In the meantime she was relieved Khail got to his feet and went to the sink to wash some of the blood away and refresh himself. He managed to give her a shaky smile on his way back. “I will live, moya kisa.”
She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but Hermann was fully awake and glaring at her with undisguised hostility. It took a great deal of willpower not to give him a cheap shot in the ribs. “What the hell was that about?”
He blinked. “You must die. Mikhail has betrayed the Unkind.”
It struck her, then, what had happened. “You think he botched it on purpose, don’t you? You decided he was what…so overcome by my snoring and bedhead that he mis-chanted so I could live? So you were sent in to do it properly.”
His silence confirmed her theory, so she turned to Khail. “Did he get enough of it done? To be able to tell, I mean?”
“No, you were able to escape his touch before he was finished with the words.”
So the Unkind had no idea if Khail’s touch had misfired or if he’d done it deliberately. And they also still had no idea if it was only Khail’s touch to which she was immune.
“Maybe I should let him try again,” she mused aloud.
“You are insane,” Khail muttered.
“At least we would know for sure.”
“The risk is too great. I would rather we never know than risk losing you.”
Bridget sighed. Even in a high stress situation he managed to be utterly romantic. And it worked, damn him.
“Then we may as well figure out how to get him out of here,” she said, “because this accomplishes nothing. We can’t prove you didn’t not kill me on purpose, and they won’t be satisfied until they try again. We’re not going to let them, so he may as well go.”
“The Unkind will come,” Hermann said smugly.
She gazed down at him, noting he hadn’t even tried to test the strength of the zip ties. Not that she trusted him. He’d already gotten the better of her once—twice if she counted his entrance through the chimney—and he had a slightly mean look to him.
“How did you come to be cursed?” she asked. As long as he was talking, she might as well indulge her curiosity.
There. It was only a flicker, but for a second she’d seen a glimpse of humanity and emotion—remorse. “I beat my wife to death in a jealous rage. She was innocent.”
Bridget took a step backward, her blood suddenly so cold it was as if she’d been submerged in ice water. He was a wife beater. The tremors began so deep in her muscles she hadn’t a prayer of hiding them. Her hand shook as she unconsciously raised it to rub the spot at the back of her skull—the site of the fracture that, along with six other broken bones and a ruptured spleen, had almost killed her.
He’s dead. The son of a bitch who had vowed to love and cherish her until death they did part had died alone in prison, in the cage her testimony had provided for him.
She looked Hermann in the eye. “I want you out of my home.”
“Shall he leave by the front door?” Khail asked pointedly.
For a fleeting moment, Bridget didn’t care. The whole damn flock could fly in and pluck out her eyeballs as long as this abusive, murdering piece of shit left her cabin.
She took a deep breath, trying to separate the past from the present. She wanted Hermann gone, but how the hell were they supposed to get him back outside without opening the door or a window? The prospect of simply shoving him into the bedroom and somehow securing the door didn’t appeal, either. Being barricaded inside a three-room cabin was bad enough. She didn’t want to lose a room. Besides, in his human form he could open the storm shutters for his feathered friends.
“You’re going out the same way you came in,” she finally announced.
Both men looked at the fireplace and shuddered. The fire was almost out—it had been clumsily built in haste, after all—but small flames still licked at the kindling.
“I suggest you climb out the pipe faster than you climbed in,” she added. “And if you’re communicating with the flock right now, hatching a plan, you can stop. Any bird in that pipe but you on your way out is going to get barbecued. Capische?”
“We will come for you,” Hermann said in that flat voice she was really coming to despise.
“And I’ll kick your ass again,” she promised.
Khail almost sagged to the floor in relief when they were alone once again. Getting Hermann to shift, then shoving him into the fireplace was quite a chore, but hearing him scrambling up the pipe to keep his tail feathers from getting scorched made it almost worth the effort. As soon as Hermann was free of the chimney, Bridget built a small fire and then pulled Khail over to the couch.
He put his arm around her and she snuggled up to his side and sighed. Khail kissed the part in her hair. “I am sorry, moya kisa.”
He felt her take a deep breath. “It’s not your fault, really. You are what you are and what happened, happened. I really, really hate the phrase ‘it is what it is’, but…it is.”
“I don’t know—”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Bridget interrupted. She pulled away from his side, and when he made to protest, she actually smiled at him. Parting her knees, she moved to sit astride him. His cock rose immediately, seeking the heaven between her thighs. “I’d rather see if we can make your naked ass squeak on my leather couch.”
For a moment she begged with her eyes—please just let me pretend for a few minutes that everything is okay. Finally, he relaxed his face with a slow smile.
“My ass will not squeak,” he said in the booming “Cossack” voice that made her laugh. “And no squeaking could be heard over you bellowing my name anyway.”
“Prove it,” she replied, a naughty gleam having chased the desperation from her eyes.
He growled and started tugging at the belt of her robe. “You’re a saucy wench, Bridget Sawyer.”
The red satin knot gave him fits and he’d have ripped the damn thing off her body if he didn’t like the way it looked on her so much. He gave up on the knot after a few more tries since the little minx was enjoying his frustration too much to help.
Instead Khail slid his hands inside the robe, gliding them over the tops of her breasts. He skimmed over her collarbone, her shoulders, pushing the red satin back as he went. The contrast of pale skin framed by scarlet fascinated him, and he slid the satin over her nipples, teasing her with the slippery fabric.
Bridget squirmed on his lap, and when the heat of her moist cunt brushed the length of his cock, Khail groaned. He wanted to bury himself in her, explode into her, filling his woman with his seed. Bending his head forward, he drew one strawberry nipple between his lips, sucking gently before turning his attention to the other.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and she arched her back, thrusting her breasts toward him. His muscles trembled ever so slightly as his aching cock strained toward the heat between her thighs. He cupped her breasts, his tongue teasing first one peak and then the other until she whimpered.
When Bridget reached down between their bodies and took him in her hand, Khail’s sac tightened in anticipation and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. Her touch was tentative at first, hesitant, and excited him all the more for it.
“You have the touch of an angel, moya kisa,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Mmmm…but would an angel do this?”
Bridget slid backwards off his lap, settling between his thighs. Her lips parted and there wasn’t enough willpower in the world to keep his hips from lifting, the head of his cock meeting her halfway.
His whole body jerked when her lips closed over him, and he put his hands over his head, digging his fingernails into the leather to prevent himself from grasping her hair and fucking her mouth frantically like a sex-starved youth.
But he didn’t want to frighten her or make her feel like she wasn’t in control, so he gritted his teeth and let her do all the work.
Her tongue flicked over the tip of his cock, lap
ping at the drop of moisture there like the kitten he called her. He managed not to explode, but when she swallowed his length again and cupped his balls in one hand, he had to slide his own hands behind his neck and interlock his fingers to keep from holding her head while he pumped into her mouth.
“You are killing me here,” he groaned.
She chuckled around his flesh and the vibration shot straight through him. His hands broke free of his willpower, but at the last second he stuck them under her arms and hauled her back onto his lap.
She grinned at him, then licked her lips. Tucking her knees against his hips, she raised herself up and grasped his cock once again.
Khail hissed in a breath through his teeth as Bridget lowered herself onto him. She was wet and ready for him, and he groaned aloud when he sank fully into her.
Her breasts were tantalizingly close to his face and he caught one nipple between his lips. He nipped at it—gently, tentatively—and when Bridget moaned and threw her head back, he nipped a little harder. Then he moved to her other breast to torment it in kind. She started rocking, creating a delicious friction that hummed through his body.
“Oh…Khail…” She moaned, and the flush of her cheeks and the husky way she said his name put him on the brink.
He reached down and pressed his thumb to her clit. Her hips bucked, her cunt squeezing his cock, as he made gentle circles around the nub. Her muscles tensed and she cried out—cried his name—and then Khail followed her over, pounding up into her as her body clenched, milking him dry.
Bridget collapsed against his chest as tremors wracked them both, and he curled his arms around her, her head tucked under his chin. It took a few seconds to realize the heaving of her chest was not panting. She was crying silently.
He tipped her chin up so he could see her face, and his heart ached to see the tears streaming down her face. “Did I hurt you? Did I frighten you? I am sorry, Bridget. I—”
She shook her head, but all he could see was the trembling of her lower lip as she tried to get the words out. “I…I wish you were my husband.”
Sorrow at a loss they had yet to suffer and rage at the gods and the Unkind filled him, and he pulled her close again. He squeezed her tightly, as if he could physically bond her to him so nobody could ever take her away from him. He would never have enough of this woman. Never.
His own eyes burned as his fierce, sweet little kitten sobbed into his chest. “Being your husband would be the greatest honor and joy of my life. Perhaps…”
But he let the words trail away. There was nothing he could say to ease her pain—nor his own. As she had said, it is what it is. To live with false hope would only hurt her more when the inevitable came.
Assuming she lived. He pressed a kiss to her hair. Because no matter what vows he made, if the Unkind found a way in en masse, there was nothing he could do to save her. He would fight to the death, but he would lose, and then they would have her.
“I am afraid,” he admitted, the words so foreign to him he was surprised he could speak them aloud. “I will bleed for you, moya kisa. I will gladly die for you. But I am so afraid I cannot save you.”
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Bridget whispered, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.
Chapter Five
Khail’s words shook Bridget in a way even seeing him shapeshift hadn’t. If her fierce warrior feared all was lost, she would find it very hard to keep it alive herself.
She thought of her sketches—of the published illustrations. After Khail’s confession, she had forgotten them, and then they’d been distracted by Hermann’s arrival. Perhaps subconsciously she feared the drawings would change everything—but for the better or for the worst she couldn’t say. She knew, however, the time had come to share them.
“I need to show you something, actually.” She pulled out of Khail’s embrace, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the intensity in his eyes. “I know I should have shown you earlier, but I…I was scared.”
He followed her nude into the bedroom and then waited silently while she fished under the bed for the book she’d kicked under there. She flipped the book open to the first illustration featuring his likeness, then handed it to him. His expression changed from puzzlement to wonder to horror, and her own stomach clenched in response.
“What is this?” he asked hoarsely. “Where did you get this?”
“I’m an illustrator. I drew an early sketch from that series and offered it for sale on the Internet. A publisher saw it and thought it would be perfect for a series they’d recently bought. I’ve been doing the illustrations for the books for several years.”
“Do you know what this is?”
“I know it’s you. I don’t know how, but you’ve been living in my subconscious for years, apparently. And in my dreams.”
Perhaps she had sensed his bloody past, causing her to cast him in the role her muse had chosen for him. And maybe this had been fate’s way of preparing her, making sure she would recognize her soul mate when he appeared. For she could no longer deny that’s exactly what Khail was.
“This is the Beyond, moya kisa. It is the place of the gods and of the Unkind.”
Bridget shuddered, colder than she’d ever been in her life. While years of sketching her one true love may be romantic, she did not want to be fated to this place of death. “Why is it in my head, Khail? How do I draw this?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Have you ever cheated death? Not merely by waking from a coma or resuscitation, but have you ever walked Beyond and returned? Have you ever been declared legally dead?”
Even in the intensive care unit, her heart had never stopped beating. Not until her knuckles began to throb did Bridget realize how tightly her hands were clenched together in her lap. No, it can’t be that. Please let it be anything but that. “No.”
“There must be something, Bridget,” Khail persisted, his hand covering hers. “You are an aberration, and we must know why. If there’s any way I can save you, it lies in your drawings. It lies within you.”
She jerked away from his touch, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Horror burned like acid in her stomach. Shame, confusion, anger and so many other emotions she thought she’d laid to rest besieged her. She shuddered, clutching his fingers so hard it had to be painful for him.
He settled back on his heels, never looking away from her face. “So there is something. Tell me, love.”
Bridget took a deep, steadying breath, then let it all out in a rush. “I’m the child of a domestic murder-suicide. My father shot my mother when she was eight months pregnant with me, then shot himself. She was clinically…they did a Cesarean…”
That was all she could get out, but judging by Khail’s expression, it was enough.
He closed his eyes and dropped his head. “You were born of a dead mother.”
“Yes.” Tears spilled over her cheeks and she had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. She’d never told anybody but her former therapist about the circumstances of her birth. Even her husband hadn’t known.
Being taken warm and alive from her mother’s lifeless body had not seemed to her to be the miracle the tattered newspaper articles claimed it to be. Rather it seemed nothing but a tangible starting point for the dark pain and loss that would be her life.
“Physically, spiritually, you were still one with your mother when she died,” Khail said. “Your soul was carried by hers into the Beyond, until you were delivered and your body called it back. The gods were kind and let it return. That act was a gift. A gift no others but the gods themselves can take back.”
She digested that for a moment, trying to grasp the concept of her life as a gift when she’d always considered it a curse. “And that hasn’t happened before?”
“Technology has changed things, but still very, very few have actually walked in the Beyond. The chances of the Unkind randomly choosing one of those people are…well,
you are the first in my own time as cursed.”
“Does that mean I won’t die?”
With his eyes closed, Khail opened his mind to the Unkind. She is Untouchable.
Impossible. There has not been an Untouchable one in many centuries. You would employ lies now in your betrayal.
Her soul has walked Beyond. Concentrating, he imagined Bridget’s sketches, transmitting the mental images to the collective. She was born of a dead mother.
The buzzing receded, surged, then receded again. A consultation with the gods Beyond, perhaps?
It is decided you speak the truth, Mikhail. The woman is Untouchable.
Then leave this place. Khail braced himself.
You will come and suffer your punishment, Mikhail. You are of the Unkind.
And if I don’t?
There was a sharp hissing sound, and Khail winced at its vibration through his mind. Maybe he could bargain for time—just a little more time in which to love Bridget enough to get her through a lifetime. Her lifetime. He could never get enough of her to last him through his own endless existence.
Mikhail, you will come and accept your fate. Your betrayal must be accounted for. If you do not come willingly, we will drive you mad. So mad you might hurt the woman.
I will never hurt her.
An unholy shrieking speared his brain, lingering for so many seconds before fading it actually left a phantom pain, an echo of their anger. You cannot close yourself to us, Mikhail. We can hurt you. How many days…even hours…can you stand the pain before you do what you must to end it? Come to us, Mikhail. You are of the Unkind.
When Khail finally opened his eyes and reached up to stroke her cheek, Bridget exhaled in relief. He had looked so pained she was afraid he might leave her. It was a ridiculous fear, she knew—her father’s shame was not her own. But she knew it logically, not necessarily emotionally.
“You will die someday, but not at the hands of the Unkind. You will probably be a very old woman when your time comes.”
There was a sadness in his eyes that didn’t quite jive with what she considered welcome news. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Kiss Me Deadly Page 5