The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)

by Joy Nash

  He stood abruptly, turning his back. “Now that you know I’m alive, maybe you should leave.”

  “Leave?” Her tone conveyed utter disbelief. “Are you nuts? Where would I go?”

  “Somewhere safe,” he said.

  “There is no such place. Arthur. Look at me.”

  He turned around. She regarded him seriously. “Even if there was a safe place, I wouldn’t go. I’m staying with you.”

  “You don’t know what I am now.”

  At that, her brows hiked up. “Of course I do. I’ve lived with adepts all my life, remember?”

  “Not ones who aren’t...who can’t—” He blew out a breath. “Not ones like me.”

  “Aren’t what? Can’t what? What are you trying to say?”

  He walked to the window and stared out over the moor. “My power...it’s too much. It’s tearing me apart. I’m afraid it’ll rip you apart, too.”

  “You would never hurt me.”

  He pressed his forehead against the glass. “Not true,” he said. “I already have.”

  He heard a sigh and a rustle of bedclothes. He imagined her untangling her long legs from the sheets and swinging them over the side of the mattress. Her footsteps approached. When she laid a soft hand on his shoulder, he flinched.

  “This conversation is ridiculous,” she said. “We both know I’m not going anywhere. Come on. Turn around.”

  He did as she asked. “Cybele—” Before his mind registered what was happening, she crossed her arms, grasped the hem of her blouse, and pulled it half-way over her head.

  “No.” He yanked her arm down. Her shirt fell back into place, but not before he’d caught a flash of creamy skin and a rose-brown nipple. Dear ancestors. No bra. He went still, his fingers tightening on her wrist, staring at the place where that damn sleeve had slipped off her shoulder. Again.

  “Not a good idea.” His voice was like rust.

  She gave a huff of exasperation. “I think it’s an excellent idea.”

  “It’s not. When I’m not in my right mind...sexual lust...deathlust...it all feels the same.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can’t possibly think you’ll kill me.

  He loosened his grip on her wrist and let her hand drop. “It could happen,” he said.

  Her brows came down. “Okay, yeah. That is kinda a mood killer.” She studied him. “But maybe you’ll calm down once you wash off all that blood.”

  “I washed at the well,” he said.

  “You did a half-assed job of it.”

  “All right.” He headed for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She caught his arm from behind. “Let me do it.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “There’s no water.”

  “Yes, there is. I brought it up earlier.” She nodded toward the stockpot. “It should be hot by now. I’ve got clean towels, too.” They were stacked on a chair nearby.

  He hesitated.

  “Arthur...”

  Cybele had never been one for subtlety. The look on her face told him there was no chance of him slinking off into some corner to hide. If he went down to the library, or to the garden, she’d follow. Bugger it all, even if he fled to the other side of the globe, she’d be right behind him. To be brutally honest, he was—cowardly, selfishly—glad of it.

  “All right,” he said. “But make it quick.”

  He tracked her progress across the room. Why couldn’t that damn neckline stay put? The slope of her shoulder showed through the tangled silk of her hair. He couldn’t force himself to look away. Absently, she gathered all that hair into an elastic band she’d been wearing on her wrist, and then shrugged the drooping sleeve back into place. He felt the loss like a punch to the gut.

  Lifting the pot’s top, she picked up a cloth and dunked it in. Water splashed. “A little hot, but I figure that’ll feel good.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Well, step it up. Get over here.”

  His feet moved. Her scent reached out, gathered him in. A flash of dark excitement raced through him. The same sensation he’d experienced seconds before he dove to a kill.

  Bloody hell.

  She made a swirling motion with one finger. “Turn around.”

  He met her gaze briefly before obeying the order. He tensed as the wet cloth met his skin. She stroked his upper back. Hot water trickled down his spine. She was right. It did feel good. Way too good. He swallowed.

  She swiped the towel across his lower back, just above the waistband of his jeans. He imagined her hands lower, cupping his arse. Her fingernails curling into his skin. Another stroke, this time up his right flank and shoulder, and then down his arm. His breath grew ragged. When he closed his eyes, violent red light exploded behind his eyelids.

  “You’re so tense,” she murmured. “Relax.”

  “I’m fine,” he bit off. “Just get on with it.”

  He heard splashing as she dunked the cloth and wrung it out. Her hands trembled. He felt it when the cloth touched his back again. Even so, she washed a methodical path, back and forth, working her way from the top of his spine to his lower back.

  This attempt at calm didn’t fool him. Cybele wasn’t fond of restraint. She was only careful when she was uncertain. Though he could tell she was trying to control her breathing, it wasn’t quite steady. Neither was his.

  She attempted conversation. “How much time do you think it’ll take? To get ready for Mab, I mean.”

  This was not a subject Arthur wished to pursue. “Don’t know.”

  The cloth paused. “We should talk about it.”

  “No,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Arthur—”

  “Are you quite done?”

  “Almost.” She sounded as agitated as he felt. She dunked the cloth and wrung it out, and then came around his left side. When she stroked up over his shoulder and swiped the cloth down his chest, he snatched the rag from her hand.

  “Enough.”

  “Not hardly.”

  He threw the wet rag onto the washstand. “It’s early yet. Go back to sleep.”

  “With you?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Well, neither am I.” Her gaze traveled across his chest. He felt its touch more distinctly than he’d felt the cloth. “You’re clean now. If we’re not going to sleep, there are other things we can do.”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  She tilted her head and met his gaze. A smile tugged at her lips. “I say yes. You’re in a crappy mood. You know what’s good for crappy moods? Sex.” Her lashes swept downward.

  “Cybele, I—”

  He cut off as her forefinger touched the center of his chest. Sucked in air as she dragged it slowly downward. She paused at his navel. His stomach muscles went rock-hard. He wanted that finger lower. In his mind, it was already there.

  She withdrew her hand and smiled. “You don’t want to talk, and you don’t want to sleep. Not much else to do but make love.”

  Not true. There was plenty to do. He could explore the focusing power of his mother’s touchstone. He could go out on the moor and attempt to throw hellfire without incinerating himself. He could fashion illusions that didn’t fall apart with a sneeze. He could try to take those illusions one step further, into reality. He could reach into the morass inside his skull and pluck out an ancestral memory that would lead him to magic powerful enough to destroy Mab.

  He should be doing any or all of those things. And he would be doing them, right this moment, if his magic didn’t scare the piss out of him. It was just too strong. Or he was too weak. Either way, he wouldn’t risk calling it in front of Cybele. What if his lusts caused another blackout? The thought of losing control of his mind and his power while she was nearby terrified him.

  He had to get out—out of the room, at least. Arguing with Cybele, once she got an idea fixed in her head, was an exercise in futility. He’d seen that mischievous light in her eyes before. Often. It never failed to get him hard, and right now was
no exception. Bugger it all, if he got any harder, his cock would snap off.

  Leave. Turn around and walk down the stair.

  He couldn’t make his feet move the requisite number of steps toward the door. Cybele tugged her hair out of its elastic band and shook her head. He couldn’t look away. She combed her fingers through the blond curls, separating the strands, and then let it drop into a wild riot about her head.

  She bent forward from the waist, the heavy mass of her hair falling forward over one shoulder. Before his dazed mind registered her intent, she yanked her blouse over her head and dropped it on the floor.

  She straightened. Once again, a sensation of newness washed over him. He felt as though he was seeing her bare breasts for the first time. High and proud, tipped with dusky nipples. Beautiful. Inviting. His nostrils flared; his palms itched. He wanted to stroke, to smell, to suck. Wanted to feel her life’s blood coursing beneath her skin. Wanted to see it spill...

  Fuck. “Cybele—” He gave his head a violent shake. “No.”

  “What’s wrong?” The flash of hurt in her eyes was quickly masked. “Not interested in a dormant, now that you’re an adept?”

  He licked his dry lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Her palms went to the small of her back.

  He tried to ignore what the motion did to her breasts. “Yes. It is. If you only knew how much I want you right now—”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  She came a step closer. Like a fool, he couldn’t back away. Of course, being Cybele, she didn’t stop until the tips of her nipples brushed his chest. She tilted her head up—not far, since she was almost as tall as he. He searched her eyes, and felt himself tumble into a turbulent jade sea.

  He gripped her shoulders. Did he have some half-baked notion that he was strong enough to push her away? Impossible. Her skin was smooth and warm, and slightly damp. Her scent enveloped him.

  He was on fire with lust. His palms slid down her shoulders, stroked around to her upper back. He brought her flush against his body. She melted into him, fitting her body to his in that way she had that never failed to drive him wild. Her lips brushed his neck, kissing, then softly nipping.

  He groaned. He felt her smile. Her arms encircled his torso, hugging him close. Her thighs cradled his rampant cock. She circled her hips and a shudder ran through him. Her strength, her scent, her need—it all wove in and out through his body. He couldn’t—didn’t want to—resist her.

  “That’s it,” she murmured against the hollow of his throat. “Relax. Let me do everything.”

  “Cybele.” He framed her face with his hands, urging her to look at him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You think so, but...you have no idea...what I’m like now. My magic...it’s too strong for this.”

  “Why should it be? Adept males have sex with human witches all the time.”

  That was true enough. But most adepts didn’t experience blackouts. Gaps in their memories that involved blood and magic and death.

  She mistook his silence for acceptance. “Don’t worry so much.” Her head slipped from his fingers, her hair slid over his chest. The tip of her tongue drew a line from his throat to his left nipple. She scraped the puckered point with her teeth. Sizzling lust shot straight to his groin.

  She dropped to her knees. Her fingers worked his belt buckle. His zipper. He moaned as his erection sprang into her hand. When her cool fingers closed around him, his mind blanked.

  He speared his fingers through her hair, gripping hard. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his penis and looked up at him through her lashes. Their eyes locked.

  “Should I stop?” she asked.

  “No,” he rasped.

  Holding his gaze, she licked. A slow, smooth sweep of her tongue, from the base of his cock to the head. All the while, her fingers teased his balls. He groaned. His knees threatened to buckle.

  He was completely off balance, and yet, for the first time since exiting his Ordeal, he also felt centered. Grounded. With her. He needed this, he realized. Needed Cybele more than he needed breath or sanity. Maybe he could keep his magic under control long enough to make love to her.

  No. He would keep it under control.

  She parted her lips. His cock slid, wetly, into her mouth. Hot. So hot. His head fell back. A sound halfway between pain and bliss escaped from his throat.

  She withdrew, but kept the tip of her tongue in contact. “Feels that good?”

  “Fuck.” Air hissed through his teeth. “There are...no words.”

  She gave a little hum of approval as she returned to her task. Bit by bit, the darkness inside him receded. Her tongue, her lips, the gentle scrape of her teeth—it felt like a benediction. He held on to the feeling as long as he could. Which was hardly any time at all.

  Then he was hooking his hands under her armpits, dragging her up to her feet. He took her mouth in a deep, drugging kiss, tasting himself on her tongue. He filled his hands with her breasts, squeezing, pinching. She gasped. She slipped her hands into his jeans and grabbed his arse. He dipped his head, licking and sucking.

  With shaking hands, he unfastened her jeans. He urged her across the room, backing her toward the bed. Sunlight streamed through the window. For one arrested second, he was mesmerized by the play of it on her hair. Until a slight movement at the corner of his eye snagged his attention. He turned his head sharply to peer through the glass.

  “What?” Cybele leaned around him and looked out the window. “Is something out there?”

  His eyes raked the branches of the oak. “Must’ve been a breeze,” he said at last. “Moving the branches.”

  “Oh.” She leaned against him, her back pressed to his chest, reaching behind to run her hands up his flanks.

  He spun her around and tumbled her onto the bed. She laughed as they fell, grabbing his shoulders to pull him down on top of her. He all but tore off her jeans and underwear. She returned the favor. While he struggled out of his boots, she leaned over the side of the bed and fumbled in the front pocket of her backpack.

  “Condom,” she said, pressing the packet into his hand.

  “Right.” It was another testament to his fried brain that he hadn’t thought of it himself. Nephil females didn’t conceive easily, but there was always a chance it could happen. They’d taken precautions from the start. Mab would’ve gone ballistic if Cybele had fallen pregnant. And now, with everything so precarious? The last thing he wanted to worry about was fathering a child he wasn’t in a position to protect.

  He quickly rolled the condom on. Finally, they lay on the bed, naked and gasping, limbs entwined, his cock probing between her thighs. She was wet there, slick and welcoming.

  “Can’t wait,” he gasped.

  “Don’t.” Her fingernails dug into his buttocks.

  He thrust inside her with a single deep plunge. Her inner muscles contracted like a fist. His breath deserted him. By all the forsaken ancestors in Oblivion. Her hips followed his as he withdrew. One of her knees hooked around his waist, opening her body even more. He slid back in.

  She felt so damn good. She always had, from the very first time. And each time afterward. Every time he succeeded in making her gasp with pleasure, each time she whispered how she loved him, he lost another part of his heart to her.

  She bucked beneath him, rolling her hips in sublime motion. He answered with deep thrusts, each one half-lifting her off the bed. She moaned her approval. He grew harder. She arched upward and opened her mouth on his chest, licking the sweat from his skin. He dragged in a breath. She smelled like musk and earth, fire and sky, rain and peace, all at once.

  Their frenzy mounted. He bit her neck. Her fingernails scored his back. He hooked both arms under her knees. The new angle of penetration tore a cry from her throat.

  “Fuck me, Arthur. Harder.” S
he arched her back to give him even better access.

  He took it. He’d never get enough of her. Never. She was his. Only his.

  If you can keep her safe, a voice in his head taunted. From Mab, from Rand, from her Ordeal. If you can’t...

  No. He could. He would. He shoved fear of the future into the back of his mind and tried to anchor himself in the moment. He focused on Cybele—her heat, her touch, her face. Her eyes were shut. She was close to coming. He gripped her hips and moved faster. Plunged deeper. He’d defend her to the death, with everything he was, with every shred of magic he possessed.

  And if it’s not enough? If I’m not enough? If Mab wins... If Cybele becomes Rand’s thrall... His ruminating thoughts hurtled him into a place of raw, burning anger. In the space of one breath to the next, his fury snapped into a towering blaze and hit flashpoint.

  White light seared the inside of his eyelids. Cybele’s inner muscles spasmed. Her body arched. She cried out. His cock was like granite. He grabbed the headboard with both hands, thrusting like a madman. She whimpered. He growled.

  Another flash of light. His eyes opened to see the room dissolve in a shower of sparks. His body convulsed. Cybele called his name. He heard the sound of cracking wood.

  His orgasm hit him like a small explosion. Pure sensation consumed him. His body convulsed. His ears rang.

  The world went white.

  ***

  This was not, Michael thought ruefully, his finest hour.

  No self-respecting archangel found himself perched on a tree limb, eyes riveted on a bedroom window. Well, not on the window itself. On what was happening on the other side of the glass.

  He should feel guilty. Curiously, he didn’t. After all, Raphael had ordered him to keep an eye on Arthur Camulus. He was doing just that. Even so, it was rather disingenuous to claim his orders required him to watch a Nephil adept and his dormant female companion engaging in copulation.

  Truly, his voyeurism wasn’t appropriate. Not in this universe, nor in any other.