by Jen Greyson
Watching me, he presses against my ankle, silently asking me to keep it there. I tuck my heel into the hollow just above his hipbone and tighten my calf in answer. Satisfied I’ll do what I’m told, he lightly skims my shin, palms my kneecap, then dips his fingertips into the hollow behind. My muscles twitch and my leg jumps, bumping his erection against me.
“Please.” I beg, arching my neck.
“Please, this?” He traces the line of my inner thigh with his calloused fingers, skimming the edge of my panties.
“Yes.” The word is barely a whisper as I roll my hips toward him, searching, but he pulls his hand away, teasing. I slide my hand lower and press against the hot, thick ridge lifting his armor. He roars and pushes me away, digging at the constricting barrier.
The rush of cold air shocks the sex out of my brain, and I flounder for reason. What am I doing? He hates me one second and wants to fuck my brains out the next. I want this so bad I can barely breathe, but I crave something more, too. Something just outside the reach of my conscious thought. I also know what he doesn’t—one time won’t release either of us.
His breastplate falls away from the damp tunic molded against his chiseled chest. Thin fingernail marks outline his armor. His leather skirt follows, exposing his slim hips and muscled legs. He rips his tunic down the middle and drops it to the ground. My mouth goes dry and sense flees. I catch a glimpse of his naked glory before he presses his length against me.
“Constantine.” My voice is a prayer, not the command I wanted, and my head tips back.
His teeth skim my exposed jugular, and words fail me. His fingers play over the laces of my bustier. If he gets me naked, there’s no turning back. I’m too weak, and he already knows his way past all my defenses. He tugs the first lace free.
Before I lose my final shred of control, I grab his fingers and recite a line of gibberish.
He freezes. “What was that?”
“I released you.”
I have no idea how else to get him to stop. It’s a cruel attempt, and I want nothing more than to taste the entire expanse of his golden skin, but some tiny part of my brain needs us to finish our mission, concentrate on what we have to do, and not have mind-blowing sex right now.
He rakes my jaw with the stubble of his chin and follows it with his tongue. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
I bite back the cry building in my chest. I lock my knees so I won’t collapse to take him in my mouth. I curl my fingernails into my palm so I won’t stroke the length of him.
He suckles my earlobe again and tastes the rim with the tip of his tongue. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin, and I moan.
A low rumble vibrates in his chest. He turns me and traces my hairline with his tongue, scraping his stubble against the soft skin at the base of my neck. His fingers play down the length of my arms and skip across to hold my hips. I force myself not to press back against him. His thumbs stroke my skirt higher until cool air kisses my bare skin. I don’t dare move. He nips my shoulder and rubs himself against the curve of my ass. I bite my lip and arch my neck. He presses forward, slowly pushing his hot length along my swollenness.
I pick the subject guaranteed to douse ice water on our precarious situation. “Tell me about your daughter.” My voice is high and strained.
“She’s dead.” His voice catches, but he continues his slow assault. “You are very . . . much . . . alive.”
I try not to moan. My knees buckle and my legs spread ever so slightly. He pushes forward until his entire length fills the gap between my thighs from back to front. One small scrap of satin separates us.
“I don’t accept no as an answer.” He growls softly against my neck.
“I’m not saying no. I’m saying wait.”
He rolls his hips against my ass. “I can’t.”
I moan. “We have to kill Viriato first.”
He stills.
I force myself not to rock my hips back to give myself the release he’s been building. He withdraws from between my thighs but stays pressed against me.
“Sorceress,” he whispers.
“Devil,” I say.
He laughs and wraps his arms around the front of me, hugging me in a soft embrace. My arousal shifts from a sharp peak to a wide pool, flooding my entire body with warmth. I tip my head, and he buries his face in the hollow of my neck. “I don’t care what you say, there is something about you I cannot resist.” He nibbles my neck. “It confounds me.”
“I don’t understand it either.” I smile. “You’re so not my type.”
He bites my neck in playful retort.
We stand, staring at the fire, his nakedness pressed against my full armor, content and wondering what’s next.
“I’ve never been ambushed like that,” he says. “I won’t be able to protect you if my mind is consumed by this lust.”
I’m not sure if he’s referring to the attack in the forest or the one that has him naked. “I don’t—”
He shushes me. “I know. But I need an explanation. I’ve never been controlled by my body before. Not like this. I am a warrior. I think of enemies, of conquering. I command my men because my mind is clear. You do something to me.”
Back at ya.
He doesn’t need any further ammunition, so I hold my tongue.
He continues. “You cannot touch me. Not until Viriato is dead. It’s the only way I can keep a level head, and even that may not be enough.”
Though he didn’t mean it as a compliment, the meaning was tough to ignore, and I fight the bubble of satisfaction rising in my chest.
He turns me in his arms and rakes a hungry look across my body, promising me a wicked night of sinful pleasures. His smile is feral, and he lowers his head to leave a trail of nips and kisses along my jugular, then drops his hands, turns, and walks to his bedroom.
I glance sideways to watch him, and I swear he strokes himself the entire time. He slams his door shut, and I hear his moan of release.
My knees give out, and I sink to the floor.
Chapter 17
I shiver. The fire went out sometime in the middle of the night, and only a few glowing embers remain in the stone hearth. After Constantine’s abrupt departure, I shucked the rest of my armor and watched the fire, lost in thought until I fell asleep on the floor. Now I’m paying for it with a cramped neck and sore muscles everywhere. I shift, curl my arms beneath my head, and tuck my feet up against my bottom, wishing for a blanket or even a sweatshirt. I look around the fireplace for another log to restart the fire, but I don’t see one.
Shadows shift in the inky darkness. I stiffen and close my eyes to slits, watching. Waiting. At the side of the hearth, orange light from the fire casts eerie highlights across the planes and hollows of naked skin.
Only one man would be standing naked above me.
I open my eyes and we stare at each other. I read his face, find the safety I’m looking for, and my eyes drift closed again.
He moves as darkness, silent and stealthy. Logs clap together as he pulls a few from a hidden pile, and the orange glow blooms through my closed lids. I shiver again, willing the fire’s heat to fill the room.
His warm fingers slide beneath my shoulders and knees as he lifts me from the floor. I nestle against his shoulder.
We leave the light and he carries me into the blackness of his bedroom. I can’t muster the energy for any of the emotions knocking at the back of my heart. He lowers me to the small cot and crawls in beside me. I shiver again, and he tucks himself along the length of me and pulls blankets up to my neck.
I slip into the oblivion of sleep, encircled in an embrace of safety unlike any I’ve ever known.
Chapter 18
A warm sun creeps slowly across my toes. I stretch and remember whose bed I’m in. Alone, I scan the room. Bare walls, nondescript blankets, a small pile of his clothes stacked in the corner, and a set of armor.
I roll over and snuggle beneath the blankets. Beyond the door, quiet
footsteps brush the floor and maps rustle against the tabletop.
Pushing the blankets aside, I swing my feet to the stone floor. My toes touch the surface and recoil. It’s chilly and the sun hasn’t quite reached this part of the room. I stretch and run my fingers through my sleep-worn braid, freeing it. I flip my head forward and finger-comb the tangles and scrub my scalp.
Leaving my hair free for the moment, I touch the thin tunic I wore under my armor. Anna left it short so it wouldn’t interfere with my mobility. I’m basically wearing a short-sleeved tee, except she’s left the collar loose so I can fold and arrange it under the neckpiece so I don’t chafe. The low droop is making it tough to conceal my lack of bra.
I search the room for my birth-time outfit, but it’s not where I left it when I changed into my armor. Gathering the neck closed against the morning chill, I bend over to scan beneath the cot.
Behind me, I hear Constantine’s choked expletive.
I jerk upright and pull the hem of the shirt down while I turn, the soft cloth clamped between my fingers at my neck, my hair a wild tangle around my head. Damn you, Anna.
He’s dressed, thank goodness, and holding a stack of clothes. He pushes them toward me, his voice strained. “Anna dropped these off for you early this morning. I think she’s been working on nothing else since you saw her.”
I step to the pile and struggle to take it without dropping either the front or bottom of my shirt. I drop the hem of the tee and try to balance the pile against me. Constantine steps back but doesn’t leave.
I try to thank him for last night, but I can’t find the right words. He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, retreats, and pulls the door closed behind him.
Will we ever find a comfortable space to exist? Or will we run out of time before we get there? We seem to run to the far end of the spectrum when we’re together—either awkward, or angry, or craving each other. I’m not sure if comfortable is a word Constantine knows. I thought I did, but those days seem a world away.
The pile totters and I let it fall to the cot. Three identical outfits tumble over in the richest red of juicy pomegranate seeds. I plunge my hands into the fabric and pick up the first one. It’s similar to Constantine’s tunics, but Anna took the time to make it fit me. It’s incredibly short, but it will cover the important stuff, and she’s made the collar longer with wide strips I can wrap around my neck but without the tee’s draping exposure.
They’re so soft I lift them to my face. The linen is silky. I wonder why she’s used something so rich. And in triplicate. I cock my head and listen for Constantine, but the house is silent. Hurrying, I slip the tee off and poke my arms through the red linen. It glides over my head and perfectly into place. Fitted at the waist, but not too snug, it flares at my hips and stops just below the curve of my bottom.
I extend my leg sideways. The tail of my tattoo peeks from beneath the hem. Bruises and scrapes mottle my tenderized skin. My legs haven’t been without pants for a long time, and this is two days in a row. They’re going to have to toughen up if this is my new dress code.
I lace my sandals and go looking for Constantine. The front door stands ajar, and low voices carry beyond the opening. I tip my head to listen, but they’re too quiet for effective eavesdropping. My stomach grumbles and I scan the room. A small plate holds fruit and a loaf of bread. I practice my stealth as I tiptoe over, but with each step, the laces of my sandals slip until they’re slapping the floor.
The voices cease, and I take a piece of fruit. The bread is warm, but I snatch my hand away. Eating Constantine’s breakfast would be awkward.
The rasp of the door nestling against its jamb calls my attention, and Constantine leans back against the dark wood. He folds his arms and watches me. My gut clenches and I chew the inside of my lip. I face him and toss the plum back and forth in my hands. He stares but says nothing.
“Did you eat?” My voice sounds funny.
He nods once.
“Is this for me?” I tip my head toward the table.
He nods again.
“You’re not very talkative in the morning.” God, what is wrong with me? Shut up.
I take a bite to occupy my mouth. The plum is overripe, and the moment I pierce the skin, juice explodes. It runs down my arm, and I lick it off my fingers while trying to chew the piece in my mouth. I take another slurping bite, but the pulp dissolves against my tongue, and light pink juice runs down the back of my hand. I bend forward to keep it off my new outfit, but the juice clings to me. I lick the inside of my elbow and happen to glance across the room. Constantine presses against the door like I’m eating a live sacrifice.
I freeze. “What? How was I supposed to know it was going to do that?”
He pushes away from the door, his face a mix of horror and wonder, and I wish he’d just say something.
He moves across the room in slow, graceful strides. A chill runs up my spine, and I swallow then lick the sticky residue from my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth and my pulse escalates. When a few feet separate us, he pauses. A loud plop of juice hits the floor. The rise and fall of his chest is erratic and quick, while I’ve forgotten how to breathe altogether. His hands flex, and he watches another drop of juice land, then sears every inch of my body from toes to lips with his heated examination. I bite my lip.
He is power and stealth and something mythical.
He takes one final step into my space and lifts my hand with two fingers at my wrist, on either side of the river of juice tracking down the inside of my forearm. He brings it to his lips, and the warmth of his mouth presses against my sticky skin. I want to shout that he made me promise not to touch him, but my mouth can only form a soft O when his teeth rake the skin at my wrist. He swirls his tongue against my skin until it’s clean, then drops my hand.
Without a word, he turns and walks back to the door. He pauses long enough to say, “Finish and come train.”
I make stupid fish faces and watch him leave.
The skin at my wrist tingles. My mind whirls.
I blink and stumble to the table and dunk a cloth in the small pitcher of water to mop up the rest of the juice but skip the area at my wrist, unwilling to wipe away whatever just happened.
I plait my hair on my way to the training field behind the house. Constantine is standing in the middle of the wide open area, arms wide, palms up. He moves with the fluid grace of the jungle cat I liken him to. His movements are a cross between tai chi and yoga, and I wonder where he learned them. Maybe Penya taught him.
There is so little I know about history. To a science and bike buff like me, history is old and stale, though Constantine is anything but. His thick legs bend and move to a silent beat, his arms collapse and expand in a poetic dance. He is grace and power in an explosive package. I stop a few feet away and watch him, certain he heard my approach.
His palms come together at the center of his chest and he stills. I can barely see him breathing. I’m staring, and I can’t look away.
“A warrior’s mind is as important as his body,” he says. “They must work in concert. Yours must also.” He opens his eyes, and the hard, cold warrior is not yet here this morning. He’s been many things in the last few days, and this is one more puzzle piece that doesn’t seem to fit with the picture I’ve conjured.
I nod because I’m not capable of anything else. He’s kept me off-balance all morning. All night, too.
He spreads his feet and drops his hands to his sides. “Let’s begin.”
I can’t think of anything to say, so I step beside him and let him guide my movements.
“I think this may help you control the lightning.” His arms sweep across his chest and to the side.
I copy him. We step forward and push our hands away. He takes me through a full cycle of movements, and I figure out how to make a small bubble of quiet where the volume inside my head lowers and I can focus on each motion with less judgment from the wild child who runs my brain.
In an open field,
next to a silent, enigmatic man who intrigues me beyond limits, the wild child doesn’t stay quiet for very long. The harder I concentrate, the thinner my bubble becomes.
We practice through another round and my internal bubble bursts. Constantine presses his palms down toward the ground, one leg outstretched. I try to mimic his pose. He guides me through it, and I watch him out of the side of my vision. His movements are sweeping. Mine are choppy and unbalanced. I want to know him, who he really is, beyond the warrior.
I step away.
“Why are you helping me? Why are you teaching me how to use the lightning as a weapon? You know it will cost you more memories.”
He continues the motions, cupping his hands and scooping a bowl of air. “What good are memories?”
I watch him through two more formations. “What if you lose all of Aurelia?”
He rises with the same slow, steady motion and drops his hands. In the softness of his eyes, I read the emotion of the words before he says them. “Then my pain will go with them. There are many things I would unsee.”
I can’t argue with that. But it’s not enough.
“Why me? Why not someone who can fight, who knows something about war and tactics?”
He stills. “You think I didn’t question that half a decade ago when Penya first showed me my life intertwined with yours? I don’t know ‘why you.’ But I’ve accepted it. When will you?”
I don’t like it when he finds the question that pierces my smoke screen and sticks in my soul. He’s eerily good at it. I thought I had accepted this, but it seems I can only play dress-up. Paste it on the surface and look like I’m committed. But when he challenges me, when he makes me dig deep to find the courage, all I see is an empty pit of nothingness yawning inside me. Courage doesn’t reside in me, not at this capacity. Sure, I can climb on a big, badass bike and race it down the road, but isn’t that more dress-up?