Eternity

by Tmonique Stephens

  Memories of drowning left her lungs straining for air. She rubbed her sternum, but still felt water rushing through her nose and down her throat, filling her nasal passages, choking her. Her legs throbbed, reminiscent of the carriage pinning her to the riverbed. Edward, the man she married because her soul mate hadn’t appeared and she didn’t want to be labeled a spinster, bobbed next to her. Head twisted at an unnatural angle, his body lingered, then rushed away, caught in the surging waters.

  In her final moments, memories of Roman and Elyssian surfaced. That’s when she realized what she had failed to see. Bitter regret and absolute loneliness were her last thoughts before she succumbed.

  Exhausted, Stella flopped back onto the pillows.

  Roman.

  She fell asleep in his arms, but now he was gone. The pillow next to her still held the indentation of his head and the bed still held his warmth. She flipped back the covers and stretched; from toenails to fingertips, she clenched each muscle slowly. Together, they moaned in glorious satisfaction and all her body went limp again. She felt used. In such a delicious way. The night and most of the morning replayed behind her closed eyes. A rosy blush crept over her skin. She rolled and buried her face in his pillow. His musky scent remained, clinging to the bedding. She remembered his arms wrapped around her, the friction of his chest tormenting her nipples and the feel of him between her legs, thrusting into her.

  A giddy little giggle burst from her lips and her limbs turned to liquid. Sometime during the night she awoke in a rush, swimming in a sea of pleasure. Roman, dragging his fingers over her swollen clitoris, penetrating her core from behind. He flipped her onto her back and spread her legs wide. The heady aroma of their mixed essences intoxicated her. He slid home in a single slick drive.

  Cradled, flesh meeting flesh, she burned. Pressed to his chest, the raw masculinity of what made him the man she couldn’t resist blasted through her senses until every part of her longed for him. Belonged to him. Needed more of him.

  She wrapped her legs around him and grabbed his ass, urging him to go deeper. His name became the chant she breathed against his shoulder and mouthed on his neck as he flung her to the stars. She pulled him closer and cried while her muscles seized and milked him dry. Clinging to him, she rode the cresting waves that set her free. Body and Soul. Immortal warrior, she loved him.

  Her core, empty and yearning for attention, pulsated. Need slammed into her, hot and fierce, every fiber of her cried out for one thing. One person. This is what the girls whispered about. What Cathy waxed ad nausea. What she thought didn’t exist. Lust. She wanted him again, right now.

  “Where is he?” Annoyed, she dragged herself from the bed. A tray with a covered plates sat on the night table next her. Stella picked up the glass of water and quenched one of her thirsts.

  Suddenly, she realized something, and a chill ran down her spine. They hadn’t used any protection. Though her cycle was skittish, she could be pregnant. The thought made her heart race, but didn’t send her into a panic. A child, her child . . . a baby with Roman . . . she would love that child with every fiber of her being, regardless of the fallout. However, they had to talk.

  Her stomach fluttered and she chalked it up to hunger, not nerves. A good breakfast and the trembling in her stomach would cease, and a shower would wash away the evidence of her decadent night. She remembered how he looked when she first touched him. A smile spread across her face.

  “Uggh!” She groaned and mentally shook herself. Stella lifted the cover off the plate and discovered soup and a sandwich.

  “How long have I slept?” She flipped on the news and the little box at the bottom of the screen said five p.m. Guess that’s what happens after having the strangest/best night of your life.

  Just as she was about to turn the tube off, the newscaster mentioned Central Park. Police swarmed the area, looking for a wild animal.

  “So, it was an animal.” At least, she thought it was. What it looked like—in the dark—as they ran away.

  After a shower and her meal, she left the safety of her room. Down an endless corridor she walked, peeking into each open door and finding bedrooms and a few open spaces. An elevator took her to the ground floor and opened into the biggest room she’d ever seen. More than three thousand square feet with an enormous stone fireplace at either end, the room ran the length of the right side of the house. Ceiling to floor beveled windows showed a garden maze on the lawn that went to the tree line, a hundred yards away.

  She scanned the huge room and had to thank her mother for educating her in the finer things in life before she died. An art major and later an interior designer, her mother loved beautiful things.

  Simple Etruscan chandeliers illuminated the vaulted ceiling and the room. A heavy charcoal leather sofa and loveseat bracketed the furthest fireplace while soft buttery suede sofas and chairs confronted the fireplace nearest her. A pair of Dutch 19 Century Marquetry coffee tables, each with a crystal vase of fresh flowers, completed the seating arrangement. Her sneakers squeaked on the mahogany floors until they sank into the thick antique Persian rug.

  A huge tapestry depicting a medieval battle covered one stone wall. She stepped closer to it. Tempted to touch the fabric, she stretched out her hand then folded her fingers into a fist. It was too pretty to touch. The colors were vivid, too real for her eyes. She stared. The green on the grass was alive, moving in the breeze along with the few trees at the edge of the field. But as her eyes drew to the battle scene, fresh red blood splattered the green grass as bodies trampled the field. The grass, blood and bodies gave way to mud, horses and men in dull gray armor with large swords. Men in chainmail decorated with different coats of arms raced toward death with braced metal shields and raised swords while cloth and leather covered peasants surged around them.

  Drawn into the scene before her, the characters moved on the fabric and the battle came alive. The thunder of a thousand horses, the crunch of beast against human as the mounted armored men charged through a field of peasants, killing all in their path. The screams of the dying rang in her ears. Blood flew and the brave died beneath hooves as horses cut a path through the unfortunate few that chose to stand and fight instead of fleeing. She tried to blink the surreal away but the carnage continued.

  Some ran only to lose their lives at the end of a sword and died nameless in the red mud, but one man stood his ground and hacked his way through the charging beasts. Standing in the middle of a man-made hell, dressed in leather and wool, bodies collected at his feet. His black hair dripped blood; his blue eyes streamed fire and his hard mouth open in a raw scream. One man who looked like—

  “What’ve you found?”

  She heard Roman’s voice, and not too far away.

  “The blood’s human, not animal,” Quin answered.

  “That’s not possible. An animal attacked me. A hybrid beast from a fucking nightmare. I shot the damn thing and bullets did nothing.”

  “DNA doesn’t lie.”

  “Okay then, whose DNA is it?”

  “I’m checking it now, running it through all databases, ours included. But what does this animal have to do with The Strangler?”

  “Good evening.”

  Startled, Stella jumped. One moment she was eavesdropping, the next she faced a very beautiful woman. Hazel eyes scrutinized every detail from her tee-shirt and jeans, stopping at her Converse and sweeping back up. And, by the censure on the woman’s flawless face, she found her severely lacking. After all, jeans and a tee couldn’t compare to a power suit and four-inch heels.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Who are you?” Clean and crisp, the woman’s voice cut to the point.

  “I-I’m Stella Walker.” Shit! Why did I stutter?

  A predatory, shark-like grin spread across the woman’s face.

  She had seen that look before, in foster care, right before someone came under a vicious attack.

  “The last time I saw you, you weren’t as . . . presentable, or
upright.”

  “Excuse me?” She blinked. Her thoughts scrambled, leaving her stuck on stupid.

  “In your hospital room, I stopped by to bring Roman his dinner.”

  “Oh,” relief washed through her. “You’re his assistant,” she stated.

  Sculpted eyebrows arched into her blonde hairline. “We weren’t introduced properly, Miss Walker. I’m Bianca Maylor, Roman’s fiancée.”

  Her throat dried to sand. On Bianca’s left hand was a beautiful round cut diamond, which she lay across her bosom in a perfect display while her right hand extended for a handshake. On reflex, she shook the woman’s hand and found it as cold as her eyes.

  She knew—in the same way all wives, fiancée’s, and girlfriends knew—that the other woman faced them. A threat to their happily ever after, the embodiment of every hoe out there trying to steal their man, that—in this woman’s eyes—is what she was. Accusation and condemnation thinned Bianca’s lips and narrowed her eyes to slits.

  “Con-congratulations,” she stuttered. Her temple began to throb and the scar ached as a migraine began building. A heavy tread sounded behind her. She turned just as Roman entered the room.

  And stopped short. His blue eyes assessed both of them. She figured he was judging the threat level. Good idea. She wanted to gut him, just like Bianca’s words and that gaudy lump of coal gutted her.

  “Roman, sweetheart, there you are. I was just about to track you down.”

  Sultry. I could never duplicate that walk, she thought watching Bianca stroll up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He didn’t push her away.

  Her left hand and that ring landed in the middle of his broad chest and caressed him.

  Touched where Stella’s head had slept hours earlier.

  Where her lips had kissed.

  And he didn’t push her away.

  “Mr. Nicolis, I’ve just met your fiancée.” She surprised herself by not choking on the words.

  Cool and calculated, no emotions showed on his handsome face. He had plenty of emotion last night while he made lo-”I’ll leave you two alone.”

  And, he didn’t stop her.

  Didn’t say a word. He let her go and stayed in the room with his future wife. She almost made it to the stairs before the first sob burned her throat. A body stopped her headlong race up her stairs. Blurry eyed, she couldn’t see who it was, but she brushed by him and stumbled into various rooms until she finally found her own.

  She slammed the door behind her, tears stinging her eyes. They scorched a trail down her cheeks. “What did you expect?” she shouted at the empty room.

  Undying love. All it took was a pretty story and she fell like a worn set of dominoes. “He lied.” He promised you nothing. Nothing at all. And while he made love to me, he thought of her.

  Braced against the dresser, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and her stomach rolled. Roman Nicolis swept into her life as her savior, now she needed saving from him. “You stupid fool.”

  Hysterical, she picked up the vase of fresh flowers. Ready to smash the roses, she caught her reflection again. The bitter woman staring back frightened her.

  This couldn’t be her.

  CHAPTER 18

  Damn. This wasn’t kind, but what choice did he have? Roman didn’t want to end their engagement this way, but fate would always have its way. Though he fought it, in two millennia his heart hadn’t belonged to him, but to one woman, Elyssian. Now, it didn’t belong to her either.

  Since the moment he touched Stella while she lay unconscious in the hospital, his heart belonged to her. Last night confirmed what fate decried. He loved her.

  When she walked out of the room, he started to follow.

  “Roman, why is she here?”

  Bianca’s sharp voice stopped him, but he still listened to Stella’s receding footsteps before facing his ex. A beautiful woman any man would move mountains to have on his arm and waiting in his bed, he regretted the pain he was about to cause.

  “I’m sorry, Bianca. There’s no easy way to say this. I’ve wasted your time. There won’t be a marriage between us.”

  “No.” Shocked, she shook her head. “You can’t do this. We’re getting married in three months.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How could you do this? I love you.” She rushed to him. Her hands tugging at his shirt, touching his face, clinging to him with a desperation that actually felt true. Bianca desperate? Yes, for power and the status his notoriety would give her.

  “Is that a tear?” He shrewdly assessed her dry eyes. “No, I didn’t think so. You don’t love me and those tears you’re trying so hard to generate aren’t for a lost love. You and I are a piece of fiction we created to fill a gap. You wanted a rich husband. I wanted you to be someone else.”

  “Who, that pathetic girl?”

  He leaned in close so that the only thing she saw was the fury on his face. “It’s over, Bianca. Let it go.”

  She shook her head. “No. She’s a victim and you saved her. I get it, you’re a hero, but you and I have a history. We’re the same person. Indomitable, winners.” She stroked his face.

  He grabbed her hands. Unfortunately, she was correct. “You’re right, in a few ways we are the same. We have the same bloodthirsty tendencies. You compliment the dark river that runs through me. She is my light, the other half of my soul. That’s why I love her. I’ll always love her.”

  Real tears glistened in her eyes. “But you love me,” she whispered.

  For a very brief moment, I tried, but loving and being in love are two different things. “Please accept my apology, Bianca.”

  “You fucking bastard,” she whispered brokenly.

  He sighed heavily. “You’re right, I’m a bastard, but you knew what I’m capable of before you accepted my ring. Count yourself lucky, Bianca you’ve saved yourself the headache of a divorce.” He started to walk away.

  “She can’t please you. She has no idea what you need. I know what you like and how you like it.” Bianca shouted following him into the hall.

  Roman stopped at the stairs. “You knew my body, she’s in my heart . . . and what she doesn’t know I’ll gladly teach her.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. Why didn’t he listen to his instincts? “You deserve someone who will love you, and not wish you were someone else. I am sorry, Bianca.”

  With a quick flick, she dashed her tears away. “You’re not nearly sorry enough, yet.”

  He didn’t spare her another moment. Roman left her in the living room and turned his attentions to Stella.

  “Are those tears?”

  Bianca spun around. Thane walked up to her with a bemused smile plastered on his face. He heard! There’s no other reason for him to look so amused, smug. She stiffened, but buried her torment beneath the placid façade she showed the world and tilted her chin higher.

  Thane stopped by her side and leaned in slowly. He smelled of her favorite cologne, Bvlgari AQVA. Close to her ear and he murmured low. “Yes, your cheeks are wet. I guess you do have a soul. I can now check that item off my bucket list.”

  She sputtered and shoved him away.

  “Ah, there’s the woman I remember.” He chuckled, shaking with glee.

  “You look well, Thane,” she said softly, striving to recover some dignity and wring some empathy out of him. She didn’t bother to wipe her tears. Why do that when she could use them to her advantage, as she had done before. She’d honed her tools on him before she turned to Roman.

  “I’m almost ashamed of you. I’d never guess you’d go the tear route. The ‘Please help me, I’m a victim,’ ploy with anyone.” He shook his head and to her horror, pity spread across his arrogant face. He, the second in command, lackey to Roman, pitied her!

  “Leave Bianca, before you’re humiliated more than you already are. Leave while you still have some dignity and before I have the pleasure of throwing you out.”

  She placed a manicured hand, the one with the rock still on her fourth fin
ger in the middle of his chest. “Do you still hate me, Thane? Or do you still think of me as yours?” She leaned into him and craned her neck up, her lips inches from his.

  A brittle sound escaped him that made her jerk away. “Bianca, you never cross my mind.” He left her standing alone in the living room, listening to the hard clip of his Cole Haan’s fading away.

  Bianca leaned against the nearest wall. So close, so very close and everything had just crumbled. She had to do something, anything but stand here in a home that by right belonged to her, shedding useless tears.

  Hector! He would help her. Hell, he owed her. She searched the ground floor and found him in the last place she thought to look, the kitchen. Dinner at six with the family, dessert at seven with the few live in servants, he hadn’t broken that routine in twenty-five years.

  “Hector—Father, I need to speak with you.” Her voice shook.

  He glanced at his pie with something akin to regret or perhaps dread. Either way, her ire peeked. He’d rather be here with the help than attending her needs. He pulled the linen napkin from his lap, carefully folded and placed it by his china. Then he took a sip of water from his goblet and came to her.

  “Yes, Bianca?” He met her eyes with sympathy shimmering in their tired depths.

  “You knew,” she said, not caring the servants were eavesdropping. “You knew he was seeing someone else and you said nothing.” Her body vibrated with hatred for the man who fathered her.

  “That is correct,” he mumbled loud enough for her ears alone.

  “He cheats on me and you do nothing to stop him?” she shouted into his face.

  Hector turned and nodded to the staff. Chairs pushed away from the table and all she heard was the quiet tread of soft sole, sensible shoes leaving the room.

  “How could I stop him, Bianca?” he said when the room cleared. “I told you this would happen. I warned you he didn’t love you and if the right woman showed up, he would leave you. You decided not to listen and this is the result.”