Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  He could picture it—tossing Layla on his bed, her mahogany locks spreading out like a silken web on his pillow, her bright eyes smiling at him. He’d start on her knees straight away, burrowing under her skirts where it would be warm and fragrant.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, a fine sweat breaking out over his skin. Sin stalked to the window and opened it. The London air was far from fresh but it was cold, and that was enough for now.

  Drawing it into his lungs, he tried to calm his heated blood. Yes, Layla made him crave, but tonight, he’d hurt her. And hurt himself too. Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, Sin stared at the skyline, now hazy under a burgeoning moon.

  Augustus wanted to marry her off, see her safe and settled. And she had agreed to the nonsense. Who was Sin to argue? He wanted the same thing. Only . . . It did not matter what he wanted. He was Judgment. It grounded him and gave his life purpose. There was no place for domesticity in that life. Which was a good thing, considering that he was not fit to be with anyone.

  He told himself this. But, on a deeper level, he knew that he hadn’t any protection against his heart when it came to Layla. Nor any way to keep her at arm’s length, save for being cold and cruel. It disgusted him to treat her so callously. But Layla would persist otherwise. She was rather like a puppy that way—all boisterous energy and eternally optimistic.

  Sin feared he’d destroy that light before all this was over.

  Archer

  Throughout his long life, Archer had known pain—both physical and mental. He’d grown accustomed to tolerating both, though between the two, he’d take physical pain over mental anguish any day.

  Not that he’d had much experience with mental pain in the past years. For he’d been happy. So much so that there were mornings when he’d wake and fear it was all a dream. Then his lovely wife would make a sound as she slept, perhaps move a little beside him, and the bliss of peace would wash over him once more.

  Yes, he’d been happy. For he was in love. Deeply. Eternally. Miranda was his heart and soul, and the idea of ever leaving her was more than he could bear to imagine. So he never did. Even when the realities of life became difficult to ignore.

  As he descended the steps of his carriage, Archer knew what he appeared to be—a man in his thirties, tall and well formed, his thick black hair touched with strands of silver. In truth, he’d been born over a hundred years ago. Once cursed but now fully human and vulnerable to all human frailties.

  Despite his advanced age, he’d never felt it. Until now. Gripping the handle of his walking stick and leaning on it as much as he could without actually toppling over, he stared up at the household he’d come to visit.

  The town home was in the middle-class neighborhood of Notting Hill. Narrow and of newer construction, it had nevertheless already accumulated a dark patina of London grime.

  Slowly he took the steps, his chest heavy, his breath short. By the time he reached the door, painted a hopeful emerald green, he was sweating. His hand shook as he pulled out a kerchief and pressed it to his brow. Tucking the cloth away, he knocked upon the door.

  Silence answered.

  Lights flickered behind the front parlor windows, so he knew someone was in residence.

  Fighting a smile, he knocked again, more forcefully. “I shall not leave until you face me, young Evernight,” he said in a voice just a shade louder than normal. “Better to answer the door and get it over with.”

  After a beat, the door swung open, and a stone-faced St. John stared at him. It was a tad unnerving how greatly Sin resembled Miranda. They shared the same eye color, the same facial features, although Sin’s were undeniably masculine whereas Miranda’s were delicate and utterly feminine. And while Miranda had hair of red-gold, Sin’s was an odd, inhuman shade of deep black fading into bright scarlet. Even so, the similarities were enough to warm Archer’s heart towards the boy.

  “Hello, Sin.” He fought the urge to lean against the doorway. He needed to sit, and soon.

  “Archer. You look . . .” Sin’s black brows rose. “Well, not to put too great a point on it, you look like—”

  “Hell,” Archer finished for him. “Yes, I know.” He’d lost weight. Shadows haunted the skin beneath his eyes.

  Sin’s mouth quirked. “I was going to say like death warmed over, but that will do.”

  Archer hated to think how close Sin’s estimation really was. “As amusing as it is to stand here and let you analyze my appearance, I wonder if you plan to let me in at any time soon.”

  Sin snapped to attention. “Right. Pardon.” He shot Archer another curious glance as he stepped aside. “Do come in, brother Archer.”

  Archer snorted at Sin’s overly formal tone but gratefully followed the young man into the parlor. It was clearly a bachelor’s room, bereft of excessive ornamentation. A fire crackled in the hearth and an old but large armchair covered in gold velvet was pushed close to it. A pile of newspapers lay in a heap by the chair, as if Sin had dropped them to attend to the door.

  Running a haphazard hand through his hair, Sin looked around and then grabbed another chair that sat by the window. This chair was smaller and covered in brown leather, but no less battered. Sin set it by the fire then gathered up his newspaper.

  “I don’t receive visitors,” he mumbled, moving to bring a little table between the two chairs.

  “It appears you’ve hardly set up house,” Archer observed.

  “Because I haven’t been here for a year. I was in Rome, and as of tonight, I’ll be living with Augustus for a time.” Sin dusted off the velvet chair then gestured towards it. “Have a seat.”

  Archer took the leather chair instead. The velvet was obviously Sin’s preferred chair, and he was not here to put the boy out any more than necessary. He thought he heard Sin mutter “stubborn” under his breath but the young man was already turning to a little sideboard.

  “I’ve brandy, port, and gin,” Sin said, nodding to the crystal decanters. “What shall it be?”

  None of those things would agree with his stomach so Archer waved it away. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather smoke my pipe.” He did not smoke often, but lately, it soothed him when nothing else could.

  “Of course.” Sin helped himself to a glass of brandy then sat as Archer pulled out his pipe and prepared it. Sin watched the motions with a narrowed gaze. “Out of curiosity, how did you find me here?”

  “Poppy alerted Miranda and Daisy that you were back in town, and where you dwelled.” Archer winced at his words, but there was no getting around that particular elephant in the room. Sin was on the outs with his sisters, and there wasn’t a damn thing Archer could do to persuade his oft-stubborn wife to forgive her brother. “As for the rest, I paid a boy to keep an eye out on the house and find me when you arrived.”

  Sin’s smile was tight but amusement lit his eyes. “Augustus always warned me, never ignore the children. They’re often the eyes and ears of the underground.”

  “To be sure.”

  Sin’s smile faded. “Why are you here, Archer?”

  Taking a draw on his pipe, Archer sat back and let the smoke out slowly. It perfumed the air and made his aching back relax just a bit. “Just as direct as your sister.”

  Sin flinched, his gaze sliding away. Archer did not like the way Miranda had cut Sin out of her life. He knew her reasons, but family was family, and Sin deserved a chance.

  “Is she well?” Sin asked quietly.

  Archer’s heart warmed further. “She is.”

  Sin nodded, his gaze on the fire.

  Archer let his pipe rest on the arm of the chair. “Why haven’t you explained yourself to your sisters? I’m certain, whatever it is, they shall understand.”

  Sin’s shoulders tensed. Eyes flashing green fire glared Archer’s way. “I appreciate you coming here in an obvious attempt to arrange peace between me and my family, but there are things I will not discuss.”

  “Bedding the Fae Queen being on
e of them.”

  Sin’s skin took on a deep shade of pink before going a sickly white. He swallowed hard before drawing a deep breath. The next instant, Sin was a different man—hard and cold, his body appearing almost larger somehow.

  Archer’s pulse missed a beat. He could have sworn he saw a flash of silver in Sin’s eyes, but the younger man blinked and all he saw was jade green.

  “Speak of that again and I shall remove you from my home, Lord Archer.”

  A formidable opponent. Sin Evernight had officially grown into full manhood.

  Archer nodded. “I understand I’ve overstepped. However, it must be said. I would see your relationship with Miranda and your other sisters restored.”

  “Why does it mean so much to you?” Sin’s tone was hard and quick. “My character is not that of a gentleman’s. I’ll make no excuses for what I have done. Is it not better for all concerned if things simply remain as they are?”

  Archer took another draw on his pipe. “Would you consider it a favor to me to try?”

  Sin made a noise of dry amusement. “You’ll forgive me, Archer, but why should I? We haven’t spoken for over a year.”

  Despite Sin’s stone-cold demeanor, Archer could hear the faint accusation and hurt that laced his tone. And felt rather ashamed.

  He faced his brother-in-law and did not withhold the truth. “I am dying.”

  Sin’s head cocked as if Archer had slapped him. “What?” he asked in a thin voice.

  “Miranda believes I have simply been ill. Stomach ailment.” Archer had not yet found the strength to tell her the truth. But he must. “However, I am a physician. I know the signs. It is cancer, and it is advanced.”

  Sin stared at him, his throat working. “How long?”

  “It is hard to determine. A few months, perhaps less.”

  “Jesus.”

  “She’ll need you,” Archer said in a rough voice. “No matter what you might believe, Miranda loves you. And I’ll need you to be there for her.”

  Sin wiped a hand over his face. “Archer . . . She’ll want to know why I did what I did. I have no answer.”

  “I have never believed you went willingly to . . . that creature,” Archer finished, avoiding her name out of respect for Sin.

  Sin snorted but would not meet his eyes. “I was not forced.”

  There was a world of evasion in that statement. Archer studied Sin, who was tense and sullen once more. “I know well there are things of which a man cannot speak. Mistakes that take him down dark roads he cannot escape.”

  If anything, Sin grew more uncomfortable. “Then do not ask of me what I cannot give.”

  Silence fell between them, drawing attention to the crackle of the fire and the clip-clop-rattle-clank of a carriage passing on the street. Then Sin sighed. “I will go to Miranda, try to offer my support. Whether she agrees to accept me is up to her.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  Sin looked at him for a long moment, and Archer had the same unnerving sensation of catching a fleeting glimpse of silver in the man’s irises. But he was imagining things. There was no silver, only sorrow and a bit of thoughtfulness, as if Sin were thinking things over.

  “Will you do me a favor in return?” Sin asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me when you grow worse. I want to know before . . .” He swallowed hard. “I should be obliged if you kept me informed of your progress, Archer.”

  Seemed a fairly maudlin request, and Archer was surprised at the level of caring Sin displayed. But he nodded. “That I can do.”

  Chapter Six

  Quite the spectacle, is it not?” Layla murmured at Sin’s side. Her voice was smooth as honey and warm cream. Not at all what he’d remembered, and every time she spoke when he wasn’t prepared for it, that lovely, silken voice slid right over the length of his cock.

  He swore he could feel her along every inch. Sin pushed his fists deeper into his trouser pockets. “It is at that,” he agreed as they strolled along the narrow walk of the greenhouse. Greenery hung dense and thick around them, the air so humid it felt alive.

  Much to Sin’s underlying disgruntlement, Augustus had organized a party for Layla’s return. And, in a display of shocking showmanship, the man had chosen to throw it at the Temperate House at Kew Gardens.

  Sunlight filtered through the massive iron and glass structure and touched on Layla’s glossy, dark hair. “So then,” she said. “Augustus has dubbed you an excellent judge of character—”

  Sin snorted so loudly that several heads turned. It could not be helped. “I am a terrible judge of character,” he murmured.

  “Bollocks” Layla said smartly. “Augustus does not lie.”

  Sin was tempted to snort again. “He is an expert at twisting truth and evading outright lies.” He flicked a palm frond out of their way. “As are we all in this strange little world.”

  Layla paused, and her pink lips turned down at the corners. “Such a cynic you’ve become.”

  She had no idea.

  Layla shrugged as if she heard him. “Regardless, do tell me. Have I any promising prospects in this lot?”

  Sourness coated Sin’s tongue. This lot. He’d like to kick all of them out on their arses.

  What had surprised Sin was that the majority of guests were Other in some way. Sanguis, lycans, undetermined but odd—there was a sampling of London’s supernatural community. Most, he assumed, were SOS, but not all. Some were merely outliers who lived simple lives among an unknowing human society.

  Most noticeably absent, however, were his sisters, all of whom would usually attend this sort of monster’s ball. That they were likely avoiding Sin stung.

  “You do realize,” he said to Layla in a casual tone, “that almost all of them can hear you perfectly well?”

  “Really?” She did not sound scandalized but intrigued.

  “Mmm. Advanced senses are the most common trait among supernatural beings.”

  As if to punctuate his statement, a group of sanguis demons dressed in dapper gray morning suits turned away, purposely giving their backs to them as if to demonstrate their ignorance of Layla and Sin’s conversation. Sin glared their way.

  “To answer your question,” he said in the same, almost bored tone, “twenty percent of these . . . prospects appear to be mainly attracted to your money, while the other eighty clearly want the chance to bed you.”

  A lycan in pinstripes took an over-long sip of his champagne punch, never glancing in their direction.

  “Which is why,” Sin went on clearly, “if any of them so much as puts a pinkie on you without your express permission, I shall snap it off and stuff it down his throat.”

  Layla burst out laughing, a husky yet lilting sound that had more heads turning, this time in rapt interest. “Saint John, protector of virtue and destroyer of pinkies across the kingdom.”

  Sin grunted, about to retort, when a man stepped into their path.

  “A true gentleman,” the man drawled, “would always seek permission first.” He smiled down at an openmouthed Layla. “Something I shall endeavor to do.”

  Sin didn’t know who the bloody hell this sod was, but he did not like him. He was not human, that much was clear, but what he was remained a mystery.

  They were of an even height, though the man in question was thinner, giving an appearance off being taller. His hair was so light it gleamed nearly white in the sunbeam shining down upon him. Crystal blue eyes stared at Layla.

  Oh, he’d make a fine dandy for the ladies to fawn over. Sin ground his back teeth. “And you are?”

  The man didn’t look away from Layla. “Eron St. Clair.”

  “Another Sin name?” Layla glanced from Sin to the smarmy bastard before them. She appeared amused. Sin was not.

  “Yes,” said the bastard, “but only in the best possible ways.”

  “A clever one, he is,” Sin offered dryly to Layla.

  The man looked at him now.
“I’m sorry, was that your line?”

  “Not even a little.”

  St. Clair tilted his head as if in confusion. Sin knew the arse wasn’t confused in the least. Especially when the man’s pale blue eyes gleamed with smugness. “One would expect a former consort of Mab would know all about sin.”

  The air left Sin’s lungs as hot prickles broke out over his face. He knew better than to assume his time with Mab wasn’t common knowledge. He’d been forced to attend too many parties and sordid orgies of the rich and bored on her arm for people not to know. It did not matter. His shame was now hanging in front of Layla.

  And that fucker St. Clair knew it.

  For a hot moment, Sin saw himself reaching over, tearing out the man’s spine, and wrapping it around his throat like a bow. He could do that. But he’d taken a vow: do no harm to innocents. No one was truly innocent, but unless he caught the man doing foul deeds, he could not touch him.

  Something St. Clair seemed to know as well. “I did not mean to shock . . .”—Oh, yes you bloody well did—“However, one hears tales . . .”

  He let his words trail off suggestively.

  Sin could feel Layla at his side, feel her curious gaze on him. He couldn’t look, couldn’t move, really. As if from a great distance, he heard her voice.

  “I do love a good tale, Mr. St. Clair. However, I much rather tell them than hear them. Is that a fault, do you think?”

  St. Clair’s voice was equally muffled by the buzzing in Sin’s ears. “I find that utterly charming, Miss Starling.”

  “Do you? Shall I tell you about the time my guardian took me to Rome and I got lost in the Colosseum?”

  There was a light touch on his hand. Bemused, Sin glanced down and was caught in Layla’s soft gaze. “I’ll meet you by the punch in a quarter hour?”

  She was leaving him. To go stroll with the bastard. And there was not a damned thing he could do about it. This was his job. His duty. Dully, Sin nodded, not daring to look at St. Clair or it would be all over; the man’s blood would be decorating the glass panes in a heartbeat.