by Ann Vremont
Her fingers curled tighter. She couldn’t remember why but she knew she didn’t want to be carried to any van.
“Damn it, woman,” the man gently chided and pulled at her arm. “Let go.”
“Shh…leave off her, Julius,” Claubine ordered. Something light and feathery stroked the back of Aideen’s hand. “We can’t carry the two of you together, dear.”
Claubine continued her gentle stroking until Aideen released Kean. There was the sound of more feet stumbling across the collapsed building and someone lifted her. She slipped in and out of consciousness. She was laid flat while hands clinically explored her body and searched out all the cuts and bruises. A sharp prick of a needle woke her but she kept her eyes closed and the hum of a motor lulled her back to sleep. People talked around her, their words unintelligible. Aideen sorted through their voices, but the one she searched for was silent. She rummaged around her mind but he wasn’t there—just echoes.
The next time Aideen woke, she convinced her eyes to open to a thin slit. Something heavy lay across her chest and legs and she forced the thin slit of vision downward until she could make out the white-on-white pattern of a comforter. She picked out the slim line of a lily and realized she was back in Claubine’s estate house. She reached along the mattress and her hand brushed Kean’s hip. Sleeping, he sighed heavily, his breath warming her cheek. She rolled to her side, every muscle protesting, and fully opened her eyes. There was a small goose egg, bruised purple and half hidden behind his hairline, just above his right temple. The skin around his left eye was ringed black but already fading to a brownish yellow. A cut puffed his upper lip. She eased forward and kissed the tip of his nose. His right eye opened and he managed a groggy smile.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked.
“It looked like the only spot on you that doesn’t hurt,” she answered.
Kean lifted an arm and pulled her to him. “But won’t kissing them make all the hurt parts feel better?”
“You’re joking, right?” Her voice was light, the worries and fears of the last week washed away. London could be smoldering right now, a city of ashes, but the worst of it was behind them.
He answered with a drowsy shake of his head. His hand slid down to cup her ass, molding her body to him. She pressed her lips to his throat. His even breathing matched her own and she closed her eyes. Kean melted into her. His pulse beat beneath her lips. With a sigh, she let sleep claim her once again. There was an endless amount of time left for loving him now that the heat and the rhythm were their own.
About the author:
Ann Vremont is a mother, wife, licensed attorney, technical writer, high school dropout and former Russian linguist for Army SigInt. She’s called Bingo for a living, waitressed at a strip club, scooped ice cream and conducted political surveys—including for the wrong party. She maintains that, if she hadn’t dropped out of high school, she would probably be a mineralogist or a geophysicist—lifelong interests reflected in her first book with Ellora’s Cave, Calabi Chronicles: Bloodstone. Ann further maintains that if she had never met her husband of fifteen-plus years or had their son when she did, she would probably be making her living illegally—or, if unsuccessful, sitting in jail. She has a large collection of minerals and a growing collection of lighthouses. Having been born and partially raised in Arizona, the mineral collection doesn’t surprise her, but she’s still puzzling the source of her lighthouse fetish.
Ann welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.
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