Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  The muscles beneath her hand went tight. Silence descended and, with it, the horrible pressure of the dark. Perhaps he felt her impending panic, for he let out a slow breath and his thumb brushed her jaw. “Oh, little bird,” he said in a small voice, “I’ve been afraid for years.”

  It punched her heart, and she found herself stroking his chest, slowly, gently. “Saint, what happened to you?”

  He tensed again, his hard swallow audible. “She broke me.”

  Gods, she wished she could see his face. “Who? The woman that fae reminded you of?”

  Sin’s fingertips dug into the small of her back before he seemed to force his hand to relax. “Do not make me speak of her in the dark.”

  Because one could not hide from nightmares in the dark. Layla knew this well. Jealousy wasn’t quite the emotion she felt. It was a dark cousin of it, hateful and violent, for she knew Sin had been hurt by this loathsome mystery woman.

  “No, Saint,” she reassured. “We shall not speak of her now.” Wanting to comfort, she leaned in and kissed him, her lips landing softly on his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth.

  They both went utterly still in that pitch black space. Despite being fast friends when they were young, they’d never done more than hold hands as children. Layla had been fifteen when they’d parted, desperately in love with him, but a girl just the same.

  This kiss was nothing more than a press of lips to skin. And yet the action felt irrevocable, as if she’d stepped over a line in the sand. Beside her, Sin’s breath grew light, almost stopping completely. She could feel his shock, as if he’d been taken utterly off guard and didn’t know what to do. His lean body was close to hers, enough for her to want to press closer and absorb all that lovely warm strength.

  Neither of them moved or said a word. Layla’s lips felt full and sensitive. She needed to do that again. But before she could try, the trembling tips of his fingers ghosted over her jaw. When he reached the lower curve of her lip, he paused. Layla’s belly clenched in anticipation.

  The soft gust of his exhaling was her only warning. And then his lips touched hers. Hesitant, as if he too were afraid to break the spell, and yet he moved away slowly, lingering.

  Heat bloomed over her skin and washed through her limbs. A small sound of want escaped her. And he heard it. Again his lips returned, his upper lip brushing against her upper lip, parting her mouth just a bit. Again his mouth drifted away.

  Layla dared not move. Oh, but she wanted. For so long she’d dreamed of kissing Sin. Of him kissing her. Now it was time, and she wanted to relish every second. Her body felt heavy, languid. Only her mouth was mobile, throbbing and needy. She lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of their disjointed breathing and the frantic beat of her own heart.

  More. More. More. Please give me more.

  And he did. Light, exploring touches, as if he too wanted to take his time. She nuzzled in, and took her own kiss. His full lips were soft but firm. A puff of breath left them when she pressed another kiss there.

  Trembling, she leaned fully into him until there was no more space between them. With a nearly soundless groan, he slid his hand up her back to rest between her damp shoulder blades. When he kissed her again, it was deeper and longer, parting her mouth with his.

  The touch sent heat swooping down her belly and had her head spinning. There in the tense, heated silence, they kissed. Simply kissed, almost chastely. Exploring the shape of each other’s mouths. Until they both began to shake, their breathing turning to pants.

  Sin made a sound, needy and almost resigned. His hand found her jaw and cupped it. Angling his head, he came at her again. When his tongue delved into her mouth she gasped, and he went deeper, lapping her up as if she were sweet cream. And she’d never felt anything so decadently delicious.

  Layla wanted a taste of her own. Copying him, she touched her tongue to his lower lip. Instantly Sin nipped it, drawing her in. “Yes,” he whispered, licking into her. “Like that. Like that.”

  His quiet instruction made her needy for more. More of his taste, the feel of his mouth, of sharing the same breath. She surged into him, opening her mouth wider. And he groaned, holding her steady as he feasted on her mouth.

  She grew dizzy with it. They kissed until her lips grew swollen and her jaw ached. And still he did not stop. Not until she whimpered and, acting on instinct, ground her hips against the hard length of him prodding her belly.

  Sin stilled, his lips just touching hers. Their breath mingled as he pressed his forehead against her brow. And then he sucked in a deep breath. When he let it out, all the fine tension seemed to leave his body.

  Layla clutched his lapels, wanting to kiss again. But he was withdrawing. She could feel it. A whimper of protest left her. Sin talked over the sound. “We should go.”

  “No.”

  His fingertips, still cupped on her cheek, twitched. “Not in this place, little bird.”

  And then she remembered where they were. A tomb. No, she supposed this was not the best place for them to be any longer. But she knew that the moment he let them out, he’d be withdrawn and emotionless Sin once more. She did not know if her heart could take it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the pale fingers of dawn crept over the sky, Sin and Layla left the cathedral. His suit was in bloody tatters, her gown ripped open along the back. Sin slipped his coat onto her shoulders but it did little to warm her. He was able, at least, to conceal them from humans as they trudged down the street. Layla’s skin was wan, her eyes red and bleary. Sin tucked her against his side, dropped the glamour that hid them, and hailed a cab.

  Even tattered, their clothes were too fine for a cabbie to ignore. Sin paid the driver an extra bob and then sat back in the ill-sprung seat, gathering Layla close once more. He could not seem to let her go.

  She’d kissed him. He could think of little else as they rode along in silence. For years, he’d dreamed about kissing Layla. The reality made his dreams a pale ghost in comparison. Indeed he was haunted now, the memory of her sweet lips upon his so strong that he could feel them still. Her taste was in his mouth, luscious ripe pears. He’d had no idea kissing would be so addictive.

  He’d been groomed to please a woman; knew how to make one quicken within moments, knew exactly what to do with his cock, his body. But he’d never had a kiss. Mab had not been interested in such sentimentalities. And he was glad for that. Glad he could save that one thing for Layla.

  He wanted more. Now. Forevermore. And yet, when he thought of sinking his still-hard cock into Layla, he felt soiled. He wanted Layla but he could not rub off the taint of Mab.

  The cab rolled to a stop and the driver turned. “Looks like there’s some sort of trouble ahead, sir. Can’t go any further.”

  Traffic had come to a standstill. Distracted with his thoughts, Sin hadn’t paid attention. Now he smelled the smoke in the air, saw it billowing in black clouds just over the tree line.

  “We’ll get out here.” Tossing the cabbie another coin, he moved to wake Layla, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. “Little bird.” He brushed a kiss across her cheek because he had to touch her. “Layla, love.”

  Her lashes fluttered, and then those glossy brown eyes focused on him. As with every time she looked at him, he felt it in his heart, in his cods. He wanted to kiss her soft, sleepy mouth once more. Instead, he touched her cheek. “Come along, now.”

  She bolted upright. “Sorry; I don’t know what happened.”

  “You slept. We’ll get you home, and you can sleep some more.” But as they alighted the cab, Sin glanced up the road where people were gathering, and a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Taking her hand, he moved forward, weaving past people idling on the pavement.

  “Oh, Sin,” Layla said at his side, her hand gripping his hard.

  Her home stood black against the pale sky, a smoldering ruin of burnt timber and toppled-down stone.

  “Hope no one was inside,” a man said to no one in pa
rticular.

  Sin wrenched around, tugging Layla with him. She trotted along, her cheeks shining with silvery trails of tears. “Did he do this?”

  “That would be my guess,” Sin grumbled, his stride brisk. They needed cover. A place to hide.

  “Is he out here?” She glanced around.

  “He might be.” Sin kept them moving. “However, his power is low now that it’s dawn, whereas mine is growing.” Even so, he did not want another match until he’d seen Layla safe.

  But where to take her? His friend Eliza had left him a manor house in Knightsbridge but it had been Mab’s first. He’d refused to set foot in the place, no matter that Eliza had redecorated. It had not eradicated the memories.

  He headed for Evernight House. He was still close with his cousin Holly, whom he’d grown up with. But Holly was off with her husband Will in America. It would have to do, and it was close by.

  Two streets later, they were in front of the imposing townhome.

  “I do not want to protest your choices,” Layla said at his side, “but this place rather looks like one of those houses you read about in Gothic novels. The sort where the intrepid heroine goes to work as a governess and never comes out again.”

  He smiled. “Good thing you’re not a governess. When this house was built, iron rods, blessed by Augustus, were set into the walls. It was done to keep fey out.” Sin still remembered Mab’s ire over this fact. Of course she’d made Sin spy for her, but it still gave him a sense of satisfaction that she couldn’t enter. He glanced down at Layla. “However, it also makes this house one of the few places strong enough to deter St. Claire. It isn’t foolproof. But it will do.”

  He took a step, then paused. “I should warn you, there are traps set to keep unwanted people out. So do as I say until we are inside.”

  She made a shocked sort of laugh. “Traps? What is this place?”

  “Evernight House. Holly’s home.”

  Layla’s eyes lit up. “I remember Holly. She never wanted to play with us. Always had her head in a manual.”

  “Yes. Well, she’s an inventor now and is currently on holiday in America. Visiting Mr. Edison to talk about some sort of camera intended to photograph moving pictures.”

  “How extraordinary.”

  “Mmm. Let’s see if I can get in now. Wait here.”

  It took some doing and the discovery of five new traps designed to maim, if not decapitate, an immortal, but Sin got through and then led Layla inside. Holly’s codes had not changed, and he punched them into the control panel at the front door. Once inside, he shut them in and re-set the traps.

  “No safer place in London,” he said in the quiet gloom. The staff was off, and dusters covered the furniture, making them appear as ghostly white lumps. But he found a lantern and some matches in the butler’s pantry. Lamp lit, he guided Layla up to the second floor.

  “This is my room,” he said, opening the door. She hovered in the doorway as he pulled dust covers from the chairs and bed. But when he went to the wardrobe and pulled a fresh set of linens out, she moved to help him make the bed.

  They worked together, and it felt oddly domestic. Sin had funds enough, and Layla was an heiress. They need never make their own beds. But the idea of sharing a home with Layla felt rather like standing on a cold street and gazing into a window aglow with light. He wanted in.

  “St. Claire had Augustus’s wing,” Layla said, breaking the silence.

  Sin glanced up at her. Her features were set and pinched as she tucked in a sheet. “Yes,” he said, the yawning pit of heartbreak opening up once more.

  She blinked several times. “His wings are not like yours, are they?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You said yours were a power, not part of your body.” Sad brown eyes gazed up at him. “His are. Else there would not have been blood and bone.”

  Sin swallowed hard. “Yes, they’re part of him.” Which meant that Augustus had been weakened enough to allow St. Claire to rip the wing from his body.

  “Do you suppose he’s . . .” Layla licked her lips and savagely shook out the quilt. Dust flew in little motes.

  Sin caught the edge and smoothed it down over the mattress. “I don’t know. Augustus is strong. He should be able to heal just as quickly as I can.”

  “He’s dying,” she whispered.

  Sin shot up straight, his hand clenching a pillow. “What do you mean?”

  “Augustus told me that he was dying, or fading, rather. That he only had a small time left here.” The pink curve of her lower lip plumped. “I do not think he’d let that . . . monster take his wing unless he . . .”

  Sin tossed the pillow down and rounded the bed. She went willingly into this arms and he held her against him, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. She smelled of dust and soot and home. “It’s all right, little bird.”

  She clung to him, her arms around his waist. “How can you say that?”

  “What else is there to say?” He kissed the top of her head. Once. Then once more because he could. “Get into bed now. I’m going to turn on the heat.”

  “Turning it on?” She blinked up at him.

  “The house runs on a radiator system through the flooring.” He gave her a brief smile. “Don’t ask. It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure,” she murmured. Then a sad sigh left her. “Is St. Claire my father, do you think?”

  Sin stilled. He thought back on the way St. Claire had been looking at her; it certainly hadn’t been a fatherly expression. “I cannot say for certain, Layla. But I do not believe so. You look nothing like him, nor do you have his coloring.”

  She shuddered. “He’s been courting me. I let him touch me.” She rubbed her arms. “I feel vile now.”

  Sin squeezed her tight. “Do not think of it. I will not let him touch you again. I swear this.”

  “I believe you, Saint.”

  Her trust was a glorious thing. Reluctantly he let her go. “I’ll see about finding you some new clothes.”

  She nodded, already toeing off her slippers. He should go. She’d want to remove her ruined dress. His feet stayed rooted to the floor. Layla looked up at him, her expression almost blank with exhaustion. “Sin?”

  He shook himself out of his stupor. “Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Layla nodded but, when he moved to go, she caught his arm. “Saint . . . Will you come back?”

  “I’m not leaving the house, Layla.” He was playing the ignorant but he did not have it in him to remain in this room at the moment. She was too tempting.

  Unfortunately, Layla was never one to let him slide from the truth. “Will you come back to the room? Lie with me for a while?” She closed her eyes and a flash of pain and fear twisted her features. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  God, he ached for her. Letting out a slow breath, he leaned in and kissed the crest of her dirty cheek. “You will never be alone again, little bird. Rest now; I’ll come back to you.”

  He always would. She was in his heart, and he was incapable of living without her. Whether he could give her what she needed was another thing entirely.

  When he knew she was settled down, he got to work. First writing letters. Then he sought out one of the young lads who always seemed to haunt the stables behind the big houses that ran along either side of the Evernight estate. He gave him a bob to seek information about Layla’s burnt-out house. Had the servants survived? If so, the boy was to find Mr. Pole.

  “Only Pole, understand?” he told the little urchin.

  The boy’s speckled face wrinkled in a scowl. “What you take me for? Daft? I’ll find him, quick as a duck.”

  “Give him direction to Evernight House.”

  His wide, blue eyes went round. “That horrible house? I heard tell it’s haunted.”

  Sin wanted to laugh. “By me. I don’t take kindly to unwanted visitors. But if you do as asked, I’ll see you get a hot supper and remain unmolested by any
wee ghosties.”

  Pale-faced, the boy nodded.

  Sin handed him a bundle of letters. “You say you can read?”

  The boy scoffed. “This here one at the top says, ‘Lady Archer.’ Gor, a true lady?”

  “Indeed.” Sin tapped the boy’s shoulder. “Now off with you. I’ll add a shilling for every note safely delivered.”

  “On my honor, sir.” With a tip of his ratty cap, the boy took off running.

  Archer

  The days were growing short and cold. Archer had moved his chair as close to the hearth as he dared and still it was not enough. He ought to cover himself with a thick rug and be done with it. But the idea of doing so put to mind the image of an ailing old man, and he could not bring himself to do it. The irony was not lost on him; he was an ailing old man. The oldest human he knew of. He used to have nightmares of waking up to find that his physical appearance suddenly matched his true age, and Miranda would find him a withered old man.

  He smiled at that fear now.

  “What is that grin all about?” Miranda asked as she walked into the room.

  As always, the sight of her took his breath and warmed his blood. She was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But it was her spirit, her bravery, and her unwavering love for him that made her irresistible to him.

  “I was wondering how you would react if my appearance were to suddenly reflect my true age.”

  She sat on the arm of his chair and leaned against his shoulder, her fingers going to his hair to play. “That would be a shock,” she teased. She toyed with a lock of his hair, and a shiver of pleasure went down his spine. “And what brought this on, may I ask?”

  Archer rested his head on the curve of her breast. “Maudlin thoughts, Miri. Nothing more.”

  She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “You always were a terrible liar, Ben.” Her lips stayed pressed against him, and her warm breath ghosted over his skin. She trembled, and her voice came out rough. “Tell me, Archer. We are past hiding the truth from one another.”