“Oh? I can think of worse things,” she breathed choppily against his lips in that strange voice, surprising herself by boldly voicing her thoughts.
Taran’s smile lit up the room. Her wolf was an outspoken little devil, it seemed.
“Ya have my agreement on tha, love.” He pressed his mouth to her ear through her hair as he growled, “But we’ve many nights before the full moon keeps ya from my bed. I plan to make them each memorable and... mmm... pleasurable.”
24: “Do you see... ?”
Skye had watched him longingly as he walked from the room. It took several moments to get her brain to function again after he was gone.
Okay, first item of concern – he said that her wolf was connecting with her way ahead of schedule. What the hell did that mean? So far, the thing had taken control of her body in order to get laid, forced words from her lips several times that were not her own, and, to top it all off, it now seemed to be removing her filter for the prevention of voicing sexual thoughts. She rolled her eyes at the possible implications of the loss of that control as she changed into her familiar battle gear.
With a smile, she noted that Taran had gone with a muscle shirt, as opposed to her normal long-sleeves. Even with his willingness to bring her something other than a dress, he had not been ready to let her hide her new skin away from the world. At least it was black, as were the fatigue pants and heavy combat boots she adored so much. They always lent that little extra something to the damage her kicks inflicted.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror, she got to work applying a thick coating of black eyeliner, something that she had learned long ago drew people’s attention to their ever-changing color. It added to the unnerving effect the yellow storms had when someone rubbed her the wrong way. A bit of rooting around in the bathroom turned up hair gel in a basket that Christie had left for her. She grinned, deciding that the woman had just made a friend. After soaking down her damnably wavy hair, she managed to calm it enough to work it into her usual tight braid. She breathed a sigh of relief once she was finished.
Oh, me, she thought as she stared at her reflection. Ready to kick ass and take names again.
It was nice to see her combat-ready self instead of the feminine version that Taran seemed to bring out in her. Recalling his reaction to her in a dress with her hair flowing freely, she grudgingly conceded that on rare occasions, she could allow him to see her that way. She would be damned if she would ever leave the bedroom looking like a lady, though.
But speaking of that terrible, four-lettered word...
“Lady Skye,” a man breathed in awe as she stepped out into the hall.
She arched a brow at the title and tone before turning to face the wall of a man who was bowing his head to her respectfully. He was well over six and a half feet tall with arms that looked very much like tree trunks. Her brow arched higher still.
“And you are... ?” Skye asked with her voice holding its usual authority.
She crossed her arms over her chest and stood in a gracefully deadly posture, preparing for the possibility of a fight. Whatever his intentions, the stranger had apparently been waiting outside her door and that raised her suspicions. Her defenses were back in place now. She had grown tired of all this opening up and sharing bullshit. Taran was the only man with which she would allow such things. As for humor, she supposed she could permit Miko to joke with her. Despite herself, she had grown somewhat fond of the little bastard. If she was to be surrounded by men, however, boundaries needed to be established right from the beginning. It was a necessity of survival.
“Onchu, my Lady,” he said humbly as he approached.
“The one standing around the corner,” she said and inclined her head toward the faol that was well out of sight, but easily perceived by her new senses. “Does he have a name?”
“Maon, my Lady,” the other faol answered as he stepped out from where he had been waiting. He was another wall of a man that she stood barely chest-high to.
“And what about the rest of you?” She called angrily, casting a look behind her and watching more of the towering goliaths venture from what they had mistakenly believed to be discrete locations.
They each gave their names, all in voices possessing so much bass that it made their words difficult to discern.
“If you’re not out here looking for a fight, then what the hell are you all doing skulking outside my bedroom door?” She asked in annoyance.
“We’re to be your escort downstairs, Lady Skye,” Maon answered.
“Excuse me? Since when am I in need of a freaking entourage?” She asked indignantly.
“More like a security detail, my Lady,” Onchu offered.
“On whose orders?” She demanded heatedly, infuriated by the presumption that she might be in need of protection.
“Latharn, my La—” Maon began quietly, but stopped abruptly when she held up a rigid finger directly in front of his face, effectively silencing him before he could utter the dreaded word again.
She scowled and tapped her foot impatiently for a moment. In that time, she noted that these men were avoiding eye contact and awaiting her response with bated breath. They were acting very much like whipped dogs in her presence. She could not say that this was an unwise decision on their parts.
“Then take me to this ‘Latharn’ guy. Apparently, I need to knock some sense into the presumptuous bastard’s skull,” she growled. The men stared at her in shock as she waved for them to hurry up and get a move on.
“Awfully headstrong, yeah?” An amused Irish voice called.
Skye spun in surprise to focus on the man at the far end of the hall. Somehow, she had failed to perceive his presence. She was disturbed to realize that this one could hide from her new senses. As he laughed and began approaching at a leisurely stroll, she noted that this was far from a pup. Even if she had still been a mortal, she would have been able to pick this ancient out of a crowd with ease. It was all in the way he moved – that telltale fluidity, that familiarity one had with their body after spending several millennia in the same skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that the other men were all bowing their heads to him respectfully and backing away. She arched a brow at the reverent response his arrival had spurred from men twice his size. It only served to confirm her appraisal of his age.
Unlike the numerous giants lining the hallway, his height was on the shorter end of average. He stood just a few inches taller than her. His body was thin, but extremely well-toned. His appearance was wholly misleading. It contradicted the commanding presence he possessed, as well as the power she knew was hiding within him.
Despite his undeniable status as an ancient, he could easily pass for barely more than 20 years old. He was boyishly, devastatingly good-looking and – judging by the devious smile spreading across his full, pillow lips – he damned well knew it. His crystalline blue eyes glittered brightly with mischief. This one, she decided, was most definitely a troublemaker.
Snips and flashes of her dreams returned to her when their gazes met. She recognized his eyes and the strange emotion he caused in her. It grew stronger with each step he took toward her.
Ciaran was fighting the same sensations, though he was having far more success in his efforts this time around. Without the whispering woman of weirdness buzzing around inside his head, he found the desire to grovel at the feet of this beauty to be manageable.
God, but she’s radiant... he marveled. The sight of her alone was enough to steal his breath. He knew her, somehow, someway. He had never met her before, but he could already hear her voice in his mind. He knew just what she sounded like when she laughed, the way her nose crinkled and eyes sparkled when she smiled, the way she would kiss away his tears. He sensed love within her – powerful, awe-inspiring love hidden away somewhere far beneath the surface.
And in the light of her love, something inside of him fell into place.
It felt as if she had already drawn him into her w
arm, soft arms. He could almost feel the comfort of her embrace. She had run her fingers through his hair and gazed up at him reassuringly. He could almost see the look in her eyes that had eased his concerns. She had leaned close to him, kissed his mouth so sweetly, left her lips to linger on his. He could almost taste her kiss.
With that memory – which, of course, could not actually be a memory – in mind, his eyes now refused to obey his commands to remain trained on her face. They slowly slid down the length of her, unhurriedly taking in every dangerous curve her body possessed. As a result of her spinning toward him so quickly, her nearly ass-length blonde braid had become draped over one of her shoulders, following the swell of her breast...
She loves a good hair-pulling, he already knew that without a doubt. Biting his bottom lip, he put to use 4,000 years of sexual experience and carefully laid out an encounter tailored specifically for Skye.
There had been a long history of sexual assaults committed against her, he knew. Taran may not have spelled that fact out, but it had been adequately conveyed, just the same. The fògaraich had imprisoned her – a young, healthy, beautiful girl – for nearly a decade. You needn’t be a genius to figure out that during those years, they had indulged in a great deal more than the pleasure of her conversation.
Ciaran frowned sympathetically as he studied her features. He knew what that meant for her sex life now. Skye thought too much during the act. It was a nervous habit that many abused women developed; a means of distracting the mind from what was being done to the body. But once that defense was in place, it was difficult to turn off – and worse, it served as a constant, painful reminder of the past. It meant that for Skye, it was nearly impossible to gain pleasure from a man. ‘Casual sex’ was an oxymoron to her. She would tense at every touch, terrified that one wrong move might remind her of the attacks that she had endured. That fear would continue to destroy sex for her if not confronted. She would never truly allow herself to relax, never feel safe enough with a lover to experiment, to play, to have fun during the act. As she desperately tried to focus on the man’s touch instead of her past, her mind would invariably wander back to those dark places.
The trick was to prevent that from happening.
Oh, she needs a good old fashioned hit-and-run, this one does, he thought with a smirk.
Hard, fast, frantic, totally unexpected – at least as the introduction. She needed a man to startle her. Catching her off guard would be the only way to get her completely honest reaction during the first encounter. He would not say a word beforehand. That would be best. He would just wait until she opened her mouth to speak and then, without warning, shove her back against that wall as hard as he could. It would be like flipping a switch, like waving a red flag in front of a charging bull. But it would set her loose – the real her. Despite the stunned, defiant, furious glare that she would undoubtedly give him, the scent of her arousal would be unmistakable. And when she drew back a furious fist, he would pin her in place and kiss her like she had never been kissed before in her life. She would have that mad look in her eyes as he pulled away; that starved, crazed look that would – not beg him – dare him to continue. He would tear away her shirt and strip off those skin-tight pants of hers in two seconds flat. He would press her up against that wall, make short work of unfastening his pants, urge her to wrap those slender, powerful legs of hers around his hips, get a firm grip on her braid, and sink into her deeply – all without ever breaking eye contact. In that instant, there would be gratitude in her wild eyes; gratitude because he would be helping her to get past it all. He would provide the release that she so desperately needed. The release she had never achieved. The release of raw, passionate sex – just for the sake of sex. He would not allow her the chance to think of anything but what she was feeling in that moment. He would show her that a man could be just as rough with her as she craved, without meaning her any harm. He would cry out for her in pleasure as her nails raked across his back, smile up at her and nip at her lips playfully between desperate kisses. He would let her know that this was different, that she was safe, that she was free to do to him as she wished. To prevent her mind from imagining in his place the cold, dead skin of her former abusers, he would keep things hot for her. He would make them both sweat with the effort, press his bare chest to hers, and breathe heavily against her skin as they moved together. She would fuck like she surely fought – rough, brutal, unrestrained. And by the time she finally bucked against him in orgasm, he would be thanking his lucky stars for his faol healing abilities. Within five minutes, he would cure all of her ills and completely blow her mind. Then, after she stopped moaning – but before he withdrew from her – he would gaze up into her eyes and introduce himself.
He smiled wickedly imagining it. As these thoughts raced on, he felt whole again, alive again. He had been lacking this starved passion for three... long... years... now...
That train of thought led to the memory of Drostan’s revelation and effectively snapped him out of his momentary sexual bliss. His smile instantly faded as he recalled Taran’s joy.
What the hell am I thinking, he demanded furiously?
He forced the intoxicating images from his mind and replaced them with the mental image of Taran’s smiling face. It was the only way he could keep his thoughts in check. No matter how strong this longing for her was, he refused to give in to it. He would rather wither and die without ever again knowing a woman’s touch than betray Taran. Had she belonged to any other man, though, the gloves would most certainly have been off.
Skye watched his shifting expressions intently as he approached. She smelled... arousal. Her eyes narrowed on him in interest.
What wickedness is going on behind those blue eyes, she wondered?
Whoever this faol was, he looked like a 70s punk rocker. Judging by the black leather jacket and shredded, tight fitting, safety-pin riddled jeans he was wearing, he was not quite ready to say goodbye to that era. He wore a vintage Ramones t-shirt beneath his open jacket. If the perfectly faded and worn-in condition of the threads was any indication, he had been wearing the shirt on a regular basis since the band first came out. Ever a lover of boots, she took a moment to admire the heavy pair of black Doc Martens that he was wearing. His straight, jet-black hair was styled in a manner thoroughly reminiscent of Sid Vicious. Wildly spiky in some places, his cheek-length black tresses were also slicked down in others. A silver cross earring dangled from his right earlobe. Skye smirked at the naughty implications of its presence. She would be willing to wager that he took full advantage of piercing whatever struck his fancy at any given moment. After all, the slate would just be wiped clean when he removed the jewelry.
Noting the devilish smirk on her lips and intrigue with which she was allowing her eyes to pass over his body, Ciaran reflexively flashed a puckish smile in response.
Oh God, he whimpered in his mind, why does she have to be as much trouble as I am? I love the bad girls! It’s settled. I’m doomed.
His chest was constricting terribly as he stopped in front of her, but he did his best to keep his voice and heart rate steady as he extended his hand in greeting.
“Me name is Ciaran,” he began softly. “And I am delighted to finally be meetin’ ya, dear sister.”
The men discretely exchanged stunned looks at his words. More had been said with them than a simple term of endearment. He had called her ‘sister’. Among their ranks, such a thing spoke untold volumes of her status. The fact that they had been told to refer to her as ‘Lady’ could be explained away by her bond to Taran. Ciaran’s respect for her, on the other hand, meant that she was something beyond their comprehension.
Skye continued to stare at him, not making a move to take his hand. Like the men, she had been stunned by his introduction, but it was not his term of endearment that left her speechless. It was his name.
Ciaran ...
She recalled tracing her fingers over the letters of it. Strange and overpowering sensations coursed
through her regarding this stranger, ever so much stronger than they had been before. They were only growing more intense. She struggled to place them as they washed over her, tried desperately to stay in control. Shaking her head and blinking was not helping. She felt dizzy as her mind tried to tell her something... important. She closed her eyes, her brows drawing together as she fought to understand. It was far beyond déjà vu. It was...
Ciaran cleared his throat, lowering his hand awkwardly. He had just opened his mouth to speak when her eyes locked with his.
They were blue before she blinked, but wholly yellow afterward.
“Whoa, are ya all right?” He asked in panicked surprise.
She swiftly closed the distance between them. Without saying a word, she began circling him, inhaling his scent as her eyes passed over him.
“I know you,” she finally whispered in a melodic and breathy voice that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. It was completely different from the voice she had used a moment earlier.
Ciaran arched a brow as she continued to circle him. “I’m sorry to have to say, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else, sister. Certainly I’d remember meeting one as –”
“Hair black as night, skin pale as snow, eyes of blue ice,” she whispered, nodding in recognition as she stopped in front of him. She reached out and touched his face with sudden familiarity. “Ciaran, my dark one,” she breathed as her eyes passed lovingly over his features.
He swallowed hard, casting a stern look around to the younger men which clearly told them to keep their mouths shut. She was getting a bit too friendly here. It could get both of them into a lot of trouble. But she was a pup and could not realize the danger. He did not want her to be reprimanded over a misunderstanding and knew the others did not, either. Hesitantly, he leaned as close to her as he dared and spoke in a confidential tone.
“Listen, Skye, ya’ve got me confused with –”
Darkness Descends: A Skye Faden Novel Page 32