Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  Another soft touch and she moved away, once again chattering about Rome. Sin watched her pleated skirts of dusky blue swaying with each step. In his head, he sang a Gilbert and Sullivan tune to drown out the sound of Layla conversing with the twat. But he followed along at a discreet distance. For he would watch her until it was no longer his privilege.

  With every word and step she took, Layla felt a sense of misery and rage. She was walking away from Sin, which she knew upset him, and she was doing it while giving the impression that she’d chosen this arse over her friend.

  But what was she to do? Whoever this Mab woman was, her mere name had made Sin recoil with a physical shudder. Oh, it was small, his reaction, nothing more than a tightening of his flesh and a twitch of his fingers. But, for Sin, it might as well have been an outright shout.

  Layla hadn’t known what to do other than draw this bastard St. Clair away from him. She might have simply given the man the cut direct but then it would have implied that he’d unnerved Sin, and that wouldn’t do. Better to get him away from her friend. Surely Sin understood that?

  “And so there I was,” she prattled on, “lost in the maze of little passageways of the ground floor.”

  “Where they kept the lions and other exotic animals who attacked the gladiators,” St. Clair provided helpfully.

  “Yes, there.” She glanced at him. “Am I boring you?”

  His smile was sly. “Not at all, Miss Starling. Tell me, did you know that some of those small rooms you described were actually lift shafts? They would set the animals on a platform, and slaves would turn a crank to raise them up to the Colosseum floor. Quite the spectacle, really.”

  “You sound as though you were there,” she teased. Layla could flirt if need be. Flirting was nothing more than playing a part. It was soulless, really.

  St. Clair leaned in, his strangely pale blue eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I was.”

  She could not tell if he teased, so she shrugged. “Perhaps you were indeed. I keep forgetting how much my world has changed with a single revelation. I have to remind myself that not all is as it seems.”

  “It never was, Miss Starling.” His attention stayed on her face. “You are quite lovely. I should like to call on you later. Would that be agreeable?”

  Layla’s steps slowed, and she realized that, a ways behind her, another set of footsteps slowed as well. Sin following. She did not know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Perhaps a little of both. But now she was in a quandary. She did not want to encourage a man who would so callously toss another man’s past indiscretions in his face. And yet the entire point of walking with him now was to lead him away while not letting on that he’d gotten to Sin.

  She glanced up at St. Clair. Something in the way his lips canted to the side as he so patiently waited for her response made her believe that he knew this all quite well.

  “I am receiving callers between the hours of three and four. You may call on me at that time, if you like.” There. She’d given him a time not reserved for friends, and made it clear he was but one of many. She might have said no but this man intrigued her. What did he know of Sin?

  His tight smile grew. “So very formal, Miss Starling. You know, we Others are far more relaxed in our intercourse.”

  Cheeky.

  “As you say,” she replied smoothly. “However, as I am fairly new to your world, I expect it shall take me some time to grow accustomed to your ways.”

  St. Clair stopped. Before she knew what he was about, he’d taken her hand and brushed his lips over her gloved knuckles. “Never change, Miss Starling. You are a breath of fresh air.”

  She could have sworn she heard Sin snort.

  St. Clair bowed his head and then turned on his heels to walk off.

  She waited for Sin to saunter up. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as usual, his expression bored. “Fifteen minutes of my life wasted.”

  “And to think,” she added lightly, “you’ll get to relive the fun all over again tomorrow.”

  He glared down at her then. “What game do you play, Layla? You cannot possibly find that sod attractive.”

  “No?” Layla gazed off in the direction St. Clair had exited. She wanted to needle Sin. Just a little. Wanted him to show anything other than cool acceptance of Augustus’s ridiculous quest to see Layla married off. “I’d think it is safe to say most would find him extremely so.”

  “Only on the surface,” he said, still cool, still annoying.

  “Why? Because he was rude to you? I do recall two men in that conversation, both equally matched in ill manners.”

  Sin’s features smoothed out like glass. “Then I suppose you’ve a liaison tomorrow.” He nodded towards the clusters of party goers who were idling around. “Are you finished here?”

  Irritation surged up her throat. “No. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been ignoring my guests.”

  Layla left Sin and spent the next hour flirting with every man who approached her. And why not? As St. Clair said, the rules were different here. And Sin certainly wasn’t attempting to stop her. But he did follow. Always. And it only fueled her irritation more.

  Chapter Seven

  This time, when Layla stole into Sin’s room, he did not stop her. She wondered if he were truly sleeping, for he lay upon his bed, tucked under the covers, his head a dark blot on his white pillow. He’d warned her about creeping up on him unexpectedly, and while she’d teased him at the time, she did not want to catch him unaware.

  Slowly she padded across the room towards his bed, and he turned his head. His eyes appeared to glow in the darkness as he tracked her movements. But he said nothing, nor did he move. So Layla did not stop. She crawled under the covers and laid her head on the spare pillow, facing him.

  For a long moment he simply stared back, his gaze darting over her face as if to suss out what her motives were. When he spoke, his voice was warm and intimate in a way that had Layla’s toes curling.

  “This is going to become a habit, isn’t it?” he said.

  If she had her way? Yes. Layla snuggled further into the bedding that smelled of Sin, like the first bite of winter frost mixed with the warmth of a newly started log fire.

  He’d been quiet and withdrawn all evening, keeping to himself. She hated to think that their squabble at the garden party had put a rift between them. But as he wasn’t escorting her to the door at the moment, she would remain as close to him as she could get.

  “The wind is howling,” she pointed out. As if to punctuate the statement, a gust hit the windows with rattling force, moaning and wailing. Layla shuddered.

  Sin’s lush lips pursed on a bitten back smile. “Ah. So it is.”

  Layla had always hated the sound of a mournful wind. Made her think of death hunting down poor lonely souls in the dark. When she was little, she’d confessed this to Sin, and he’d told her that, whenever the wind howled, he would think of her and she was to think of him too. That way, they would be connected by their thoughts and would never really be alone.

  Oddly, it had worked. She’d always felt connected to him on nights such as this.

  Keeping her eyes upon him, she spoke in a hushed tone. “I used to dream of you.”

  The sharp lines of Sin’s beautiful face did not move, but his eyes were alive, shining and wide with wonder.

  “I used to dream that you were with me,” she went on in a whisper. “Doing mundane things, riding in a carriage, having tea. Once you helped choose a hat. But you were there. So many nights.”

  He swallowed hard. “I dreamed of you too. Every night. It was the best part of my day, going to sleep.”

  Such a softly spoken confession, yet it had a weight, warm and wonderful, that wrapped around her heart. Her hand lay between them, and her fingers stretched wide, wanting to touch him, not wanting to break the rare spell that was Sin opening up to her.

  “Do you suppose,” she said, “that we dreamed of each other at the same moment? And perhaps we were together in that dream
world?”

  His hand slid out from under his pillow, slowly. He stopped just shy of touching her. “Perhaps we were.”

  “I missed you so, Saint.”

  His breath made an audible hitch. “I missed you too, little bird.”

  She lay perfectly still, afraid to move or breathe.

  His gaze bore into hers, and meeting his stare was quite like facing the sun. He blinded her with his perfect beauty. But he was also so perfectly familiar to her, the face she most wanted to see for what seemed like her entire life. Right now, that wonderful face was tight with buried pain.

  “Why did you not write?” he asked in a ghost of a voice.

  A pang of regret hit her full force. “Augustus would not allow it.” She licked her dry lips. “In the beginning, I tried to sneak out a few letters. He always caught me. No matter what I did, he seemed to know exactly what I was up to.”

  A hint of a wry smile lifted his lips. “He reads minds, you realize.”

  Shock froze her. “No,” she breathed. “Does he truly?”

  Sin gave a bare nod, amusement lighting his expression.

  Heat colored her cheeks. “Oh, how horrid.” There were quite a few thoughts she most certainly did not want her guardian to know. “How horrid of him not to tell me.”

  Sin made a sympathetic sound. “To be clear, Augustus has a certain code of honor. He has never, to my knowledge, crept into my thoughts without permission. I do not believe he’d invade yours for any reason but to keep you out of trouble.”

  “That’s hardly comforting.” She chewed on her bottom lip, remembering every interaction with Augustus in a new light. “Hmm . . . When he forbade me, he did expressly say that, in this, he would know immediately if I tried to defy him. At first I thought it a jest. But then . . .” She shrugged. “Well, he clearly came out on top of that argument.”

  Sin’s chuckle was low and brief. Then his smile faded and he merely watched her as the wind outside groaned. The way he studied her, as if he were trying to memorize every line of her face. No, that wasn’t quite it. He was reacquainting himself, learning the new lines she’d gained with maturity and comparing them to the youthful face she’d once had. Layla knew this because she did the same with him.

  “Did it hurt,” she asked, suddenly, “becoming Judgment?”

  His brows furrowed a bit. “Remember the time you ate those sour apples?”

  “Lord. And Mrs. Gibbons made me drink that syrup to purge my stomach.” The mere memory had her innards quaking.

  His flashed a quick, bright grin. “Yes. A bit like that, I suspect. Only worse.”

  “Well, then you have my sympathy,” she muttered darkly.

  He snickered. And she found herself grinning back. Their hands moved an inch closer.

  “How does it feel to fly?” she asked, without thought.

  Remarkably, he answered just as quickly. “Bloody brilliant. It’s like nothing else. Thrilling and yet oddly peaceful.”

  “It’s so strange to realize you have wings that you can call forth with a thought,” she said.

  He gave her a tilted smile. “You want to see them again, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She certainly wasn’t going to deny that.

  On a breath, Sin’s flesh turned the color of quicksilver, so very clear and clean that he appeared to be made of cut crystal, yet not transparent in the least. As she stared at him, it seemed the air crackled and then the sheets rustled. Something touched her arm, and Layla glanced to see a silvery wing—an honest-to-god wing—slide beneath her.

  It was warm and smooth, and the wing kept moving until it wrapped itself around her. Sin’s other wing snapped out and then settled down on top of them, and so they were cocooned in the shelter of those enormous wings.

  Layla stared in wonder. The wings were shaped like an angel’s and yet they did not possess feathers. They were a sleek, glossy, pale silver color.

  Once, when she’d vacationed in Brighton, a whale had been beached. The poor thing had lay dying and Layla, devastated, had walked close to it, placing her hand upon its flesh, knowing her touch would not help but wanting to give comfort.

  Sin’s wing felt a bit like that whale’s flesh but so very warm, almost hot. Layla smoothed her fingers over the edge of the wing resting on her shoulder, and Sin’s lids lowered, his gaze narrowing to silver slits.

  “What does it feel like?” she whispered, stroking him.

  His chest lifted on a breath, and the wings moved with him. “Odd. They are a power, not part of my body in the same way my limbs are. It feels . . . as if I were to touch your hair.”

  Carefully, he reached out and caught hold of one of her brown locks spilling over her pillow. His fingers slid along the smooth length, and a delicate shiver spread from her scalp down her back.

  Layla ran her hand along the leading edge of his wing and saw Sin repress a shiver as well. Silently, Layla caressed his wing, and Sin played with the ends of her hair. Neither of them spoke. The warm weight of his wings seeped into her flesh, and she grew sleepy, her eyes fluttering closed.

  She drifted off and dreamed of Sin, kissing her brow, telling her he’d never leave her side again. And in some foggy corner of her mind, she wondered if he dreamed of her too.

  Sin could watch Layla endlessly and never tire. His life, it seemed, was destined to be surrounded by beautiful women. He’d seen beauty in so many forms—the women beautiful, each and every one of them. Thus he knew beauty could hold a golden heart, or hide a befouled soul. The surface of a person meant nothing in the larger scheme of things. He knew this as much as he knew his own face had been touched by a benevolent hand when he was created.

  Thus it wasn’t Layla’s beauty that attracted him—though lord knew she was gorgeous; she was a Titian, sweetly erotic, with her pink bud of a mouth, wide eyes, and tumble of dark hair—it was her soul. He could see it clearly, shining through every part of her, a beacon to his battered and ravaged heart. He’d always seen it, even before Augustus had given him the power of Judgment.

  To Sin, Layla was perfection. His best dream of heaven. Laying with her made him ache—not just his cock, but his heart, his tarnished soul. Every woman in his life had either left him or used him. But Layla had returned.

  She slept now, utterly at peace by his side, caught in a beam of blue-white moonlight that slanted over the bed. The creamy oval of her face was smoother in sleep, her lips parted just a little, the dark sweep of her brows like wings over the fans of her thick lashes. He watched the soft swell of her bosom rise and fall with each breath. He shouldn’t be looking at her breasts, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

  They were plump and high, the size of ripe apples. Perfect to fill up his palms. He fisted his hands, trying to ignore the way they suddenly became sensitized, as if demanding the right to find out if his estimation was correct.

  Layla sighed in her sleep, her breasts rising with the action, and the stiff buds of her nipples poked against the thin linen of her nightgown. Hell’s teeth, he both cursed and blessed his superior eyesight right now, for that scrap of fabric was no match against it. He could see the exact shape and stiffness of those detectible tips, their color dusky in the pale light. And his mouth watered. So much so that he had to press his tongue against the roof of it to ease the rampant want that bade him to lean forward, to draw one of them into his mouth and suck.

  The thought crested in his mind then crashed down with a violent start. He wanted not only to suck her nipples. He wanted to roll on top of her, spread her smooth thighs, and fuck her. Sin hadn’t wanted to do anything basely sexual for years. The only experiences he’d had were foul, tainted, and filled with loathing.

  Sin gaped at Layla, his breath agitated and hard. He wanted. He wanted so badly his body tightened with need and heat. His fingers dug into the bedding, holding on.

  As if she sensed it, Layla gave another sigh, more breathy. No; it was a moan, a fucking moan.

  Sweat broke out
over his skin as he began to shake, his fingers tearing into the down feather bed. He could not move, nor blink. His entire being was fixed on her.

  Layla’s lips parted, her breath growing light and quick, perspiration glistening over her smooth skin. Beneath her gown, her nipples were hard little points that he ached to pinch. And as if he’d done just that, she arched her back, her brow furrowing as another whimper of sound left her.

  Christ.

  He had to leave, leave now and get far away. Only her scent was filling the air, invading his space—all honey sweet and tinged with a lick of salty tang.

  Sin’s teeth ground together, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

  Layla’s nostrils flared on an indrawn breath, and a fine shudder went through her. Did she smell his desire? Did he have a scent?

  Sin inhaled and nearly groaned. He could smell himself, deeper and musky, mixing with her sweeter scent, as though they’d already come together. At his side, Layla panted, her hips now moving. She seemed to glow in the moonlight.

  “Layla,” it was a plea out of his lips before he could stop himself.

  Her eyes snapped open, the irises a thin band of brown before going wide as her focus sharpened on him. For a moment, they almost appeared to gleam gold.

  He took a breath, ready to say something—what he did not know. Plead for her to let him have her? Beg off and get the hell out of there? He did not have a chance.

  A low growl escaped her, and before he could blink, she was on him, her slim body slamming into his with the speed of a bullet. It knocked the breath from him. Sin’s back met the mattress as she straddled him.

  “Layla—”

  Her mouth found his neck. He sucked in a breath, but then he felt them. Fangs. Razor sharp. They punctured his skin and sank in deep.

  Shock and rage hit him all at once. She was drinking him down. Never. Never again would another take his blood. Not like that foul bitch had. Sin roared. His arms pushed between them. Another shout and he flung her back.