Conception

by Sarah McCarty

  Deuce’s fingers on her temples missed a beat, and then resumed. “You will have whatever you desire.”

  “I’d like a salad, then.”

  His lips brushed her forehead. Her breathing eased and the shaking stopped, but she still wanted that salad with a vividness that defied belief.

  “Then you shall have it.”

  Her “Thank you” didn’t begin to convey what she felt inside.

  He smoothed her hair away from her face. His expression was set in that neutral pattern she couldn’t decipher. “There is no need to thank me. It is my duty to see to your needs.”

  She sighed as his dismissal of her appreciation pricked her nerves. “You make it very easy to dislike you sometimes.”

  “That was not my intent.”

  “Well, intent or not, that’s what you’re accomplishing.”

  He leaned her back against the headboard. “You will sit here and rest while I order your dinner.”

  Pressure from his palms gave her no choice but to do as he said. He crossed the room in that easy mouthwatering glide that emphasized the masculine beauty of his form. His hair fell in a thick skein of black to just below his shoulder blades, swinging with his movement, giving her intermittent glimpses of the carved muscles above. She followed that flow of strength as it gathered on either side of his back down to the hollow of his spine, licking her lips as it disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans, tracing an imaginary path until she came to his ass. The well-worn jeans clung in all the right places to emphasize how that part of him was as perfectly cut as the rest. He paused at the intercom, legs slightly spread. If she looked really closely, she could just detect the bulge of his balls.

  He pushed his hair back as he spoke into the intercom, allowing her a view of his profile. The slight hook to his nose and the full set of his lips added to the impression of wild, untamed masculinity. When he’d courted her, he’d tamed that side of his personality, but here in his home environment, he looked every inch what he was. A leader. A warrior. Chosen.

  She sighed. It was amazing how love could blind a woman. And not in a good way, though truth be told, if she had to make a choice between who she’d thought Deuce was and who he actually was, she’d choose the man turning to her now.

  “Your food will be here soon.”

  “What about you? Don’t you need to…eat?”

  “I will feed when Bohdan returns.”

  He just had to use that terminology. Just like he had to come back to her. The man didn’t seem to be able to function unless he was touching her. The mattress sank as he sat beside her. She leaned away, countering the pull of gravity. He made mincemeat of her efforts by putting his heavy arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side.

  “Haven’t you heard of respecting a person’s space?”

  “You are cold and tired.”

  And bitchy. He forgot to add bitchy. “It doesn’t matter what I am.” She pushed at his arm. “You need to wait for an invitation.”

  He left his arm where it was, slid the other under her thighs and draped her across his lap. His sigh of satisfaction was a lot more subtle than her hiss of disgust. “What is it with you and manhandling me?”

  “I have a need to hold you.” He withdrew his arm from under her thighs and settled it across her hip. Beneath her thighs, his were rock-hard. Against her shoulder, his equally hard chest rose and fell with his breathing. Around her, the muscles of his arms flexed as he turned sideways on the bed.

  “Why?”

  “It is hard for me to believe that you are real.”

  Just like that, he took the wind out of her sails. How could she be angry with a man who thought of her as a miracle? Deluded or not, it was sweet. “I’m real, but we are definitely going to have to talk about this notion you have that I’m your mate.”

  His hand worked around her shoulder, the fingers sliding across her breast, nestling into the valley between, making them swell, and the nipples peak. “You are my mate.”

  She yanked his hand off, and because she was afraid he’d just put it back, she held it in hers. A good five inches away from her flesh which strained for the contact. “Just because my hormones do a jig when you’re around proves nothing.”

  “I agree.” His fingers curled around hers. Instead of restraining him, she was now, in essence, holding his hand.

  She leaned her head back. His arm immediately shifted to provide her support. “You do?”

  “Human women have always been susceptible to Chosen men.” His fingers moved up her hip a couple of inches.

  “So you’ve just been screwing your way through the population the last few years?” The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  His fingers inched beneath the waistband of her shorts. His hand shifted on her hip, lifting her. “Your jealousy has no justification. I have known no other since our meeting.”

  “I am not jealous.”

  “You are, but there is no need. You are the only woman I will know from here on out. In this life and the next.” His fingers dipped lower. Which didn’t help with the mental images of all the women he’d known over the course of his lifetime.

  “How old are you exactly?” The last syllable hit a high note as he brushed the crease between her thigh and buttock.

  “I was born over six centuries ago.”

  She couldn’t suppress her moan as he palmed her buttocks, his fingers grazing the crease between, sliding on the proof of her arousal farther down. For over six hundred years he’d been bedding human women. She couldn’t calculate fast enough to figure out the average number of human rumps he’d fondled just as he was fondling hers, but she got far enough that the cold shock of disgust dimmed the hard clench of desire. “Get your hands off me.”

  The infuriating smile at the corner of his mouth made he want to slap him, but she couldn’t. The only hand she had free was trapped in his. He raised it to his lips. Those firm, sexy lips that had kissed a thousand, maybe even two thousand hands before hers, brushed her palm. “You do not want them off.”

  She did, with everything in her that was feminine.

  She yanked her hand free and twisted off his lap. She would have landed in a heap on the floor except for his quick reflexes. He held her suspended in front of him, his brows pulled together in a slight frown as he studied her face. “You are upset.”

  No shit. “Let me go.”

  He did, steadying her as her feet touched the floor. “You will tell me why.”

  When hell froze over. “I don’t want you touching me.”

  “You do not lie.” Surprise colored the rich tones of his voice. His fingers pressed into her flesh, holding her to him as he searched her expression.

  She closed her eyes. It didn’t help.

  “You do not like that I have known women before you.”

  “Get out of my head.”

  “I am not in your head.” His lips brushed her forehead and lingered. “I am sorry you are offended.”

  “But not sorry you were a dog?” It was just a guess, but she was reasonably sure Deuce’s bed hadn’t been empty often.

  He shook his head, the smoothness of his lips rubbing across her skin in a gentle glide. “You took a long time to enter my life.”

  “And that’s an excuse?”

  “No.”

  She opened her eyes, finding nothing in his expression except regret and remembered pain.

  “I hungered for you as if you were here, but you were not.” His hand under her chin tipped her face up. “There were times when I sought refuge in illusion but it was never enough.” His thumb pressed gently into the corner of her mouth. “They were never you.”

  Well, hell. What was she supposed to do with that? “I can’t help how I feel.”

  “They were nothing to me.”

  She jerked her chin free. “That’s just disgusting!”

  “You will tell me what offends you.”

  “You used those women!”

  He n
odded, his facial muscles settling into the complete neutrality that she was beginning to realize indicated that he was hiding his feelings. “Yes.”

  The agreement landed wrong. She caught his wrist in her hand, wrapping her fingers around the solid muscle and bone. Deuce might be vampire/Chosen, but he had a code of honor that went bone-deep. And a protective streak just as strong. She just couldn’t see him blithely leading women on and dumping them century after century. It just wasn’t his style. She tried to imagine how he felt. How she would have felt in the same position. She couldn’t. It was simply too overwhelming to contemplate. She couldn’t imagine living with that intensity of need and at the same time knowing it might never end. “I have no right to question your past.”

  “Mates are allowed their expectations.”

  “Do you resent my past?”

  Cold fury replaced the neutrality of his expression. Flickers of red swirled in the depths of his black eyes. Emotion just as dark surged around them. “Yes.”

  Fear rose right alongside empathy, choking off her breath. Deuce was as scary as hell when riled. Immediately, his expression gentled and his thumb stroked over her throat. The tension there, left. She took a deep breath. “Then I guess we both have some things to work through.”

  “I would make you forget.”

  Forget what? His past, or her objection to it?

  “I cannot change my past.”

  She closed her eyes, counted to five, and then opened them. “I was projecting again?”

  “Yes.” His gaze searched hers, delving into her insecurities. She pulled back, breaking the connection.

  A sharp knock came at the door, saving her from the discussion. Deuce looked at her, then at the door, and sighed. In a coordinated move that indicated incredible strength, he lifted her as he stood. She clutched his neck as he turned. He set her down very gently with a shake of his head, chiding her for her lack of faith. With that smooth glide, he crossed to the door. She had a split second to see a dark-haired man with a broad, handsome face and a gun hanging off his shoulder standing there with a tray in his hands, before Deuce stepped into her line of vision. She recognized him. The man she’d shot in the forest.

  There was an edge to Deuce’s “Thank you” that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

  The man—werewolf—Harley leaned around Deuce. “I’m glad you are feeling better.”

  She pulled the covers up to her neck. “Thank you.”

  Harley’s step back was too fast to be voluntary. The door slammed hard in front of him. When Deuce turned, there was nothing unusual about his expression. It was as calm as always. The explosion of sound and small burst of violence might never have occurred. No squeak of the floor marked his progress. She would have commented except when he set that laden tray across her lap, she couldn’t do anything but stare. There was a steak—a huge steak—and tossed salad loaded with vegetables, and beside it all sat two perfect oranges. Oranges! Oh God. In front of it all, a glass of milk so cold that beads of condensation clung to the surface. She forgot all about her anger, his age, and how many women he might have screwed.

  “Oh God.” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. She braced the back of her hand against her mouth and just stared at the food, embarrassed by her body’s reaction, half afraid to reach out in case it disappeared.

  Deuce knelt beside the bed. His hair brushed her thigh as he pushed hers back from her face. She hated the stupid tears that spilled from her eyes. “You will eat.”

  “In a minute.”

  He pulled her hand away from her mouth and caught a tear on his thumb. “Why?”

  She sniffed and scrubbed away the next tear. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had real food, that’s all.”

  He caught a persistent curl as it fell into her eyes, holding it back. “They starved you?”

  It was a question and a statement at the same time. “No. They fed me through a tube. They didn’t trust me not to run away.”

  Because she’d tried. Over and over. Killing one man in one attempt. Breaking her leg and arm in another. They’d finally taken care of the matter by injecting her with a paralyzing drug, caring for her as if she were in a coma when in reality she had been vividly alive, imprisoned in her body, unable to do anything to help herself and the baby that grew in her every day. Nothing except dream and plan.

  “You have much to forgive me for.”

  She reached for the knife and fork. The steak looked good, the salad divine, but if he hadn’t been there, she probably would have fallen on the oranges and eaten them whole, skin and all. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was, and will always remain, my fault.” He reached toward the tray.

  He was going for her orange. She clenched her fingers around the fork, fighting back the urge to stab the back of his encroaching hand. The sweet tang of citrus filled the air as he peeled it with a wave of his hand. A tap of his finger and it fell open, each juicy section lying like the petals of a flower in his hand. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the sight. Couldn’t move. He lifted one of the orange segments and brought it to her lips. “I can feel your hunger.”

  She parted her lips. The segment slid between, the smooth skin and gentle ridges caressing her lips. His gaze held hers. “Bite down, my Eden.”

  She did. The incredibly tangy sweet flavor immediately flooded her mouth. She chewed, closing her eyes, her soul rejoicing in the moment, her taste buds crying out for more. And something inside her, something she’d built to be strong, shattered. The first sob took her by surprise. The second ripped from her chest in a painful gasp. The tray disappeared and Deuce wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly against him, saying nothing, just stroking her hair and her back, seeming to know she needed to cry just this one time. Just this once. She turned her face into his chest and twisted her fingers into his shirt as the sobs tore at her lungs. They hit so hard, so fast that she couldn’t breathe. Deuce’s palm spread open on her back, heating her flesh, and the tightness lessened, her breathing eased, but the tears didn’t stop.

  “They will not hurt you again.” The flat delivery implied nothing more than the truth but she could feel his anger swirling around them, the violence wildly primitive, scaring her even though it wasn’t directed at her.

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Not his anger and not her fear. As long as she accomplished her goal, nothing they did would matter. The scent of citrus intensified as something nudged her lips. She opened her eyes. He held another piece of orange to her mouth, tapping her lower lip gently with the fat underside of the section, pressing down lightly, commanding her attention. “From here on out, you will have no more tears.”

  “You can’t promise that.” She bit into the orange, ducking her head, savoring the flavor as another stupid tear spilled down her cheek.

  “It is my duty to ensure it.”

  She sighed, keeping her head down as she chewed. The one thing she wasn’t was a pretty crier. She had a tendency to swell and blotch that defied any semblance of attractive. She swallowed the orange, focused on the snap on his jeans and said, “Deuce?”

  “Yes”

  “This whole courting thing would go a lot better if you stopped reminding me what

  a burden you find me.”

  “A mate is not a burden.” He pressed another section of orange to her lips.

  She took it in her hand, running her fingers over its familiar shape. “I’ve got news for you. When you fall back on words like responsibility and duty all the time, you’re talking about a burden.”

  “How does a human talk when courting?”

  “He talks of love and beauty and softer emotions.”

  His hand slid up her spine, wrapped in the fall of her hair and tugged. Through her horror that he would see her blotchy face and swollen eyes, she had to admit to a thrill. There was something fundamentally erotic about the implied mastery in the gesture.

  “Pretty words do not keep a mate safe and hap
py,” he informed her.

  “Safe isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and happy is a relative concept.”

  “It will be a very relative concept for you.”

  She could tell he meant that. The first thing she’d noticed about Deuce a year ago was his single-mindedness when he wanted something. Her grandfather had come home many times from business deals swearing at the man’s stubbornness. Deuce’s dark eyes roved over her face. He frowned, clearly not happy with what he saw. “You will not cry anymore.”

  “Excuse me?” She’d just admitted to herself that she wasn’t a pretty crier, but she’d be damned if she’d have someone point that out to her. “I’ll cry whenever I damn well feel like it.”

  “I do not like that you swear, and crying damages you. You will not do it anymore.” He leaned down. She pressed back into the unrelenting wall of his shoulder. His lips brushed her lids with the delicacy of a butterfly. Immediately the hot burning ache left her eyes. She touched her under-eye area. It was flat and cool rather than puffy and hot. “What did you do?”

  “I removed the irritation.”

  She should have been mad, but what woman wouldn’t want a cure for the “after­cry uglies”? “Thank you, but next time, ask.”

  He shook his head at her, his black hair shimmering with shades of blue in the lamplight. She took that to mean he did not agree that he needed her permission.

  “Your food grows cold.” He set her back on the bed. The plates rattled on the tray. The delicious odors brought her hunger back with a vengeance. She reached for the tray but he beat her to it. Settling it over her lap, he arranged the sliced orange to the side, in the perfect spot to be aesthetically pleasing. In another of those graceful moves that defied logic, he plumped two pillows behind her back. He was fussing over her like she was an invalid. “I’m not helpless.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her as he took the throw off the bottom of the bed and draped it over her feet and legs below the tray. “You are not strong.”

  “Yet.”

  He paused. “You will never have the strength of the Chosen.”