“It was on the news. It might have been the spell I was doing, or something the demon did afterward.” She looked down, mourning again the loss of all those books. “It won’t kill the demon, just make it run someplace else. We find it, we find the next possible urn location.”
“The person you called before was able to find out that Bannerman sold the bookshop. Could he discover what other sales that firm handled recently?”
“Good idea.” She took another bite.
He was watching her eat, his eyelids half-closed. He reached out, stealing a cherry tomato from her plate, and put it in his mouth.
He was eating something.
Ashe stared, forgetting to chew. Reynard bit down, eyes closed in concentration. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, a look of shock tensing the muscles around his nose and mouth.
“You okay?” she asked around the bite of sandwich.
He gulped. “That tasted . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Like a tomato?”
“Yes.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’d forgotten what they were like.”
His gaze traveled back to her plate.
“Are you hungry?”
He shot her a wild look that he shuttered almost before she truly saw it. Something beastlike, driven by deprivation. She felt her heart stutter, filled with fear and pity, then shoved her plate across the counter toward him. “Go ahead. I’ll make myself another.”
The knowledge of what his hunger meant passed between them. He looked away, almost shamefaced, then picked up the sandwich and bit into it. She heard his sigh and wondered how long he had been denying the urge to eat. Her own appetite vanished at the thought.
What the hell can I do for him? All he wants is to live a little.
And we’re not going to find that vessel in time.
She picked up the phone and walked into the living room to call her hacker contact. She stood in the semidarkness, glaring at the glowing screen of her cell phone.
Goddess!
She needed her vision to stop blurring so she could read the list of contacts.
The complex textures of the sandwich filled Reynard’s mind, blotting out everything else. Soft bread, the crunch of greens, the rich tearing of meat. He tasted butter. Holy God, he’d forgotten how good that was. Some things didn’t quite line up with memory. The bread was different, but that didn’t matter. It was food, that basic connective tissue that bound man to man, regardless of race or creed or culture. Hunger was their shared inheritance, relieving it a universal rite. After so long, he was part of that brotherhood again.
And it tasted so good.
He could feel his body seizing on the food, realizing he must have needed to eat long before he knew it. Dizziness swept over him as he crammed the last bite of chicken into his mouth. He wanted more, but he’d seen prisoners of war make that mistake when they were finally liberated and fed. Too much at once ended in sickness. He couldn’t risk that.
He slid off the stool, washed his hands, and filled a glass with water. He gulped it down, feeling the coolness slip over his throat. Even water suddenly tasted like heaven.
Ashe came into the kitchen behind him. “My contact’s going to call me back.”
Reynard set the glass in the sink. “Then we wait.”
He turned to face her. Her expression was horrified and dazed, much like he had felt when a piece of artillery had blown up too close for comfort, taking the gunner with it. He wanted to wipe that look from her eyes, but what could he say? Yes, my dear, I’m perishing faster than a beached fish, but I feel marvelous.
And he did. There was the hollowness where his soul should be, but there was so much emotion. Bit by bit, his heart was unfreezing. Joy, liberty, and affection were his again. Instead of groping for memories, he was experiencing life. He pushed away from the sink and crossed over to her, his boots a slow tattoo on the tile floor.
She set the phone on the counter, finding the right place by touch. Her emerald gaze was glued to his face, filled with a mix of concern and something a lot less maternal. That look was worth everything. He’d walked out of the Castle into freedom, and a beautiful, fierce woman cared what became of him. As victories went, it was magnificent.
I wish I could make you understand. He put his hands on her bare arms, feeling the soft skin and hard muscle beneath. She was exactly his height and every bit as talented a fighter as he was, but also oddly delicate. There was nothing heavy-boned about her. She was all speed and grace.
In a just world, he could have promised her everything. All he had was his body, but he could use that to take the sadness from Ashe’s eyes. She knew what was happening to him, but she couldn’t see the joy he felt. Where words failed, there were other means to make himself understood.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About this,” he said, and brushed her lips with his, once, twice, and then took her mouth without holding back. She retreated a fraction, but then gave in to her response, as if coming to a decision. Her lips parted under his, letting him in.
She wound her fingers though his hair, pulling out the tie that held it back. Her teeth nipped at his bottom lip, not breaking skin but marking possession.
“I want you,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Then I shall be your sinful pleasure.”
Reynard pulled Ashe into him, holding her hard against his chest. She felt so warm, so soft and strong at once. He grasped her shoulders, feeling the bones and muscles move as she wrapped her arms around his neck, then slipped her fingers down his shoulders. His own hands cupped her cheeks, running his thumbs along the fine ridge of her jaw. The pulse in her neck fluttered against his fingers, as if reaching for his caress.
Ashe was mortal, her life spent in an instant. Like him, she was more than human but she had none of the guardsmen’s indestructible power. The magic she had was all but destroyed. Or so she said. He could feel the remnants of it clinging to her, as ephemeral as cobwebs and yet curiously strong.
Her mouth found his neck, leaving nips as she tasted his flesh. Clean, silky hair brushed his cheek as she caressed him. The sunny softness of it reminded him of home—of meadow flowers and random feathers found by the banks of a wild creek. Ashe belonged there, in that land of freedom and instinct. The land where sensation weighed heavier than thought.
There was something oddly innocent about that, and it charmed him.
She leaned her weight against his chest, forcing him to fall back a step. Retreat signaled a change of tactics. She swerved, pushing him against the wall. His shoulders thumped against the hard surface.
“Take off your shirt,” she said, her words half whisper, half growl.
“La, madam,” he murmured into her ear. “Do you mean to strip me of my virtue?”
She looked up through her lashes, her eyes sharp and hungry. “First things first, boy. Shirt. Off.”
The challenge was too much. “The devil I will. You’ll have to work for it.”
“You’ll pay for that.” Grasping the hem of his T-shirt, she started to pull it up his stomach.
“Not so fast.”
He grabbed her by the waist, lifting her feet from the floor as if she were no more than a naughty child. In response, she wrapped her legs around his middle, holding on with the strength in her thighs. The motion turned them in a half circle, knocking over a floor lamp that fell with a clatter. Neither of them stopped to assess the damage.
Ashe pulled the shirt off over his head. By that point, he had to cooperate and raise his arms or she’d tear the shirt. Possibly with her teeth. Besides, the feel of her against his bare skin was too enticing to resist. She waved the garment for a moment like a victory flag, then let it arc to the floor.
“I always get my way eventually.” Releasing her grip on his waist, she braced herself on his shoulders and slithered down his front until her feet touched the floor. The movement made him wish for that wall to brace himself agains
t. Friction was exquisite torture. All of a sudden, his knees were not at their most reliable.
Her hand cupped the front of his jeans just for a moment, a quick, possessive gesture. Reynard caught his breath. Blood and thunder, if I don’t hurry this along, I won’t last beyond the opening pleasantries.
Roaming up her ribs, his hands could find only flesh beneath the top she wore. He felt a brief pang of disappointment—he had fancied an encounter with one of those frilly bras he’d seen in modern magazines—but warm female breast quickly occupied his attention. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, bringing a groan from her throat. Her hands raked through his hair, then fell to his shoulders, then slowly ran down his arms, caressing him until she cupped his own hands where he touched her.
She turned, pulling him down and falling onto the couch in one graceful motion. The fabric that covered it was a deep green, her bare arms ivory against it. Reynard knelt, straddling her legs, knocking throw cushions to the floor as he settled. Ashe was on her back, underneath him, as he’d fantasized so many times.
Only this time, there was no Castle to throttle that desire. The pounding in his loins was as raw and real as it had been in his youth. The scent of her skin filled his nose, his lungs, seeping into his blood like a drug. A flush of desire was creeping over her, turning the ivory to rose. He could feel the warmth of it, and he heated in turn.
Her eyes widened with appreciation of the tattoos that crawled over his chest.
“These are so funky,” she said, tracing them lightly with her nails. The butterfly touch made him shiver, hardening his own nipples into pale peaks. Her hand moved to a scar that curled from his shoulder down to his chest. “What’s this?”
The impulse to talk was fading fast. “The sword thrust that sent me home to England.”
“And here.” She ran her fingers over his abdomen. “There should be a scar here, from last fall, but there’s no mark. That ax wound was deep.”
Reynard began to play with the waistband of her pants, hoping to lure her back to the task at hand. “I have scars only from before I became a guardsman. The rest heal completely, given time.”
“That’s right. You’ve got superpowers of recovery. That should come in handy tonight.”
Tonight. It might be all they had, but he would make her remember it. Reynard pulled up the hem of her shirt and pressed his lips to the soft flesh just above her navel, tasting it, nuzzling his way upward between the arcs of her rib cage.
Seeming suddenly impatient, she peeled the peach-colored tank top over her head, revealing small, firm breasts. Her nipples were the delicate pink of seashells. He took one greedily, using his tongue to bring it to a peak. She arched into him.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, kissing the hollow of her collarbone, the soft spot just below her ear. He used his hands and his mouth to make her breath come quickly, short gasps of need that made the back of his own neck prickle.
“It’s all good,” she whispered.
“But all women have a key,” he murmured into her ear. “A secret wish that unlocks them every time.”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s not pretty.”
Ashe writhed as he pulled down her stretchy slacks, tossing them to the floor. He nearly fell to the floor right along with them.
“Bloody hell.”
She was wearing nothing underneath, not even the usual triangle of hair. His imagination hadn’t predicted that one, but it was sure to be included in any future scripts.
“That would be your key, would it?” she said slyly. “Or perhaps calling it the lock would be more anatomically correct.”
Reynard cleared his throat, but there would be no more talking as her fingers found his zipper and slid it carefully open, giving him blessed relief. Her breasts rose in a quick inhale as he shed the rest of his clothes.
“Sweet Hecate, no wonder they locked you up.”
“You have no idea,” he said, keeping the irony out of his tone.
She shifted, welcoming him into her arms. The sensation of touching skin to skin, the complete freedom of nakedness, filled every sense. She was smooth and lean, long legs wrapping around his waist. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this, the physical world began to blur. Nothing was left but the painful, throbbing need to possess.
“I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Then don’t.”
“It will be rough.”
“Perfect.” Her gaze was unfocused. “Completely perfect. Don’t hold back.”
She shifted again, her hand guiding him as he pushed inside. The hot tightness of her made him cry out. A growl came from her throat. Sharp nails dug into his shoulders, the pain only increasing his desire. He moved inside her carefully, biting his lip, doing everything he could to slow down and give her some chance at pleasure. Her muscles clenched around him, the delicious agony of it turning his vision to starbursts.
Then rhythm took over, each thrust making her gasp and the couch moan. He heard the sounds, but they had no meaning. All he could feel was the gathering storm, and the hot wetness surrounding him. Quickening pulses spasmed deep inside her as his rhythm broke and he began to pound, taking her too hard and too soon.
But he could tell she needed the raw frenzy of their joining as much as he did.
“Oh, Goddess!” Ashe cried.
He felt the release like a bolt of lightning, blanking every nerve in exquisite torment. It felt like it went on and on, making up for an eternity of denial.
Ending too soon.
He gripped the couch, arm muscles quivering. There was no room to collapse, not without smothering Ashe or tumbling to the floor. They were both breathing hard, sticky with sweat. She looked startled, like he’d done something remarkable. Maybe not all my skills are lost?
“Do you sleep on this couch?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with panting.
Her hair had come loose, scattering around her in a ragged, tawny sun. She shook her head mutely.
Carefully, he found his feet, making sure his legs could still support him. “Show me your bed and I’ll do that properly.”
Ashe frowned. “But you did it just right.”
“Of course I did. And now I know what you like. A tiger to your tigress.”
“Hot damn,” she muttered.
Taking her had only kindled his need. Her flushed cheeks and swollen lips turned the flame into a blaze. He pulled her up and into a deep, hungry kiss.
This time, she melted in his arms like sorbet left in the sun. Ah, yes. He cupped the cheeks of her firm bottom, the feel of the warm flesh starting the heaviness in his belly all over again. He felt himself hardening already.
Immortality had its advantages.
She broke away, catching his hand. “This way.”
He registered nothing of how they got there. It was growing dark, lights glowing here and there on clocks and appliances. There were noises in other parts of the house—voices, doors closing—but it only served to enhance a sense of stolen privacy.
Halfway down the hall, Ashe stopped, her grip on his biceps rough. He let her shove him into the cold, rough plaster of the wall.
“How hard are you willing to play?” she demanded.
“How hard do you need it?”
She took his mouth, then the flesh of his shoulder in her teeth, biting down. Pain and pleasure shot through him like shards of light. Unbearable, and yet the throbbing in his groin flared into an ache. He grabbed her around the ribs, picking her up. Her tongue traced the side of his neck, her hair falling around them in a silky curtain.
“Take me,” she whispered. “Let me fight you.”
“I’ll win.”
“Make me forget everything but you.”
“With pleasure.”
Chapter 15
Hours later, Ashe lay beside Reynard, sore and exhausted. She was on her stomach; he was on his side, one arm curved around h
er. A blanket covered them. The top sheet was a poly-cotton shred-fest somewhere on the floor. She thought they’d broken a lamp, but she wouldn’t be sure until she got up. It was pitch-black in the room.
She felt quiet, content. Spent. Rage—about her life, her mistakes, her destiny, and the fact she had been alone for so long—had burned away. After they had bitten and wrestled and pinned each other down, Reynard took her with all the tenderness she’d never wanted before. Incredibly, he made her feel she deserved it. Although it might be his only chance at a night of passion, he had made it about her.
Rough and gentle, he had delivered them both, delighted in them both. That was better than oblivion. That salty-sweet combination was, as he had put it, her key. He was the first lover to discover her private need for both.
Roberto hadn’t. It was something she barely understood herself.
Ashe listened to his steady breathing. He was drifting in and out of sleep, as tired as she was. Reynard had given her everything she asked without judgment, and yet she had no sense that he was in any way deprived. He had taken his fill of pleasure, too. Reynard had strength to spare. Strength enough to master her—and to care for her.
He was everything she’d ever wanted in a lover.
She rolled onto her side, her back curling into him. His breath gusted across her neck, warming her skin. A faint snore said he was lights-out. The sound of it made her smile. It was kind of cute.
It’s been too long. For the first time since Roberto had died, she was able to float in the after-bliss of lovemaking feeling whole, clean, and cherished. Worthy of love.
It wasn’t a question of falling in love. That was something softer, something that came only when this first piece had fallen into place. On some deep, biological level he had earned the right to be with her. More than that, he had taken her. Every cell. Every pulse of her heart.
Ashe felt slightly awestruck, even as her eyelids drifted closed.
Boredom was the largest difference between being held a prisoner in the Castle, and being held a prisoner in one of the Castle’s cells. Miru- kai could not complain that he was mistreated. Mac had shut down the old cells that were no more than caves with doors. By contrast, the room where he had put Miru-kai was small but clean, the stone walls whitewashed to take away some of the gloom. There was a shelf with a thin mattress and a dark blue blanket neatly folded at the foot. Not princely, but palatial compared to what it might have been.
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