Images drifted on the horizon of his mind. His eyes fluttered shut. Ugly, horrific memories flickered behind his closed lids. One layer at a time, they stacked to depict another time in his life, a time when Ronan controlled him. In the dream, he shoved the blonde woman onto the pile of hay despite her protests.
“Please, don’t do this,” she whimpered.
Ronan laughed behind him and forced more magic into the invisible tether between them. “Teach her a lesson, Son.”
Bastian didn’t want to hurt her. He tried to stop. God, he tried so hard. Ronan, his puppet master, wouldn’t let him. Fabric ripped and the sound echoed. Tears rolled down plump, rosy cheeks. The look on her face, terror mixed with pain, seared into him.
He’d never forget. Never.
The scream came out of nowhere and shattered his nightmare. Bastian bolted upright and searched the room in a wild panic. Another high-pitched wail sounded, and then a choked sob. Morgan. No longer drunk, he sprinted to the bedroom at a dead run. He crashed through the locked door and flipped on the lights. Heart pounding, adrenaline surging, he gathered his magic in both hands ready to slay the devil himself.
In a single assessing glance, he drank in the room. Magic, heavier than oxygen, weighed down the air with a layer of crimson frost. The cold press of Morgan’s magic crawled over his skin and stole his breath. Her necromancy flared out, searched for death, looking for anything that would protect her. There was enough juice saturating the room to raise an army of dead.
At the epicenter, Morgan thrashed on the bed in the midst of some kind of a night terror. Dressed in a black silk camisole and a matching pair of bikini panties, there wasn’t much to protect her from the hammering frost she generated. Her lips were blue, and goose bumps pebbled her exposed skin. Glistening tears streamed down her cheeks, the salt not allowing them to freeze. Each jerking movement further tangled the sheets twined between her legs.
She screamed, and her back bowed, lifting her off the mattress. Morgan kicked but couldn’t get free of either the bedding or her nightmare. Red ice coated the walls and dripped from the furniture. It looked like someone had thrown buckets of blood around the room and then hit it with liquid nitrogen.
“No.” Morgan sobbed, gasped, and clawed at her throat as if to pry off invisible hands.
If only nightmares could be defeated so easily.
Sinking on the bed beside her, he grabbed both of her wrists in one hand in an effort to keep her from hurting herself any more than she already had. Welts marred her throat and reminded him of the marks Ronan had left. Like the bruises, the scratches stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. Morgan jerked and struggled, and he had to use more strength than he would have thought to hold her still.
The harder he held her, the more she fought. When her wrists slipped from his grasp, he pinned her arms to the bed. In the fight, the bandage wrapped around her hand came loose. Bastian drew in a sharp breath at what was now exposed. Crimson spider lines traced the network of veins under her skin and crawled up her hand to her forearm. He swept his thumb over the lines. Despite the chill of her skin, the spot he touched was impossibly colder.
Not an infection. Only one option remained. Magic. Bastian inhaled and tasted an overpowering rush of cinnamon. Under the sweet, spicy smell was something else though, something faint and almost indistinguishable.
Oleander.
“Fuck,” he growled.
He gripped her icy shoulders and shook. How in the hell had Ronan managed to get to her? Through Jodi?
“Morgan, wake up. Whatever you’re seeing, feeling isn’t real. Come on, baby; wake up. Fight him. Come back to me.”
“No. Please, no!” she screamed, her voice cracking under the strain of sheer, mindless terror. “Help me, please. Oh God, please. Stop!”
Bastian gritted his teeth and forced her heartbreaking cries to the back of his mind. He had the power to stop her torment, but it was going to take concentration. His magic gathered in the center of his palm, and he no longer felt the cold. He took her hand in his and focused. Behind his close lids, he pictured a thick cord of surging energy filling her veins and moving into her bloodstream.
When he unbraided the different elements of the energy, Ronan’s blackened magic surfaced. Bastian channeled the filth out of her and took it inside himself. The blast of sensation slammed into him, and it was all he could do to keep his focus. Image after image assaulted him. Ronan on top of Morgan. Ronan’s hand around her throat tightening ever so slowly. Ronan forcing himself inside her.
In the dream, she was battered and bruised, hands a bloody mess from the battle she’d fought to protect herself. Ronan would have gotten off on that. Bastian let the rage rip through him, and he welcomed the heat of it. He used his anger as a shield against the worst of the magical assault. He didn’t really want to know what sick games Ronan had forced her to play before he’d thrown her onto the dirty ground, ripped off her clothes, and raped her.
This dream was not incidental.
The nightmare Bastian stepped into was vivid, rich with the smell of the dirt and sweat and the foulness of evil. Withdrawing the last of his father’s magic, he used himself as a conduit. Every horrible, gut-wrenching sensation of terror, anger, and pain passed into him until he had every ounce of it. He forced everything out through the palm he held to the wall.
Ronan’s magic exploded from Bastian’s hand in a roiling crimson stream before crashing against the wall with a deafening roar. Ice dripped to the floor and spread out like bloody fingers until fading away. Bastian let go of Morgan’s wrists and gathered her to his chest.
He smoothed her hair, whispered into her ear, “It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”
The tension in her body slackened, and she fell limply against him. As she woke, her hiccupping sobs from the nightmare quieted. “Bastian?” she asked in a confused, raw whisper. “Ronan…”
A tremor raced through her, and he held her icy form tighter against him. He knew the dream, the contents, and the realism of it would hit at any moment. He’d been through this enough times with his brothers, with himself, to know how vicious the aftereffects could get.
“He’s gone. I’m here. I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” He pulled a blanket from the ground, wrapped it around her shoulders, and hoped it would be enough to warm her ice-cold skin.
“It was horrible,” she croaked. The slight tremor racing through her became a full-blown quake. Her nails bit into his skin where she clutched him. “I couldn’t wake up, and he… I couldn’t get away. He…made me…he…” She dissolved into sobs.
Rage unfurled inside Bastian’s gut and expanded. Unlike his magic, his anger was red-fucking-hot. It was all he could do keep calm—to keep gliding a hand up and down Morgan’s back. He wanted to pick up the mattress and throw it across the room. He wanted to rip the bookshelf from the wall, watch it crash to the floor. He clenched his hands into balls. The need to smash his fists against something, the wall, the window, Ronan’s fucking face, overwhelmed him.
“Shush, I’ve got you,” he soothed.
Like a dam breaking, she came apart in his arms. Her fury and disgust washed over him and numbed his skin to the hard fists she banged against his chest. One strike after another, he let her get it all out.
“I fucking hate him.” Another hit.
“I wish he was dead.” Another hit.
“Why me? What in the fuck did I ever do to him?” She collapsed against him, exhausted and sobbing. Hot tears soaked through his shirt and burned his skin. He could do nothing except hold her and wait for the storm to pass. In that moment, he realized without a shadow of a doubt, he’d spend the rest of his eternally long life doing whatever it took to keep her.
He, Bastian Hale, had fucking fallen in love.
Chapter Sixteen
Morgan drew in Bastian’s scent one heaving breath at a time and focused on the way he clutched her tight to his chest. The rhythmic
drum of his heart helped calm her when she feared nothing else would. The strength of his arms and the thrum of magic running inside him made her feel safe. Protected. No one could hurt her here. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Bastian had the power to hurt her worse than anyone.
Silent minutes ticked by, and the overwhelming cold eased. Warmth penetrated and thawed the frost she hadn’t been able to shake. The remnants of her nightmare faded. It was only a dream. Each breath was easier to take than the one before it. Gradually her tears slowed. Eventually they stopped. Through it all, Bastian held her as if she mattered to him. The gentle up-down stroke of fingers along her back never ceased.
At some point in her nuclear meltdown, she’d wound up curled in his lap with her cheek pressed tight to his chest and her arms around his neck. She sniffled and wiped her nose on his already saturated shirt. What she didn’t do was let go.
“I still think you’re an asshole.” Her voice sounded broken and raw as if she’d spent hours screaming.
He ducked his head and buried his nose in her hair. “I am an asshole.” His voice sounded just as broken and raw.
Morgan scooted closer. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fall asleep thinking of all the ways I could kill you.”
“I deserve nothing less.”
She toyed with the hair at his nape. “Is that your way of apologizing?”
Bastian pulled her from his chest and brought them eye to eye. The naked pain in the depths of his gaze undid her. He thumbed away the new tears she hadn’t even realized she’d shed. “Rory informed me my apology should involve groveling and presents.”
She snorted through a sob. “You went to Rory for dating advice? That explains why you reek of booze.”
“Don’t laugh.” He cracked an embarrassed half smile and shrugged. “I was desperate, and he got all Dr. Phil on my ass. Although I didn’t need him to tell me I fucked up. I figured that out all on my own.” His face sobered, and he cupped her cheeks. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I walked away from you. I’m sorry I fucked everything up. I have feelings for you, and I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve spent a week trying to figure it out, and in doing that I made everything worse.”
The tears she’d finally put to bed snuck out like a naughty two-year-old. “You didn’t fuck everything up.”
He trailed the tip of his nose against hers. Their lips aligned, but he kept a hairbreadth of air between them. When he spoke, his breath feathered across her lips. “No?”
“No.”
Was that hope she heard in his voice? Bastian surged forward to fit his mouth against hers in a gentle, toe-curling kiss. Under her silk camisole top, he traced his fingers along the line of her spine from her tailbone to the base of her shoulder blades. He flattened his palm and drew her close as he deepened the connection of their mouths. The wet glide of his tongue stroked first her upper lip, then the bottom. He pressed inside, and she melted into him. Soft and unhurried, he kissed her as if he had all the time in the world to explore.
When she was breathless and dizzy, he broke away and looked deeply into her eyes. Tenderness filled his gaze. She bit her lower lip to keep from blurting out that she loved him.
Lucky for her, he spoke first. “I have something for you.” He dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag.
She grinned and took the pouch from him. Morgan drew her thumb over the soft, squishy fabric. Maybe Rory’s advice hadn’t been so bad after all. “So we’ve moved on to presents, huh? When does the groveling happen?”
A wicked glint appeared in his eyes. He slid his hands over her hips until the tips of his fingers rested on her ass. “I figured I’d do my groveling with my mouth between your thighs.”
Pure white-hot lust shot straight to her pussy.
As if he knew, Bastian smirked. “Before you open your present, I want to talk to you about something real quick. Earlier, I didn’t use a condom.”
Her smile vanished.
“Before you freak out,” he continued. “I don’t have any diseases, and I can’t get you pregnant.”
Something she wasn’t even sure of shifted inside her. Morgan looked up at him. “You can’t have children?”
“I can, I suppose, given the right circumstances. Morgan, you have to understand immortal children are extremely rare, even more so when two immortal beings are involved. Most couples spend decades trying for a babe, and when the pregnancies do take, they often end in miscarriage.”
She’d never wasted time dreaming about a husband and children, but the knowledge that she’d probably never have a baby, Bastian’s baby, stung for reasons she couldn’t fathom. Choosing not to have a child was different than being told she couldn’t. “Why?”
“I’m not saying you won’t ever be able to have a baby if you want one during some point in your life, but you’re not old enough for it to even be a possibility. The youngest reported necromancer to have a child was in her seventies. Immortals mature at a different rate. Then there is the magic to consider and why most fetuses don’t survive for long. Necromancy is ice-cold when it runs through your veins, and it eventually freezes everything in your body.”
“That’s a lot to take in,” she said softly.
He stroked the side of her face. “I know it is, but it’s also something you needed to know. When I come inside you, I’ll be damned if there is anything between us, and I don’t want you to worry about unplanned pregnancies. Now open your present.”
Right. Present. She had decades to worry about if she wanted to start a family or not. Like a kid on Christmas morning, she rushed to open the bag he’d given her and pour its contents into the palm of her hand. Gold glittered. It took a few moments for her to realize the pile in her hand was a necklace. She lifted the chain, and her heart stopped.
Her gaze darted from the raven pendant to Bastian’s eyes and back. “This is…”
“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly.
“Like it?” She stroked a finger over the outstretched wing. “No, I love it.” Her hand closed over the bird before she threw her arms around his neck and burrowed close. She spoke against his throat so he couldn’t see the new tears pricking her eyes. Best. Apology. Ever. “It’s so unbelievably perfect.”
He curled his hand into the back of her hair. “It used to be my mother’s, before she was killed. I wore it for decades, and then the chain broke. I found it in my desk drawer a few days ago and decided to get it fixed. For you.”
“Bastian,” she whispered. “I can’t take this.”
“I want you to have it.”
He gently pried the necklace from her death grip. Slowly, he swept the hair from her neck and drew the chain across her throat. He fumbled with the clasp for only a moment before the slight weight of the pendant settled between her breasts. He pressed a quick kiss to the side of her throat and pulled back.
He touched the raven. “Perfect.”
She cupped his cheeks and brought her mouth to his. “I think I’m ready for groveling now.”
His lips spread into a smile against her lips. “Thank God.”
Bastian lifted her in his arms liked she weighed nothing, and walked back. “I need a shower.”
It was her turn to smile. “What a coincidence; so do I.”
Her lips parted under his. At the first stroke of his tongue, her nipples puckered. As if he hadn’t already memorized her body, he explored her mouth anew. She moaned into him and threaded her hands through his hair. Cupping the back of his head, she pressed closer. He tasted of whiskey and man, a combination she liked.
In the bathroom, he set her on her toes. He shifted the angle of their kiss and used a hand on her ass to bring her against the hard bulge of his cock. Closer. She needed nothing between them. One slow inch at a time, he pushed her silk cami over her stomach. She lifted her arms as he pulled the garment over her head. Naked from the waist up, she held her breath and waited.
His gaze traveled down her neck, chest, and fina
lly stopped at her bared breasts. His mouth parted on a silent breath that sent a tingle of need through her abdomen. He licked his lower lip. A line of fire shot straight to her sex. Moisture gathered between her legs and made her ache.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” His voice was deep, rasping, an erotic caress all its own.
He trailed the backs of his knuckles down the center of her chest. Morgan arched into his touch. He flicked his gaze to hers, and she lost herself in the color of his eyes. Bastian brushed his thumb across one pink-tipped nipple, and she moaned. He opened his palm and cupped her breast. A new wave of pleasure crashed through her.
“Mine,” he growled and covered her mouth in another sinfully slow kiss.
Between kisses, Bastian grabbed the back of his T. He broke the seal of their lips only long enough to pull the garment from his head and drop it to the floor. She had a moment to admire his chest, the lines of his tattoo, and the rigid pack of muscles at his abdomen before their mouths fused together.
Skin came against skin like fire and ice. He pulled from her mouth and traced his tongue along her jaw. He nipped her neck. She closed her eyes and tried not to burst from the coiling tension in her stomach. In order to slow her racing heart, she concentrated on the feel of him. The stubble on his jaw scratched her skin and aroused her. She glided her fingers over the perfectly sculpted muscles of his chest and back. With each deep breath she took, she drew in his rich, masculine scent.
He smelled of the woods, subtle and heady. Seductive. She trailed her fingers down his neck, along the ridge of his spine as far as she could reach. His magic surged under her touch as if she coaxed it to life. Ice flowed through her, and the sensation reminded her of the first days of winter. It was fresh and cold. At the same time, the feeling took her breath away and left her wanting more.
Bastian pushed her breast up, lowering his lips to a puckered nipple. He swirled his tongue around the tight peak. Heat engulfed her as he sucked her into his mouth. Morgan arched against him with a shocked moan. Arousal spilled from her sex, moistening her panties and preparing her for him.
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