I couldn’t. I pulled myself together as he drew back, anger on his face, and I didn’t know if the anger was for him or for me.
“No,” he said flatly. He rose in one fluid motion, then tossed my discarded tank top at me before turning away. “Get dressed.”
I was furious. I wanted to hurt him, rip him apart, but I already knew he was stronger than I. “No.”
He said nothing, his strong, beautiful back to me, and the elaborate markings curled around his shoulder blades where his wings should be. I had fooled myself, forgetting who and what he was. An angel, for God’s sake. And I’d been about to give myself to him. Hell, about to force myself on him.
His face was hidden, the shape of his close-cropped head giving no hint of what he was feeling. Without another word, he walked away, out the open door, to the ocean.
I jumped to my feet and ran after him, determined to catch him and haul him back, determined to make him face what he didn’t want to face; but on the doorstep I stopped, staring up in wonder.
He’d taken flight. Wings spread out from his back, dark, graceful, arched, as he soared upward, and I watched him disappear into the night sky, a gorgeous creature of myth and story.
I would have given anything to follow him, up into the sky, carried by the wind. I was a goddess, but all the longing in the world couldn’t make me sprout wings and follow him into the night, no matter how much I wanted to.
I looked at the tank top in my hands, then back up at the night-dark sky. I wasn’t going back to my room to wallow in misery. I wasn’t going to run away, not while everything I valued lay trashed. I wasn’t ready to accept defeat.
His room was easy enough to find, and there was no mistaking it. It was a monk’s cell, a stone floor with no rugs to soften it, unadorned walls, a narrow cot against the wall. I stripped off the rest of my clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the cold floor, then climbed, naked, into the hard bed and pulled the rough-textured sheet over me.
And I waited.
MICHAEL FLEW HIGH, higher still, until the air was thin and ice crystallized on his wings, before he spun, circling, spearing through the night, then spiraling down into the sea. The icy water surrounded him, the familiar peace moving through his body. Healing, calm, the water cradled him, and he floated, his mind a blank.
He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. He wanted oblivion for a few short hours. But the healing waters of the ocean couldn’t give him what he needed, couldn’t take away the taste of her mouth, the feel of her breasts, the sounds she made. It couldn’t wash away the heated desire that still danced just beneath his skin.
He lost track of time. When he finally emerged from the water, the night was nearing its end, faint tendrils of light appearing over the mountain behind the compound. He still had a couple of hours before training started. He could fall into his bed and sleep.
He rinsed the seawater off in the outdoor shower, stripped off his sodden pants, and walked through the quiet building. She could have run away again, but right now he couldn’t gather the energy to go in search of her. She hadn’t gone far. He could feel her presence; he’d know in his bones if she’d left. She was probably barricaded in her bedroom, ready to kill him if he came near her.
Which was the way he wanted it. He needed her green eyes cold with fury, her mouth set in anger. He couldn’t fight this on his own. He needed her to fight it too.
He pushed open the door to his tiny room and shut it behind him, not bothering to turn on the light. The small window set high in the wall let in more than enough light to see the outlines of the few pieces of furniture he allowed himself. He could see his bed in the corner.
And then he could see the figure lying in it, huddled between his sheets, her long black hair spread out on the pillow. Flight had availed him nothing. The cold sea hadn’t cooled his blood; the night air hadn’t banked the heat that surged through him.
She must have heard him come in. She rose on one elbow, looking at him, and the sheet fell away, exposing one small, perfect breast. And he needed to suck at it, to slide his hand between her legs and feel the wetness of her desire. He’d tried everything he could to fight this.
For the first time in his limitless existence, he had lost a battle.
Her eyes ran over his nude body, and he saw her reaction to the jutting push of his cock before she hid it. “I always pay my debts.” Her voice was deceptively calm, but he could hear the faint tremor beneath it.
He kept his expression unreadable, helped by the shadows in the room. “When did you last have sex?”
The question startled her, and she had to think for a moment. “Seven years ago.”
“And how many times have you had sex? How many partners?”
“None of your—”
“How many?”
Her mouth tightened, when he wanted it soft and giving. “One partner. Three times.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I could lock you in your room again. I’m stronger than you are.”
“You could. But I’d escape again.”
“I could let you go.”
“You’re that desperate not to have sex with me?” she said. Her eyes lowered to the middle of his body. “It doesn’t look like it.”
He walked over to the bed and pulled the sheet all the way down. She was naked, of course, and her pale skin was perfect in the early-morning light, the small patch of curls between her legs sweet and enticing. The room was too warm, yet her nipples were erect.
“You’re not paying a debt,” he said. “Are you?”
She hesitated. “No,” she said, and leaned back against the pillow. “And you aren’t doing your duty, are you?”
“No.” He knelt on the bed, straddling her carefully. There was barely enough room for the two of them. It didn’t matter. They were going to be so close they wouldn’t need extra space. “No,” he said again, moving between her legs, lifting them. He took her mouth, her sweet, inexperienced mouth, with his, and then simply pushed inside her, hard, knowing she’d be wet and ready for him.
He slid deep, her body clutching at him, and he groaned at the sheer, celestial pleasure of it. This was perfection, this was creation, this was everything he needed, everything worth living for. He pushed deeper still, and her legs wrapped around his hips, and he savored the shivers of response from inside her.
He broke the kiss, looking down at her. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them then, looking into his with a connection as deep, as intimate, as his cock inside her. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing against his mouth. “I told you not to stop,” she whispered.
“My mistake,” he said as he began to move.
He knew women’s bodies so well, and he’d forgotten nothing. He was acutely aware of her response as his own fiery need fought for control. She was resisting it, he realized, trying to clamp down on each burgeoning peak, struggling to stop her climax, and through his blind haze of lust he wondered if she was holding off to maximize her pleasure. Or was she regretting her choice?
He pushed in deep, holding still. He couldn’t keep driving toward completion while she fought it. She was frightened, he realized suddenly.
He straightened his arms, looking down at her. “What are you doing?”
His wife, his fierce warrior, looked almost tearful. “Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with my body.”
“Am I hurting you?” If he was, he would have to stop. But it wasn’t pain lashing through her, he was sure of it. It was frustrated desire, fighting to get out.
She shook her head. “It just feels . . . upsetting.”
He didn’t smile. She wouldn’t thank him for his amusement. He moved down over her, relishing the stab of her hard nipples against his chest, and kissed her. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and he could feel the shivers racking her body.
He pulled out almost completely, and she let out a cry of loss. He slid his hand down her stomach
to her clitoris, touching her as he suddenly slammed into her, and she shattered, her body clamping around him. She shrieked against his shoulder, in shock, in pleasure, her fingers digging into him so tightly he would have thought she’d draw blood. That was another arousal, and he thrust, again and again, hard, riding her orgasm, prolonging it, and when she finally fell back, limp, he let himself go, releasing his seed into her, filling her, his head dropping to the pillow beside her as his wings unfurled to lock around them, cradling them in softness. Her neck was before him, soft and vulnerable, and he was overcome with the need for her. He nipped it just lightly enough to draw blood, which he licked from her sweat-damp skin, the taste of it better than the ambrosia he’d once known. He felt his fangs elongate, just as he felt his cock harden again, and he knew it would take nothing to sink through her skin to the vein pumping beneath the flesh. But he didn’t.
He kissed her neck, savoring it. And then he rolled off her, pulling her with him on the narrow cot, keeping her tight against his body, his cock hard inside her. He liked that. He could sleep like that, safe in her body, her blood in his mouth, his arms around her, the sweet scent of her all around him. He could sleep like that, when he seldom allowed himself to sleep. He could be at peace for the first time in his memory.
And he slept.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I LAY IN HIS ARMS, UNMOVING, AS THE pounding of my heart slowly returned to normal. The room felt cool, but he was warm, so warm, and I wanted to burrow closer. I wanted to lick the sweat from his shoulder, to rub my skin against his. The explosions that had rocked my body were still simmering beneath the surface, and I was ready to explode again.
I hadn’t realized it could feel like that. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t pleasured myself, locked up in my prison, but something had always stopped me after that first little peak of pleasure. I’d turned over and gone to sleep, edgy and unsatisfied, figuring I wasn’t doing it right.
I’d needed a man. And not just any man—I’d thought I loved Johann, but what I’d done with him had no connection to what had just happened with Michael. My breasts were acutely sensitive, my womb ached, and I still wanted more.
The very thought horrified me so much that I slid out of bed without thinking. By the time I backed up I realized he was still asleep. He hadn’t even noticed I’d pulled away.
I stood there in the dawning light, watching him. He was beautiful as he slept, the fresh stubble on his chin a golden-brown color, matching the close-cropped hair. With his cool, distant eyes closed he looked like a different man. One capable of kindness, tenderness. Not the warrior I knew him to be, but someone almost human.
But I shouldn’t fool myself. He wasn’t human, and neither was I. I touched my neck, then looked at my hand. Just the faintest trace of blood. I thought he hadn’t drunk from me, but clearly he’d done the bare minimum. So the world wouldn’t end and the Fallen would be happy. See me jumping for joy.
I moved back to the bed silently, reaching for my neatly folded clothes. He slept like the dead, and as I stared at him I noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes. He was a man—an angel—who didn’t sleep well.
I could see him clearly in the growing light, his smooth back, the line of elegant tattoos snaking around his shoulder blades. No wings. Where did they come from? Did they just magically appear when he needed them? Apparently so.
Holding my clothes to my chest, I slipped out into the hallway, half-afraid I’d run into some early riser. Still, I figured running into a stranger when I was stark naked was better than risking waking Michael. I closed the door silently, then yanked on my clothes. I went from mistake to mistake, and if I stayed any longer I’d be screwed.
I stifled a snort of laughter. Or not. As if things weren’t complicated enough, now Michael and I would be doing a little dance of would we or wouldn’t we, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it. He said there was only one way out, through the main gate. Okay, I’d find that main gate, or climb up the cliff face using sheer willpower. Whatever I was going to do, I wasn’t going to look him in the face again. Not after what we’d done, the way he’d touched me, the way I’d lost myself so completely in his arms. He now held too dangerous a weapon over me. A wise warrior knew when to retreat and regroup. And when to run like hell.
As I stepped outside, streaks of early sunlight crept over the cliffs behind the house, spangling the water with jewel-bright drops, and for a moment I wondered if I had time to strip off my clothes and jump in. The cool salt air called to me.
I ignored it. Once I escaped from here, there would be any number of oceans to find. Once I escaped, I would be free.
I’d forgotten my shoes. They were in the workout room—I’d need them if I was going to travel any distance. I turned back toward the door, when a faint prickling stirred the hair at the back of my neck.
I blamed Michael. If I hadn’t been so bleary from the hours I’d spent in his bed, I would have been more alert. A lifetime of training, and all it took was a moment of inattention, as a shadow passed behind me, pain exploded in my head, and the slate pathway rushed up to meet me.
MICHAEL’S EYES FLEW open. For a moment he didn’t move, trying to orient himself. He was in his own bed, naked, the way he usually slept. But something felt different. He felt different, and it took him only a moment to remember. The feel of her was still imprinted on his skin, as if holding her had made a permanent change to his flesh. The scent of her, flowers and sex, spiked his morning arousal. She’d left, thank God. Because otherwise he’d be inside her right now, he’d be taking her blood, and what they’d done under cover of darkness would be a very different thing in the saner light of day.
He sat up, shaking his head to clear the errant thoughts. He’d slept. He’d actually slept, for the first time in recent memory. Not that he needed much sleep—he was built to survive on very little, and as long as he trained he was fine. But it had been too long since he’d slept even a few minutes, and his body was filled with an intense satisfaction.
Or maybe it was something other than sleep that had filled his body with intense satisfaction.
It had been a mistake. He knew that, and he couldn’t afford to let it happen again. He had enough willpower to topple cities, and had done so under Uriel’s savage direction. One lone female would be simple enough to control compared to the other creatures he’d battled and bested for millennia.
Except that she wasn’t one lone female. She was Victoria Bellona, Goddess of War. She was Tory, soft and vulnerable, shattering in his arms, beneath his touch. Tory, the taste of her blood lingering in his mouth, teasing him with what he could have, should have. Would never have. It had been too damned close to a complete surrender. Once he pierced her vein and drank deeply, she’d be doomed.
And he’d slaughtered too many innocents.
He rose, heading out into the hallway, past the workout room where last night had started, walking straight into the ocean. The ocean would heal him, clear away the confusion. It would bring him peace, wash her memory, her touch, her scent, from his body, and he would emerge renewed, invulnerable, never to touch her again. The healing waters would free him of this obsession.
The sea was frigid, and he sliced through it, swimming steadily, working his muscles, letting the blessed relief of hard work thrum through him. When he was out so far that the house was merely a speck in the distance, he dove, deep into the very heart of the ocean, so deep he could feel the pressure of the water all around him. And then he let go, floating, his eyes closed as he drew the power of the water into him, washing away uncertainty and doubt, washing away weakness and confusion.
He didn’t want it. Didn’t want the answer he was getting. Humans were always complaining. “Lord, show me a sign,” they said. And then, “Not that sign.”
This wasn’t what he wanted. He opened his eyes, as if that might change what he knew to be true. Opened his eyes to see a shark slide by, then turn gracefully, heading back f
or another look.
Michael remained still, meeting the creature’s black, merciless eyes. A predator, a warrior, just as he was. They recognized each other, but there was no need to test their skills. The shark brushed against him, a strange sort of greeting, and disappeared into the sea, in search of easier prey. Or in search of its mate.
Did sharks mate for life? Presumably not; they were solitary creatures. As was he. But the ocean was telling him otherwise. The ocean was saying what his body had told him, what his heart had told him, what his stubborn brain had told him, and he’d ignored it.
Tory was his mate. For less than a month, and then she would die. And running away from it wouldn’t change that truth.
He kicked, moving upward toward the light, feeling the pressure of the water ease away, until he spun upward, released into the warm morning air, feeling the sun wash over him as he unfurled his wings. He could talk to her, he supposed. He could control the raging need inside him, the beast that should never have been released in the first place. He could—
It hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he began to fall, tumbling toward the rocky cliffs. Righting himself, he landed on the ledge above the compound as he realized what had been troubling him all along, the nagging emptiness that he’d ignored as part of his unsuitable desire for her.
She was gone. It was that absence that had woken him from the first sound sleep he’d had in what felt like decades. That emptiness had driven him into the sea. Tory was no longer in Sheol, and she was in trouble.
IT WAS COLD, dark, and terrible. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, wrapped in some kind of enveloping shroud as we moved higher and higher. I was in the arms of an angel, and there was no safety or comfort.
I tried to struggle out of the covering, but the arms that were holding me loosened, and for one breathless, terrifying moment I thought he was going to let go of me, let me plummet to my death, either into the merciless depth of the ocean or to smash against the unforgiving earth.
Warrior (Fallen) Page 11