Wilder The Chosen Ones

by Christina Dodd

  Worse, when the fatigue dragged at her, when her resistance was down, she couldn’t fight the summons from the earth. It called her persistently, demanding she come down into the depths. . . .

  She inhaled deeply.

  She was not a seer, yet she knew that when she obeyed, when she followed the call and descended into the depths of the earth . . . there she would confront her innermost fears. Everything she was would be burned away, leaving nothing of the Charisma she was.

  She shivered.

  She was afraid.

  Shaking her head to free herself from the faint, far call, she started back up the stairs.

  She concentrated on the moment: on lifting her left foot, placing it on one of the high stone steps, then her right foot, placing it on the next step.

  She was one of the Chosen. She was used to being healthy. Even when she was injured, she recovered quickly. Her drive was a point of pride to her . . . and yet here she was, seeing the world through a gray fog of weariness. The only cure was rest.

  Or Guardian.

  Even the thought of him lifted her spirits.

  Possibly her affair with Guardian had contributed to her delayed recovery.

  Every day he went out and fought demons. Every night he came home to her arms. In his big bed, they didn’t spend a lot of time sleeping.

  Before, when he had lived alone, he had indulged a virgin’s curiosity about women and sex, and done extensive research on women’s bodies and what pleased them. Prepping for the pop quiz, he told her, in the hopes that she would arrive to save him from his loneliness.

  If today was to be the marathon of breathtaking sex the previous nights had been, she needed to rest.

  At the top of the stairs, she walked the short corridor, turned the corner into the bedroom.

  In the past three days she had been reveling in sensuality, in the constant knowledge that he worshiped her. And not just her body. They also talked.

  Not as much as they had the first few days before they had sex, but—

  What was that? Could it be . . . ?

  On the bed. Shoes. Red patent. Black soles. Pointed toes. Stiletto heels.

  She stopped breathing. She stared. She circled them. She looked at the box. She looked at the cloth shoe bags. She looked at the brand.

  Lanvin. Designer. Stunning.

  Her fatigue vanished. Awe and pleasure took its place.

  With great deliberation, she reached out and smoothed her finger reverently across one shiny surface. “Ahhh.” So rich it felt almost alive.

  She slid her hand under one of the soles. She lifted it to her face, sniffed the luxurious leather, rubbed her cheek on the heel, and turned it from one side to the other and gazed some more. “Magnificent,” she murmured. “Size six.” Exactly her size.

  Taking the other one, she seated herself on the old-fashioned armless rocking chair. She removed her sensible brown flats. After a moment’s thought, she shimmied out of her jeans.

  These shoes deserved a long, bare leg.

  They deserved a great short skirt, too, but she didn’t have one, so her T-shirt tail would have to do.

  She balanced the shoe on the floor and slowly eased her foot inside. And moaned with pleasure. It was a sudden reminder of simple joys, before life had gotten so complicated, so dangerous.

  The leather inside was opulent. It fit perfectly.

  She donned the other one.

  She stood.

  She had never worn more flawlessly engineered, extravagant, and uncomfortable shoes in her life.

  Guardian eased into the room. He leaned against the wall in one corner, grinning as he watched her turn her foot from side to side as she admired the red, the black, the toe, the high heel, the way her foot looked encased in such luxuriantly sexy, shiny shoes. “Do you like them?”

  “Oh, Guardian!” She put her hand over her heart. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received. Thank you!”

  “I’m glad.” He pushed off from the wall and strolled toward her.

  “How did you get them?”

  He rumbled with amusement. “There was this thief.”

  Her mouth quirked in answering amusement. “Was there?”

  “Who was apparently smart enough, or lucky enough, to steal ten pairs of designer shoes, various colors and sizes, and dumb enough to think the tunnels would be a good place to sell them. I went to him to explain that we didn’t want the underground swarming with cops, and for some reason, he took one look at me and ran away.”

  She chortled. “He just doesn’t know you like I do.”

  “I would hope not.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t know where they came from, but these were your size, so—the spoils of war.”

  “What did you do with the rest of them?”

  “Amber took them. She sold them.” He stepped closer. “Are they comfortable?”

  She faced him. “Not at all. They’re pretty. That’s enough.”

  They locked gazes.

  “Would they be more comfortable if they were waving in the air?” he asked.

  “Perhaps you should help me find out.” Hooking her thumbs into the elastic at the top of her panties, she slid them off her bottom and let them drop around her ankles. Stepping out of them, she walked toward him.

  The heels rang assertively on the stone. She pulled off her shirt as she moved, and dropped it on the floor.

  He picked her up by the thighs, wrapped her legs around his waist, and turned to the bed. “Is that better?” he whispered.

  “Much better.” His erection pressed between her legs.

  “I meant . . . is that better for your feet?”

  “So did I.” As her back hit the mattress, she smiled into his face.

  For the moment, the beast had cured her fatigue.

  Charisma woke to the increasingly insistent summons from the earth.

  Come down, Charisma. Come down and meet your fate.

  “No,” she moaned. “Can’t you leave me alone?” She rubbed the stones at her wrists, trying desperately to get them to speak; then, in a surge of determination, she batted away the earth’s call and concentrated on the here. The now. The crumpled pillow where Guardian had laid his head. His scent mixing with the scent of great sex. The aroma of food wafting up from below . . . she was starving.

  Making love with Guardian had a tendency to make her hungry.

  She loved the way he talked to her, all warm and sexy, confessing that her beauty made him weak and drove him to his knees, when she knew she wasn’t an extraordinary beauty, and even on his knees his strength far surpassed hers. She loved his fascination with her breasts, her throat, her spine. She loved that he found erogenous zones in places she had never imagined: the palms of her hands, the backs of her knees, her toes. He seduced her with every kiss. He begged to go down on her, to bury his face between her legs, taste her, suck on her. The man showed an enthusiasm for lovemaking that inspired her to try to match him for inventiveness.

  Best of all, he wanted to try out everything now! At once! ASAP!

  Of course, he had a point.

  They did not know whether they had tomorrow.

  On that cheerful thought, she sat up. And saw, draped carefully across the high back of the old-fashioned rocking chair, a button-down blouse. And not just any blouse . . . its severe lines contrasted with the red satin material. That blouse was a businessman’s wet dream . . . especially when worn with the red lace bra placed beside it. On the chair’s seat was a black pencil skirt. A short black pencil skirt. With red lace panties to match the bra. And placed on the floor in front of the chair were her red-and-black Lanvin heels.

  “Oh, Guardian,” she breathed, “you are a naughty, naughty beast.” Sliding off the mattress, she approached the chair and ran her fingers along the red satin. It was cool to the touch, and slick, and it shimmered as it moved. Picking it up, she held it to her shoulders. It would fit perfectly. Every piece would fit perfectly. Guardian’s surprise was thoughtful in every wa
y. . . .

  And she knew exactly how to surprise him in return.

  Before the night was over, she would make her beast howl for mercy.

  Chapter 30

  The table was perfect. White linen tablecloth, sterling silver platters that glittered with the flames of tall white candles, and bold black-and-gold china plates. The wineglasses sparkled, the silverware gleamed with the elegance of lovingly used antiques, and on Charisma’s plate, Guardian placed a single yellow rose.

  At the aggressive click of stiletto heels, Guardian turned. And stared. And lusted. And sweated. And stared.

  When he had come to Amber with the stolen shoes and the proposal that she sell them so he could give Charisma a gift, he had been very specific about the clothes he wanted her to acquire. Amber had not spoken a word to him, but he was still pretty sure she hadn’t approved.

  As far as he could tell, Amber didn’t approve of any lascivious activities, and for sure she didn’t indulge in them.

  Nevertheless, she had followed his instructions to the letter, and now . . . this was his reward.

  Charisma. Long bare legs. Shimmering red blouse. The shoes. Most of all, the light that shone from her like a beacon of happiness . . . he’d done exactly the right thing.

  Going to the bottom of the stairs, he waited until she was close before offering his hand.

  She stopped on the last step, and smiled as she entwined her fingers with his. She kissed his hairy hand. She slid her other hand into his hair. She pressed her body against his. “You are the most magnificent man I’ve ever had the good luck to meet.”

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

  She kissed him on the lips once, hard.

  His free hand touched her thighs, slid up toward her bottom.

  And she stepped away. “No, you don’t. I saw the lit candles and smelled the food. What do we have?” She stepped down onto the packed dirt floor. She walked toward the candlelit table.

  He watched her bottom sway, her calves stretch and contract, her hips thrust forward suggestively. And he recognized that those heels were the best feat of engineering ever created by mankind. He started to speak. Realized he had no voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “For your pleasure, I sent out for dinner from Lizzie’s. It’s a small, quiet restaurant on the Upper East Side.”

  “I know it.” Her voice, too, was breathy. “It’s fabulous.”

  He followed her, irresistibly drawn by this need to be with her. “They’re always nice to my people. They agreed to prepare our order without asking too many questions, they created a menu that could be eaten at any time, and they even sent down the table setting.”

  She picked up the rose. She caressed the petals with one fingertip, then breathed in its scent. “Magnificent!”

  One by one he removed the covers from the silver platters. “Iced shellfish platter with oysters, clams, and shrimp. Caprese salad drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar. Roasted asparagus served with homemade mayonnaise. Crab-stuffed avocado with grapefruit vinaigrette. Cold sliced filet mignon on beefsteak tomatoes with Roquefort cheese. And for dessert, bread pudding with golden raisins and bourbon sauce.”

  She wet her lips. “My favorites!”

  “Really?” Guardian pulled out the chair and held it.

  “My dear man, Lizzie’s couldn’t have created a menu more likely to satisfy almost my every desire.” With a voluptuous slither, she slid into her seat.

  She watched as he walked around to his place at the table. He wore a long black tunic trimmed with black embroidery; the candlelight and the dark color gave him an austere aspect, more beastlike and less human.

  She liked it. As he seated himself, she leaned toward him. “I have got a beast fetish. I saw the Disney movie about a dozen times. I even saw La Belle et la Bête. But the rest of this is your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “What did you think was going to happen when you . . . you snacked on me like I was a Hostess Twinkie?” She leaned her elbow on the table and widened her eyes at him. “Did you think I was going to not like it? Maybe your experience is from reading how-to books, but as a researcher, you get an A in Holy Shit That Feels Good.”

  “So I am your fantasy.” He pulled the iced champagne out of the silver bucket, popped the cork, and poured two stems full of bubbling pink liquid.

  “Yes. Perhaps on some subconscious level, I always knew what fate had in store for me.” Lifting her glass, she inclined it toward him.

  He reached across and clinked his glass against hers. “Are you happy?”

  As she watched him slide a crab-stuffed avocado onto her plate, she said, “In all my years I have never been so happy. And I remember all of mine. All twenty-eight of them.”

  “It doesn’t sound nearly as impressive when I say you’ve made me happier than I’ve been in the twenty months that I remember, hm?”

  “I’ll accept that compliment in the spirit in which it was offered.” She tasted the avocado and crab, and moaned with pleasure. “That is absolutely delicious.”

  He slid a selection of shellfish onto her plate.

  What a perfect time to destroy his concentration!

  “By the way,” she said casually, “the panties were very pretty, but lace is itchy.”

  “I’m sorry; are you uncomfortable?” He offered the asparagus.

  “Not at all. I simply am not wearing them.” She observed with satisfaction as Guardian froze, became a tall beast statue with glittering eyes and a spoonful of homemade mayonnaise. “In fact, I’m not wearing any. I thought, better that you be uncomfortable than me.”

  He jerked back into motion. He placed the asparagus on her plate. “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “There are worse ways to die.” She took a deep breath that riveted his gaze to her cleavage. “Sit down and eat. If you can sit.”

  After that, as she tasted the fabulous series of courses, she guided the conversation into safe channels. Restaurants she’d enjoyed. Irving’s kitchen, where the Chosen Ones congregated. The close friendships she’d formed with the women of the Chosen Ones. Davidov and the miraculous beer he brewed.

  And all the time she spoke, he ate, he replied, he smiled, he frowned, he gave every appearance of paying attention . . . but occasionally, while he was serving another course or pouring another glass of wine, his gaze dropped and, as if he could see all of her, his eyes burned a virtual hole through the table.

  Superman would have been proud.

  Every time he did, she crossed and uncrossed her legs. She couldn’t help it. Even his arousal thrilled her.

  He talked, too, and his story of seeing a demon jump into an endless chute straight down to hell when he sang, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,” made her laugh so hard she was weeping.

  When she lifted her head from her napkin, she asked, “Where did you learn all the lyrics?”

  He gestured toward the laptop on his desk. “When I first came down here and Dr. King was trying to rehabilitate me, he brought me movies.”

  “Cheerful movies,” she guessed.

  “Yes.” Guardian tapped his spoon against the table and confessed, “But I already knew all the lyrics.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” She took her last bite of steak and pushed her plate aside. “Where do you suppose you learned them? Glee club at Monster High?”

  He grinned to acknowledge her teasing, but sounded thoughtful when he said, “I think it was someone’s favorite movie. My mother’s or my sister’s or . . . my grandfather’s. Or something.”

  “You remember that?”

  “No. Not quite. But it’s so close. . . .” He clenched his fist.

  She gazed at his hand, at the straining fingers that looked as if he could crush the silver spoon he held. “In some ways, you remind me of Aleksandr Wilder.”

  He looked up so quickly she flinched. “What? Why?”

  “He wasn’t like the rest of the Chosen Ones. We all are adopted, and we all have parental
problems, some bigger, some smaller.” She grimaced to acknowledge her own.

  Wordlessly, Guardian offered her bread pudding.

  “Yes, please. A little. I’m so wonderfully full.” She watched him spoon it into a bowl and drizzle it with bourbon sauce, as she tried to explain what she meant. “Aleksandr isn’t an orphan. He came from a happy family. His parents lived on the coast overlooking the Pacific Ocean. His grandparents lived in the Washington mountains in this gorgeous valley—he used to show us photos—and they’d host these family gatherings. Aleksandr would talk about the Fourth of July.” She gestured widely. “The whole town would come out, and they’d eat and drink and dance. At night they’d have a bonfire, and when everyone left, the family would stay up all night, talking.”

  “You suspect I’m Aleksandr Wilder?” Guardian’s deep rumble of a voice seemed stifled.

  “Oh, no. I didn’t say that. I don’t mean that. I wish I did. It would solve so many problems.” That sounded cold, and she hurried to clarify. “I can’t see anything of him in you. When he disappeared he was almost twenty-five, and really, he was just becoming a man. The rest of us had grown up when we were very young. He had such a sheltered, happy upbringing. So it’s what I think your background must have been that reminds me of him. You’ve dealt with challenges that would fell a lesser man, and you do it with such grace and ease.”

  She found it hard at times to decipher Guardian’s facial expressions. The hair covered a multitude of quirks easily read on a less beastly man. Yet the more she knew him, the more she prided herself on being able to read his thoughts through the emotions that shifted behind his blue eyes.

  Right now was not one of those times. If he’d been practicing enigmatic, he had perfected the look.

  He said, “You said the Wilders could transform themselves.”

  “At their own will, into actual animals like hawks and panthers, and with the aid of a deal with the devil.” She was so sorry she’d started the conversation. It had been thoughtless of her to even hint that she knew the secrets of this lonely man. “I know you can’t remember what happened to you, but if you made a deal with the devil and transformed yourself into this and can’t figure out how to get back, you got screwed.”