against his chest and then I’m coming, coming, my orgasm hitting me so fast it’s like a surprise, pulling a scream from my mouth before I can stop it. He moves us again, flipping me on my back on the bed, and he thrusts so deep I can feel him everywhere.

  Everywhere.

  I need to kiss him. I need his mouth on mine.

  Not want. Need.

  I find his hair with my fingers and bring his mouth to mine, kissing him through the build of another orgasm, this one bigger, longer. This one feels like it will break me in half, and all the while he’s whispering against my mouth, “Jesus, Mena. Fuck, baby, that’s so good, so good. You going to come for me?”

  The question hits something in my chest because I have to answer him. “Yessss,” I hiss right before it hits me so hard I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only follow the rhythm of his hips as his orgasm rolls through him, ripping a groan from him as his fangs break the skin of my shoulder tearing another orgasm from me, faster and harder than the rest, wrenching a scream from my throat. When it finishes pulsing through me, I sag in his arms, spent, melting into the bedding. My eyes close on their own, sleep pulling me under before I can tell him something that I haven’t been able to until this very second.

  Before I can tell him that I love him.

  I wake up alone in the dark, feeling as if I’ve slept for years instead of what I’m assuming is just a few hours. The moonlight filters in through an east-facing window, and I can make out a bedside table with a lamp perched on top. I hesitate before reaching for the light, wincing as I turn the switch. The bulb blazes to life, illuminating the room with a soft glow.

  The bed I neglected to inspect earlier in our haste is an expertly carved sleigh-style covered in a thick navy down duvet and crisp slate gray sheets. The bed is decidedly rumpled, the covers mussed from our lovemaking and sleep. I love that I’m in the middle of the bed, not relegated to one side, the pillow I woke up with seeming to have been shared by the both of us. The side table has a healthy stack of books on its top. The rest of the room is clean and tidy, at odds with my thoughts of what a bachelor would be. Across the room, a comfy-looking reading chair has a soft flannel shirt hanging over the back, and I slip it on as I leave the room to search the house for Asher.

  “Ash?” I call, moving down a short hallway that leads to an open landing furnished with bookshelves and another reading chair. The stairs are a dark wood bisected by a soft printed carpet, the pattern nearly indiscernible in the dim. The vaulted ceilings crest over a dark living room, windows spanning nearly floor to ceiling, silver moonlight filtering in through the glass. I follow the sounds of pans clanking and make my way through the living and dining rooms to a brightly lit kitchen. Ash is shirtless, his bottom half only covered in loose-fitting flannel pajama bottoms and his feet are bare. He’s stirring a wonderful-smelling concoction in a saucepan.

  “You hungry, Princess?” he asks without turning, stirring the wooden spoon once more before switching the fire off, pulling the cast iron pan from the monster of a stove and resting it on a potholder on the concrete countertop.

  “Yeah. How long was I out? I’m starving,” I say as he moves to me, trapping me in the circle of his arms against the counter. My lips find his, and he kisses me long enough to reduce my IQ by at least ten points, only breaking the kiss when my belly lets out a roar for the steaming food on the counter. He chuckles and releases me, pulling down two dinner plates from the cupboard.

  “I just got up a half hour ago, but I think we were out for five or six hours,” he shrugs. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

  “I think that sounds excellent. What did you make?”

  “Sunny-side up eggs and my super special sweet potatoes,” he says, but I know my face tells him I’m skeptical. “Just taste it. If you hate it, I’ll make whatever your heart desires,” he says as he crosses his heart with his finger and holds up his right hand like he’s swearing on a bible.

  He fills our plates and guides us to the wrought iron barstools at the high counter of the island. Two eggs for me, four eggs for him and the rest of the available space on his plate is piled high with dark orange sweet potatoes, diced red bell peppers and golden brown chunks of bacon. He gives me a healthy portion and after the first bite, I eye his plate knowing I’m probably going to steal some of his after I fill my belly with every single morsel on my plate.

  “Okay, you can cook,” I admit after my tenth bite. “What other talents do you have hiding under your hat, Mr. Crane?”

  He smiles at me, and I can’t recall his lips ever curving so far or him looking this at ease in my presence. I want so much for us to stay here, in this moment, in this house, away from the coming heartache. Just stay in this warm little bubble of happiness, away from the pain heading toward us faster than a freight train.

  16

  The Calm

  ASHER

  Mena’s giggle is the best sound I have ever heard, only second to her moan. She’s laughing at my stories of Aidan and Ian’s antics, the brothers are always good for comedic relief, and their stories were needed after Mena explained why she couldn’t tell me more about herself. I started asking about her, about who Mena was apart from her captivity, and she couldn’t tell me. Her answer when I pressed broke my heart wide open, and I can’t fathom a life lived in such secrecy.

  “I don’t know who I am, Ash,” she’d said, “Every memory I have has been a lie. Every single day was ‘don’t run, don’t yell, don’t make waves.’ I never had an honest reaction to anything before my capture. Every thought filtered through three layers of my parent’s rhetoric and the usual response was ‘don’t speak and don’t blink.’ I don’t even know what my favorite color is or what I like to do for fun.”

  I was speechless for a moment before I told her a story about how Aidan wanted to learn how to crochet and didn’t want Ian to know so he tried learning it on YouTub
e in secret. He ended up getting his fingers trapped in the yarn and Ian had to cut him out of it and then Ian taught him how to do it right. She giggled from start to finish, peppering me with questions about what YouTube, computers and internet were. Then I told another about how Ian bet Aidan he could out drink him at a TGI Fridays in Denver. Somehow the bartender got roped into it, and she drank them both under the table, and they almost got arrested for drunk and disorderly.

  “How’d they get out of it?” she asks, as she leans toward me practically out of her seat. Her legs are trapped between mine, her bare knees rasping against the flannel of my pajama pants. Mena’s willowy limbs have filled out some in such a short time. Her cheekbones have lost some of their sharpness, her joints less prominent. Her skin is rosy, flushed with laughter and good food, and I give into the temptation of her smooth skin and run my fingertips up her thighs.

  “Ash?” she calls, but I can’t take my eyes off my tan hands against her creamy skin. The tails of my blue flannel shirt cover the tops of her thighs, and I know there isn’t a stitch underneath the soft cotton, and the thought of her bare skin rubbing against the fabric of my shirt makes me want to bite her.

  Just a little.

  Just a little nibble, maybe on the soft skin of her long neck, or maybe on the dark, dusky pink of her nipples. Maybe on the milky skin on the inside of her knee.

  The thought of biting her reminds me that I completed our bond and didn’t tell her what I was doing or what it means. I didn’t tell her that my bite tied her life to mine just as John’s is tied to Olivia’s. I didn’t tell her that my bite made her my wife. Made it so I could feel her heartbeat in my chest, feel her breaths in my lungs. I made it so if she ran I could find her anywhere. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. What I did goes against everything I’ve been taught and every bit of advice John gave me. But I don’t give a shit. I felt it. She was holding a piece of herself back like she was staying with me for a little while and then she was going to go off on her own.