by Jan Delima
He frowned at her phrasing but chose not to argue against its truth. “Yes.”
As if sensing his mistress’s distress, Tucker gave a soft whine from the pillowed bed in the corner that Sophie had prepared. The hound padded over and stood by her side, its massive head not far from her shoulder. She rested her hand on his neck, whispering words of a soothing nature.
Dylan allowed her this time to absorb the enormity of their situation, prepared to accept her anger.
“Okay,” she said finally, looking up with grim determination. “What can I do to help?”
Dylan’s mouth dropped before he tempered his surprise. “Will I ever understand you, woman? I expected anger and instead you offer assistance?”
“Freedom is a cause I’m willing to sacrifice a great deal for.” She spoke with quiet conviction. “Everything except the life of our son, but I believe I’ve already proven that.”
The comparison of Sophie’s plight with his people’s did not set well with his conscience. He wanted to argue that she’d never known real danger, or that her freedom had never been taken from her.
Regrettably, she had the scars to prove otherwise, and guards, even now, who had been ordered to keep her contained to Rhuddin Village.
Therefore, he saw no other course but to offer a harsh reminder instead. “Joshua is a part of me and a part of my world.” His voice rose, tempered by his frustration. “He needs to learn to live with his own kind.”
“I know.” Fire entered her gaze as if lit by a power within, not magical but human. A selfless love so intense it stole his breath, one that proved she would give up everything for what she loved most, even her own freedom.
My people are indeed blind, Dylan thought.
With her shoulders back and her hand resting on the great hound, she looked very much like a pagan warrior queen, not in her appearance but in her conviction. Her strength came from her devotion to her child, he knew, powerful in any race, human or other.
“I will protect Joshua,” he vowed, “but I will also teach him how to protect himself.”
“Then teach him,” she said. “He’s been given every self-defense course I could find, and Matthew helped with lessons, but the more Joshua knows, the better. I’ll not stand in your way; believe me, especially on this. I want our son to be strong.”
Her response made him pause, as he was not accustomed to an agreeable mind-set. And given that the expected storm had passed, darker instincts quickly rose to the surface. Without question, he wanted her to accept that she belonged with him, in his heart—and in his bed. But to see potential for something more, for a partner in his life, for a mate to stand by his side of her own volition, was like adding more temptation to a man who had already lost his soul to this particular enchantress.
The silence became uncomfortable, and his need was such that he no longer trusted himself in her presence. How had he thought to stay away from her at night? “I will go in search of Joshua then.”
She nodded with obvious relief, as if she had sensed an elemental shift in his mood and knew to be frightened. “Dinner will be ready around five.” She checked her watch. “That gives you about two hours.”
“Sophie . . .”
“Yes?” She tilted her head to one side, waiting.
The words he’d been about to say froze on his tongue, expressions of gratitude—and other assertions he knew full well she wasn’t ready to hear. The admission to her mother that he had overheard was the one band that held his sanity, along with her quick rise to pleasure under his hands.
His patience deserved a bloody award.
She prompted, “Is there something else I should know?”
“There are no more secrets between us now,” he answered with honesty. “Well . . . nothing of abnormal importance.”
“Then why do you look so agitated?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Agitated? He almost laughed. She had no idea the level of his agitation. “My patience has ended, Sophie. I know I promised to give you your distance, and not come to you at night, but I can’t wait much longer . . . I need my wife.”
Then he strode out the door, not trusting his response were she to deny their vows yet again.
Twenty
A SHARP WIND CUT THROUGH THEIR MAKESHIFT ARENA. Dylan had gathered Joshua, along with Luc, and traveled to a secluded field not far from the house. The scent of wet earth and untamed energy hung heavy in the air, drawing out friendly yet uninvited visitors.
His attempt at privacy, it seemed, had been pointless.
Malsum came first, and then another, and soon a crowd of onlookers formed a circle around Joshua as he engaged in defensive maneuvers with Luc. No weapons were used.
Dylan stood with his son, joining in when necessary to demonstrate correct positioning. Pride settled in his chest, unavoidable, for Joshua listened well and adjusted quickly, the only reason the others had been allowed to remain and watch.
His son proved himself a worthy opponent, as Luc had streaks of mud down his back and a look of feral anticipation in his eyes. Not too worthy, however, for Joshua also wore layers of caked mud that covered him from chest to sneakers.
He still had much to learn.
“That’s enough for today,” Dylan said, ignoring a collective groan from the gathered crowd.
“I’m good for another round,” Joshua taunted. “Unless . . . Uncle Luc’s too tired.”
A bark of laughter came from Luc. “Tomorrow we’ll use swords, boy.” His brother was clearly enjoying himself more than he should. “Then we’ll see how you fare with a weight to balance in those gangly arms of yours.”
“It’s almost time for dinner,” Dylan reminded them. “Let’s get you cleaned up before your mother sees you.”
Joshua nodded, persuaded by the lure of food. The others followed, falling behind with murmured praises. Laughter and well-meaning shouts of advice were handed out. It was a pleasant walk, the air filled with promise, as if Joshua’s competence had bolstered a much-needed seed of hope.
Thanks to Sophie, for she’d had the good sense to prepare their child. Taliesin, Dylan assumed, had helped, but she had allowed the instruction. Her intentions had not been to garner respect, he knew, but she had succeeded this day regardless.
A savory scent overwhelmed his senses as he entered the house, ripe with garlic, roasted tomatoes and baking bread. He closed his eyes briefly. For the first time in sixteen years it felt good to come home.
A few of the guards, those loyal to Enid, had already made their excuses to eat in town, and yet they had returned to the house with the rest. And lingered still. Dylan had chosen not to demand their presence at dinner, trusting his wife to earn their loyalty.
As he turned the corner, he heard Sophie say, “Oh, good . . . you’re all here. Grab a plate and something to drink. Pizza night is informal, so help yourself. There are snacks on the tables, and more pizzas on the way out.”
“Wait ’til you try my mom’s pizza,” Joshua bragged. “It’s the best.”
“Is that my son under all that mud?” Sophie chided with good nature, pointing toward the back stairs. “Go get cleaned up. I have a bacon and onion coming out next. I’ll save it for you.”
Tucker stood silent by her side, glaring at all the intruders. Sophie ruffled his ears absently with no inkling of the powerful image she presented with the great hound by her side. There were several hushed whispers and pointed stares amongst the guards.
Dylan bit back a smile, for not one left to eat in the village.
* * *
AFTER CHECKING ON HER MOTHER, WHO HAD BEEN ODDLY silent following her walk, Sophie sat for a while with Joshua in his new room. Dylan had taken her aside after dinner and explained that tomorrow night would be their son’s first attempt at a transition. Joshua had been told before her, and could barely contain his excitement, whereas she felt quite nauseated about the whole idea.
However, she did not allow her son to see her misgivings. She had made
that mistake earlier in the day and would not make it again. Joshua was . . . happy here with his father and in his new home. She refused to allow her own fears to poison his joy.
Smoothing out a spare blanket by the foot of his bed, she said, “Tucker’s going to stay with you tonight.”
Joshua let out a loud yawn. “Cool.”
Tucker hovered over her shoulder until she finished, then stretched out on his makeshift bed and rested his chin on crossed paws. An intruder would have to step over him to get to Joshua, a comforting thought as she wished them both a good night and closed the door.
A light at the end of the hallway immediately drew her attention. The door to Dylan’s study stood slightly ajar. A nervous sort of flutter settled low in her belly. She felt breathless and antsy—because of him and his hot stares and angry admissions . . .
My patience has ended . . . I need my wife.
Our son isn’t the only thing I lost when you left me.
The very thought that he’d been celibate for all this time made her skin feel tight, the air a little too thick.
She wore a terry cloth robe with a plain cotton nightgown underneath; her toes peeked out from beneath the hem. Otherwise, she was respectably covered. She had taken a shower before checking on Joshua. The scent of raspberry soap lingered on her skin. She should not go to Dylan now, knowing how this night would end if she did. Yet she continued forward as if that meager light were a bonfire on a winter’s night, a beacon of heat when she’d been frozen for too long.
She knocked softly before entering.
“Who is it?” Dylan responded with a sharp reprimand that fell into silence when she walked into the room.
He sat in an overstuffed armchair, naked above the waist, wearing jeans and holding a tumbler filled with amber liquid. At first glance he seemed relaxed, legs spread wide, the corded muscles of his stomach rising and falling with even breaths, but her senses told her to be cautious as he emptied his glass with a single swallow.
“Is this a bad time?” she asked, surprised to see him drinking.
No answer, just a pointed scowl.
His disheveled appearance gave her pause. “Are you drunk?”
A sardonic laugh fell from his mouth. “If only I had that balm to escape to. No, my metabolism is too active to achieve true oblivion, but for a minute”—he shrugged without apology—“there is a form of peace.”
Provoked, she moved to take a step forward but he stopped her with a warning.
“Be advised, Sophie . . . if you come farther into this room, I will assume you’re doing so as my wife. There will be no going back. Your denial of our vows will cease, as will your absence from my bed.”
She froze midstride. Again, instinct and self-preservation made her cautious. To be Dylan’s wife meant to relinquish her choices. And yet the choices she’d made against him had caused her the greatest regret.
Unaware of her intent, Dylan sat before her like a hardened warrior, demanding and cynical, with golden skin and obsidian eyes that challenged her to make it right. Her compulsion for him was insanity, beyond human attraction. But this was not a human world she had fallen into.
No, it was magical, and dangerous, and she did not want to be the prodigal wife anymore, who hindered and didn’t help—who denied her own feelings. What she wanted more than anything—other than her son’s safety—was her husband.
The way he watched her, as if she were the most forbidden pleasure in over a thousand years of living, made her defiance seem petty in comparison.
She set her foot down.
The room shifted, muddled her equilibrium. There was movement, soft colors, a rush of air and heat, and then a loud noise that made her jump. The door had been slammed shut behind her, followed by a soft click, locked.
Dylan moved so fast, she blinked to right her balance. His hands were inside her robe, circling around her waist, lifting her, pushing her against the hard wood of the closed door. She felt light in his arms, molded, feminine. Cold air sent chills over her skin as her robe was dislodged and fell to the floor.
His lips descended to the base of her neck. “Sophie . . . I . . .” His voice was hoarse. What he’d begun to say dissolved on a broken breath.
A vibrating heat surrounded her, warmed her, held her. He was trembling, she realized. This powerful man, who had the welfare of a weakened race resting on his shoulders, was shaking, for her—because he needed her.
Her dark journey, begun on a narrow path wrought with poisoned vines and jagged roots, had reached a glorious field filled with light and truth. She had circled back to the very place she’d once fled, only to prove that she’d been running in the wrong direction all this time.
She had been blinded by fear, broken trust and the ignorance of youth.
If only . . .
“Dylan,” she began, wanting to free her conscience, “when I left you, if I had known then what I know now . . .”
“No talking.” He spoke through shallow breaths. “We . . .” He paused. “We have talked enough.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered anyway, needing him to hear this confession to free the burden in her heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”
A shudder wracked his body; the full weight of his head dropped to her shoulder and his lips pressed a soft kiss just under her ear, then another, and another.
He cleared his throat. His voice remained a rasping whisper. “I forgave you the moment you returned home with our son by your own choosing, when you came back to me. And”—he paused, took another breath—“you are not the only one who made misjudgments. If fault is to be carried, then some of it must rest on my shoulders as well.”
His thick thighs levered between hers, wedged her legs open; her pelvis rested against his hard length. She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck for support. Her nightgown gathered around her waist, the thin cotton of her underwear a sad shield against the heat and hardness that beckoned unhindered contact.
His lips moved over hers. He tasted of whisky and temptation. It was a wild kiss, inelegant and desperate. He claimed her lips again and again, biting, caressing. His tongue tangled with hers; his hands tightened around her body as if he could meld them together in this storm of broken wills and neglected passion.
She clutched his shoulders; frantic movements of baser instincts overrode dignity. Her skin was on fire. She squirmed against the hard bulge trapped between their bodies.
Bracing her weight against the door, she reached down to stroke him, to soothe him.
“No.” He caught her wrist with a growl.
“But—”
“No,” he said again through clenched teeth. “Not this first time.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
Her question triggered a response from his wolf, or perhaps the wolf had been there all along but he could no longer contain its presence. Streaks of gold and green bled into his black gaze as he unbuttoned his fly and lowered his jeans. His hard length sprang out, dark and heavy.
She pulled her bunched nightgown over her head. He yanked at her underwear until it ripped off; the thin cotton drifted to the floor, forgotten.
He stood motionless, like the Great Oak that beheld their ceremonies, silent and looming, his eerie gold eyes devouring her nakedness with blatant hunger. Then, slowly, as if he were testing dream from reality, he reached out and ran his thumb over her bared nipple.
“Different,” he choked out. “Beautiful.” Meaning her body, she gathered. Carrying his son had left its mark. She did not mind the changes and, it seemed, neither did he.
He pinched gently, rolled the sensitive skin between thumb and forefinger. A wave of heat shot to her innermost core. She tried to remain still through his exploration, but when his head dipped and he took her nipple into his mouth, she could no longer control her response.
She cried out, letting her head fall back against the door, squeezing her eyes shut because the sensations he caused were too intense.
His
hand reached up and gripped her by the back of her neck. He forced her to look at him, forced her to see the anguish on his face, the price her absence had caused. They slid to the floor, too impatient to find a bed or even a chair. The small braided rug was abrasive against her back, a meager cushion to buffer his heavy weight covering hers. Not that it mattered. Her surroundings faded under his onslaught, her body softened, prepared.
His hands separated her legs; he fell between them, jeans tangled around his knees, rasping against her inner thighs. He braced his arms on either side of her head and looked down. “I can’t stop . . . I want to pleasure you first but I . . .”
“It’s okay.” She felt the first touch of his swollen length push against her opening. They both gasped in raw awareness. She wrapped her legs around his waist for a better angle.
A rasping sound, more animal than human, erupted from his throat. “I’ll not last long this first time.”
“Shh . . .” she soothed. Untangling her arms, she ran her hands along the corded muscles of his biceps, over his shoulders and along his neck. She curled her fingers in his shortened hair, remembering it was much longer the last time she’d been beneath him. His gaze was unfocused, his features strained. She sensed him holding back, afraid. But of what? “Come inside me . . . please.”
He swore under his breath as he succumbed to her plea, thrusting forward. Shoved into the carpet, she moaned as her body stretched to accept him, panting by the time his full length was embedded.
His back felt like caged tension under her palms. His hands roamed lower, dug into her bottom to hold her in place. And then he began to move, hard and unrestrained.
She was lost in complete sensation, her eyes closed. Her lungs filled with his scent, an alluring mixture of forest and man, with the barest hint of musk, of wolf. His chiseled stomach, with its trail of soft hair, rasped against hers as he withdrew and reentered. Skin against skin and a glorious fulfillment she’d almost forgotten, except in dark dreams on lonely nights.
Each thrust brought her closer to climax. She arched instinctively, selfishly, adjusting his angle for her own satisfaction.